by James Lear
“Wooh!” hollered Mick. “We got some fine French drawers on!”
“They were a birthday present,” I stammered, blushing like the virgin I was.
“Nice,” he said, letting a hot hand wander over my silk-covered cheeks. “Very nice. Now let’s see how fast you can take ’em off.” The underpants were soon around my ankles, bunched up over my boots and pants.
Mick whistled. “That is the finest piece of ass I’ve ever seen in all my days,” he said. “You sure you want me to fuck it? Almost seems a shame.”
“I… I want you…”
“You got me, boy, any way you want me.” He stood up and put his arms around me from behind. I felt the hair on his chest tickling my back, the hardness of his groin pushing into my bare ass. He kissed me on the neck, on the ears; my arms hung limply by my side. He was in control.
He pushed me forward till my knees made contact with the cold metal of the bedstead, and I fell forward. The blankets, when they hit my naked body, felt as rough as his beard, as if he was kissing me all over at once. With my ass exposed and pointing upward, he started to undress my lower limbs, quickly removing each boot, pulling off my clothes till I was completely naked.
“Fuck,” he said. “Am I dreaming?”
“No, sir,” I said, and to convince him that he was very much awake I reached around and pulled my butt cheeks apart. That was all the reassurance he needed, and suddenly I felt that hot breath on my hole, felt the sandpaper of his face against my buttocks, and then—oh, brave new world!—felt his tongue lapping at me, licking me, caressing me where I had never been touched before.
For years I had dreamed of what it would be like to be with another man, to have his body at my fingers’ end, to feel him and explore him with all my senses. Now that it came to it, however, I could concentrate only on one thing—the sensations that were happening to me. My entire body was on fire, tense and yet more relaxed than it had ever been, as Mick’s tongue worked around my ass. His rough hands pulled my cheeks further apart, and then, when he dived in and forced his tongue past my ass ring, where I had never imagined a tongue would go, I gasped and jerked my legs back. He came up for air for a moment, saw that I was not about to cry out for help, and got back down to work. The sensations were so intense that I had almost forgotten about my cock, which was rock hard, pressed down against the edge of the bed, pointing back between my thighs—but when Mick grasped it, still lapping at my ass, and jerked it a few times, the sensations were suddenly doubled, tripled, multiplied to a crazy infinity. I felt as if I was falling into a chasm, I called out and struggled, and then, before I knew what was happening, I was spewing hot white sperm all over the dusty floorboards.
Mick kept holding and squeezing my cock, reluctant to let it go, and lay forward so that his body covered mine, the rough cloth and wiry hair against the smooth, sweaty skin of my back. The heat felt good; without it, I might have started to shiver. I felt weak, I felt helpless, I felt like crying.
After a while—maybe a minute, maybe 20—he pushed himself up and stood. I rolled over, flexed my legs, rubbed my face. For a moment, I didn’t know where to look, I felt awkward and bashful. I suppose he sensed this.
“You’ll be leaving now, then,” he said, picking my shirt from the floor and holding it out to me. I took it and held it limply. I felt disappointed. Obviously our encounter was at an end.
“Can I see you again?” I asked.
He looked puzzled. “What do you mean?” His voice was suspicious.
“I mean—can we do this again?”
His eyes met mine. “We can do this anytime you want.” He stood over me, looking down hungrily at my still naked body. I could see from the bulge in his pants that he hoped it would be sooner rather than later.
“How about now?”
“You mean it? You want more?”
“I want you. I want to see you, touch you.”
He smiled. “Boy, it’s all yours.” He pulled his shirt over his head, bunched it up and threw it over the chair. His body was massive, bulky, far from graceful. There was a deep scar from under his left armpit down to his abdomen. There was thick, browny-yellow hair all over, from the razor line right down to his belt, over his shoulders, all over his arms. His waist was thick, his arms long. I stood up—we were the same height, almost—and pressed myself against him, reveling in the touch of his skin, his hair, his hands. We kissed, long and deep, and my cock stirred back to life. His grasped it, and it grew quickly to full hardness.
“How old are you, Jack?”
“Nineteen today.”
“Yeah,” he said, squeezing my dick. “I remember nineteen. Always ready for more. Well, I ain’t got much to give you for your birthday, Jack, but take whatever you can find.”
I dropped to my knees and buried my face in his crotch. It still smelled of piss, where our earlier efforts had splashed his pants. I could feel how hard he was, how big. I undid his belt, let his pants fall around his ankles, and fished around in his drawers for my prize. I drew it out of the fly with difficulty, as it was rock hard and inflexible—and it stuck out from the faded white cotton, thick and dark and heavy.
“Happy birthday, Jack.”
I may have entered that room a timid virgin, but by the time I left it I was a fully committed, cock-hungry slut. From my first taste of Mick’s cock, with its mixture of sweat and piss and precum, I was hooked. I grasped it by the base and kissed the tip, then tentatively licked it; Mick stood there with his hands on his hips, watching my first steps with amusement.
“Come on, Jack. Open your mouth and suck it.”
I didn’t need to be asked twice. I took the head between my lips, then moved down an inch or so. It was too much—I gagged—but not enough. With tears running down my cheeks, I worked my way down. I wanted him to fill me. I wanted to possess him.
“That’s it, boy. Suck my dick.”
He moved one hand to the back of my head, caressing me and gently initiating an up-and-down, back-and-forth movement. With each stroke my lips were stretched further, my mouth was fuller, and my throat protested. But I would not be defeated. I breathed when I could, sucked and stroked him with a greedy vigor.
“Take it easy, Jack. I don’t want to come just yet. See, at my age it takes a little longer to get ready again.”
I sat back on my heels and watched him undress. Finally he stood before me, fully naked, his thighs like tree trunks, his great prick and balls hanging there, swinging with each movement, throbbing. I did not know what to do. I wanted him, all of him, I wanted everything, I wanted to be annihilated, to be completed.
Fortunately, Mick took a more practical approach to achieving the same ends.
“You ready to be fucked, Jack?”
“I guess so.”
“It’s gonna hurt like hell.”
“I don’t care.”
“I’ll stop if you want me to.”
I sniffed and tossed my head defiantly. “I won’t.”
He laughed. “Get up on the bed. We’ll take it easy to start with. Lie on your side.”
At first he held me, kissed me on the neck, caressed my cock. Then his fingers started probing into my crack, still wet from the tongue bath he’d given it earlier. If fucking was anything like that, I thought, I was in for a good night. He pushed and rubbed my hole, and slipped one wet finger in up to the first knuckle. It felt strange, but not so strange; I’d done as much and more at home alone with my fingers and one or two inanimate objects, such as candles. The finger worked its way in, and it felt good; I pushed against his hand, wanting more.
“You’re ready.”
“Yeah.”
“You sure about this? You ain’t gonna run to Daddy?”
“No, sir.”
“You promise?” Maybe Mick had had bad experiences before; maybe that was why he led this drifting life. Maybe that explained the scar down his torso; I had visions of vigilante groups, knife fights, leaving town in the dead of night… I knew what
I was doing was dangerous, unspeakable, criminal. Did I care?
“I promise. I want you to fuck me. I want you to fuck me hard.”
“Okay, Jack. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
He pulled his finger out of my ass and then, before I could get used to feeling empty again, hawked some saliva into his hand and smeared his prick with it, pushing the head against the target. I pushed back in response—and, to my astonishment, he slipped inside me. His dick was so much bigger than his finger. It felt as if someone had pushed a hot potato inside me. There was no pleasure, but neither was there particular pain.
“Go ahead. I’m fine.”
“Slow down, horsey. You need to be broken in slowly.” His hand played around my dick, which, unknown to me, had suddenly become limp. “I’m going nowhere till this is hard again. You’ll thank me later.”
And so, resting the head of his cock inside me, controlling its position like an engineer, he resumed kissing my neck, murmuring obscene endearments in my ear, and playing with my prick. Within two minutes, I was harder than ever and felt like I was ready to come again. My ass was working around his cockhead like a wringer.
And then he began to fuck me. I thought I was ready for him, but nothing could prepare me for the sensations that were to follow. He pressed another inch, another inch, another inch into me, and suddenly, where there had been nothing but pleasure and appetite, there was pain.
“Hey!” I shouted.
“Hurts, huh?”
“Hurts like hell.”
“Let’s just wait a second. Hold it there. Just breathe in and out for me. Take it easy.” He kissed me again, he played with my cock. At first I couldn’t understand why he didn’t just take his cock out of me, as it hurt so much—but then, after a few moments, the pain began to slip away and the pleasure returned. And so we proceeded, cautiously, stopping and breathing and waiting when necessary, until he could push no further.
“That’s it, Jack. You got all of me.”
I reached around behind me and felt his stomach pressed against my back. I felt my ass ring stretched around the thick base of his cock. I grabbed his balls and pulled them toward me.
“I can’t get them in as well, you greedy little bastard.”
And so the fuck began, slowly at first, gaining momentum. My body was focused entirely on the sensation of cock and ass—and yet, to my surprise, my mind was floating free, wandering from subject to subject. I thought of my schoolmates, my family, my prospects, my future. I thought of the things I had studied, I thought of how my life might unfold. In all these thoughts I was impressed by one overwhelming idea—that here, now, at this moment and in this room, my life was really beginning at last, and that whatever happened to me in the future would be defined in some way by the pleasure that Mick’s cock was giving me as it drove into my asshole.
And then he pulled out.
“How you doing?” he asked, sitting up beside me.
“Good. Why are we stopping?”
“You’ll see. You think that was what fucking was all about? Oh, boy, you have no idea.”
And so, for the next half hour, he fucked me in every conceivable position. He had me up on my hands and knees, ramming into me from the back. He had me sitting down on his cock as he lay back on the bed. He spun me around, he flipped me over, he rode me and supported me and possessed me. Finally, I lay on my back, my legs resting on his shoulders, as he braced himself with his powerful arms and fucked me harder than I believed possible. And yet I took every stroke, I met every thrust, and I wanted more. I could not tell if I had come again or not; my belly was wet with slippery, sticky fluid, and yet I was still as hard as could be. Finally, he doubled the rate and vigor of his thrusting, stuck his tongue down my throat, and spewed his load up my hole.
I thought this would be the end, but he quickly rallied and, leaving his cock firmly lodged inside me, sat back on his heels, pulling me toward him.
“Let’s see you come again, Jack. This time with me inside you.” He grabbed my dick, jerked me gently a few times—and it was enough. The feeling of his hard prick invading my guts was enough. My dick was just the trigger. This time, I came with my whole body, and spilled a massive load across my chest and stomach. It ran down my sides and soaked into the thin cotton sheets.
We lay together for an hour or two, drifting in and out of sleep, listening to the heavy footfalls along the corridor, the creak of floorboards, the banging of doors. In the silence of the night, every sound was amplified; God knows how loud our revels had been. Everyone in the White Horse must have known that the young man in the stylish suit who wandered in off the street was no longer a virgin.
It was getting light when Mick roused me. “You better get home. People will be asking questions.”
I did not want to leave. I wanted to stay with him forever, and I told him so.
“You do as I say. We’ll meet again if you want to.”
In answer, I dived down into his groin and started sucking his cock. It started to rouse itself in my mouth.
“Not now, Jack. There’s a big wide world out there and we have to be on our guard.”
“Fuck me again.”
“I will. I promise you I will. But now you get home. We don’t need that kind of trouble. Go on. Get dressed.”
I walked home in the gray dawn, listening to the chickadees stirring in the pine trees, and climbed in through my bedroom window, as I always did when I’d been out exploring at night. The house was silent, and I slept until nine. There were a few jokes at my expense, good-natured raillery about how seedy I was looking, how they could smell whiskey on my breath, a suggestion that I must have a sweetheart down in town. I laughed and kept my own counsel.
II
FOR TWO YEARS, BETWEEN MY 19TH BIRTHDAY AND THE outbreak of war, I dedicated myself to the art of fucking with an application that, had I brought it to my working life, might have made me a rich man. I grew stronger in my body, thanks to swimming and riding and running and the regular exercise I took in the bedroom. My body became harder. The hair on my head became, alas, a little thinner; at the age of 21 I already had a pronounced widow’s peak, and was receding at the temples. But the hair on my body spread and grew thicker, creeping up from my belly to my chest, around my nipples. It was never as thick and wiry as Mick’s, and it was several shades darker than the hair on my head—but there it was, extending down my thighs and over my ass, filling the crack that once, when Mick first tasted it, had been almost bare. I became a man—in my body, at least, if not in my mind.
I returned often to Mick at the White Horse, and he became my tutor, my mentor, and a more admirable moral guide than you might have thought. He taught me to observe the conventions of New England life, to behave like a gentleman, to take my pleasure discreetly and with consideration for others, to run no unnecessary risks. He had learned by painful example just how badly wrong things could go for the likes of us, and he told me, one night as we lay naked together after he had fucked my face, of how he came about that deep scar on his torso. A young man in another town, a jealous wife, an angry father-in-law, an ugly brawl in a bar, a knife, a desperate flight on horseback, still bleeding, infection, a fever, near death… Mick had learned the hard way just how dangerous the love of men could be.
It had not, however, put him off, and in the White Horse he’d found friends who would support and protect him. The barman shared his tastes, and on more than one occasion joined us for the night. I took them both, at both ends, alternately, together. One evening, when business in the White Horse was slow, the barman locked the doors with just himself, Mick, another rough laborer called Scott, and me inside. We fucked on the bar, on the tables, on the floor, upstairs and down. I took them all—and, that night for the first time, I learned what it was like to fuck another man, sticking my prick up the barman’s hairy ass as he leaned over a beer barrel sucking on the two hard cocks in front of him.
And it wasn’t just in the White Horse that I took my
pleasure. With the confidence of extreme youth, I had my own adventures. I assumed, like a fool, that any man who took my fancy would be happy to accommodate me. I lay, shamelessly naked and erect, on the sunny rocks at my favorite swimming pond, daring other bathers to come and join me. I worked my way through several of the cleaners, engineers, and clerks at the Hydropathic Establishment. Seldom was I turned down, and even if I was, nobody would have dared say a word against the boss’s son. I even seduced family friends who came to visit, “accidentally” stumbling into their rooms after everyone had retired for bed, ready with some foolish story about looking for a book, and often stayed till dawn, tasting forbidden fruit.
But it was always to Mick that I returned, and I never tired of his loving. Our appetites matched perfectly. There was nothing I could dream of doing that he was not already expert at. His cock was always hard, always ready for me. And, more than that, we became friends. We talked. He advised me, warned me, encouraged me. When he wasn’t fucking me, he was like a father to me. In return, I helped him out with money when work was scarce, and, to keep him in town, I even found a job for him at the spa. He impressed my father with his knowledge of boilers and water-heating systems, and he replaced the old chief engineer, whose idea of modern technology was a coal fire. Mick moved out of the White Horse and took a cabin in the woods, where we could fuck as loudly as we wanted, with only the occasional moose or bear to hear us. I do not know if my family wondered about this unlikely friendship, or if talk reached their ears of my inappropriate associations; if it did, they were far too polite to mention it.
Reluctantly, I took a job myself at the Bishopstown Hydropathic Establishment and Mineral Spa Center, largely to silence the mutterings about “earning my keep” and “preparing for the future” that were becoming far too frequent for my liking around the family table. I was placed in the accounts department, apprenticed to Jasper Windridge, my father’s “right hand,” as he liked to call him, an unlikable man of middle age who took great pleasure, I thought, in pointing out my shortcomings. I suppose I cannot blame him, as I was an unwilling student, interested only in the clock, my mind on my next debauch. It was all I could do to add up a column of figures without error; the complexities of double-entry bookkeeping were a mystery to me. The only double-entry I was interested in took place in the White Horse, when I managed, with concentration and a hell of a lot of butter, to accommodate both Mick and the barman in my painfully stretched asshole.
