Carlo’s hand stole downward, slipped between Paul’s butt cheeks. Paul hitched another breath as Carlo caressed his tight hole with that same expert touch. He spread his thighs wider for Carlo, and Carlo pushed a finger inside him. Carlo filled his hole gently, spread him open with soft but insistent tugs. The pleasure was incredible, and Paul moaned. He couldn’t think at all. His mind, like his body from Carlo’s licks and strokes, was jelly, completely under Carlo’s control. Whatever Carlo wanted to do to him, he could.
Carlo sucked Paul’s cock for what seemed a long time. Paul made himself hold back, even though Carlo’s masterful tongue and lips kept bringing him to the edge. Bit by bit, Paul’s shyness completely slipped away. Carlo was coaxing him to a frenzy. He slid his hands from Carlo’s hair to his strong shoulders.
Several tugs, and Carlo let Paul’s cock slip from his mouth. He looked up, large dark eyes full of lust, lips gleaming. “What is it, Paulito? Am I hurting you?”
Paul shook his head. He’d always been shy about asking for what he wanted. Now, the thing he wanted most was within his grasp and shyness grabbed his words. He pulled again on Carlo’s shoulders.
A grin spread across Carlo’s sexy lips. He rose up onto his knees. Paul leaned over and pushed Carlo’s already loose jeans down his tapered hips and sloping thighs, strong from years of playing soccer.
Carlo’s erection sprang free. The thick shaft bobbed close to Paul’s mouth, and a drop of pre-cum glistened at the tiny opening. Feeling bolder now, Paul reached out, wrapped his hand lightly around Carlo’s delicious, caramel-hued cock and leaned over. He slid the tip of his tongue gingerly across the lobes of the plump head and licked up the tiny salty droplet.
Carlo groaned and pushed his hips forward. One hand slid through Paul’s hair, just long enough on top for Carlo to curl his fingers into. “Paulito,” he whispered.
Encouraged, Paul took the whole head in. Carlo’s answering groan urged him to take the shaft in deeper. As deep as he could. His lips bumped over the small veins, and Carlo’s musky flavor filled Paul’s senses. Carlo was as delicious as Paul had always imagined he’d be. With his other hand, he palmed the heavy sac of Carlo’s balls. Carlo groaned again and tightened his fingers in Paul’s hair. Paul tightened his lips and sucked Carlo more. He bobbed his head up and down, faster and faster, and his wildness inside unleashed itself. Every suck on Carlo’s cock made his own body tingle. His cock and ass tightened, desperate for release.
Paul pulled back, and Carlo’s cock slipped from his mouth. He looked up at Carlo’s flushed face. “Carlo … I … want …” Shyness overcame him again, and he lay back, legs spread, hoping that the nonverbal message would work.
It did. Carlo chuckled and collapsed lightly on top of him. The studio lights had warmed their bodies as well as the heat of lust and their bare chests fused together, as if Carlo were making love to him on a sun-warmed beach. Sliding his hands down Carlo’s strong back of smooth muscles, down to his perfect ass, he clutched the two hard globes of muscle. Carlo answered him with a hot kiss and the push of two thick fingers inside Paul’s tight hole, preparing him.
Carlo pulled out his fingers. “Don’t worry, Paulito, I’m safe. I wouldn’t hurt you.”
Paul nodded, panting. “I know.”
Carlo moaned softly, as if Paul’s trust in him was a turn-on, and pushed the head of his cock, well lubricated from Paul’s mouth, in. Paul groaned and gripped Carlo’s ass tighter. He pulled Carlo closer, and Carlo obeyed, pushing his cock in deeper … and deeper, until their bodies met.
“Paulito,” Carlo whispered again and plundered his lips and mouth with hot kisses. The passionate way he rode Paul and kissed him made Paul feel as if Carlo had wanted to do this for a long time. Paul tilted his head back and let his whole consciousness shrink to the feel of Carlo’s hot body on top of him, his cock inside him, rubbing the soft insides of his ass with perfect strokes, Carlo’s male scent and the iron quality of his lithe muscles.
Carlo pushed harder, deeper, moved faster until he groaned. His body stiffened, and Paul could feel Carlo’s hot cum spurting inside him, filling him. Paul grasped his own cock and pumped it rapidly, wanting to come at the same time. In moments, he spilled over the edge. His cum made white ribbons of moisture that splashed on his stomach and chest.
He felt the tension run out of Carlo’s body just as his own climax ended. Carlo chuckled and kissed Paul’s lips. Paul laughed, too. He couldn’t stop. The two of them laughed together, and the sound mixed with the patter of rain outside. Paul rested his hands on Carlo’s triceps. When their laughter had passed, Carlo kissed him again.
Now that it was over, Paul felt afraid, afraid that this was a one-time thing. At least he’d had that. Too bad he wanted it for always.
“Thank you, Paulito.” Carlo kissed Paul’s forehead. “I’m sorry it took me so long to tell you how I feel.”
Paul looked at him. “How do you feel, exactly?” His voice was timid to his own ears. When it came to Carlo, Paul felt vulnerable. He didn’t care, though because he loved Carlo.
Carlo sighed. He remained above Paul, his cock still partly hard, inside him. Paul loved that and wished they could always stay this way. “Well,” Carlo said in a soft voice, “I realized I was beginning to love you when I started to compare every guy I was with to you, and he never measured up. I think that’s why I’ve never stayed with anyone. Then … yesterday when you had that photo job with those gorgeous guys, I was madly jealous. I realized I had to do something or I’d lose you. You’re hot, even though you don’t know it.”
Paul stared at him. His heart pounded, and he was overcome with joy and disbelief. “Am I dreaming?”
Carlo returned his gaze. His smile faded. “No, man. I love you.”
Paul pulled Carlo down on top of him. “I love you, too,” he murmured into Carlo’s hair.
Carlo kissed the side of Paul’s neck. “I’m sorry it took so long.”
Paul squeezed him close and smiled. This was turning out to be the best day of his life. “Don’t worry about it. I took a long time, too. At least you came out and did something.”
Carlo rose up and looked down at him. He, too, looked really happy. “Finally.” He grinned and glanced up. “Thanks to that camera of yours.”
Paul chuckled. “Yeah, I guess a picture really is worth a thousand words.”
Carlo kissed Paul’s lips again and smoothed back his hair. “Not a thousand words, Paulito. Just three.”
Noah’s Arch
By Ryan Field
One summer a few years ago, there was a young man who discovered he was turning into the wrong person.
He was only twenty-two years old by then, a college graduate with a degree in business but still working as a waiter in a small rural town in eastern Pennsylvania. He was tall and rugged and muscle-toned, with a shock of dark brown hair that fell across his forehead – thick hair that always appeared slightly wind blown. Dark eyelashes framed his deep blues eyes. He had an unadventurous style of dress veering precariously close to Catholic School uniform.
Give him credit. Most guys his age, with his background, would settle for marrying their high school sweethearts and ignoring their innate urges. It’s only a phase I’m going through, they would say. Just get married, and it will all go away in time.
It did occur to Noah to say that. But he didn’t.
On the night he made his discovery, he was meeting his married lover at the rest stop along the I95 corridor in Chester County, PA. His first and only lover was a man who could curl his toes and make his eyes roll to the back of his head. It was a warm, humid night in late August 1999, and the rest stop was crowded with hungry drivers – men looking for other men on the down-low.
All styles and makes of cars, from mini-vans to BMWs, were parked on an angle in the parking spaces that circled the grey brick public rest rooms. Off to the right, beyond the automobile section, large trucks with motors running endlessly lined a manmade wooded area where truc
kers could park and sleep in their air-conditioned cabs. Some stood outside, leaning against their rigs puffing one cigarette after the other, while the local tranny would sashay by in red stilettos and a black mini skirt waiting for one of them to say something like, “Hey baby, you got a light.”
But it was a safe place, too. For some reason, there were never any cops after ten at night.
For about six months, Noah had been meeting this married guy, Mike, at the rest stop every Saturday night at ten. An ex-Marine-turned-farmer, same age as Noah, who looked really hot in baggy jeans and always wore black steel toe half boots with a crew cut, he was an ex-high-school-jock type of guy. Mike never spoke much, but whatever he said was always a compliment, and he treated Noah like a fragile wine goblet that might crack with the wrong move. He also didn’t bother explaining, or hiding, his gold wedding band, and Noah understood there would be no fantasy of having a real relationship. Mike liked fucking good looking young gay guys, and Noah liked getting fucked by straight guys who drank beer and wore baseball caps.
When Noah pulled alongside Mike’s beat up Chevy that night, it suddenly occurred to him that he got a sinking feeling in his stomach lately when he saw Mike. But still exciting, too, and Noah needed dick. So he got out of his Honda and slipped into the backseat, where Mike was finishing another bottle of beer. Noah gently placed his palm on Mike’s large bicep and leaned forward to kiss the stubble on his cheek.
“Hey, baby,” Mike said, as he chugged down what was left in the beer bottle and then belched.
It all went as predicted. No talking while Noah systematically removed all his clothes and Mike watched with a fierce look in his eyes as though he hadn’t been fed in months. The exhibitionist in Noah liked this part the most – Mike’s glaring, his need to pounce on Noah’s smooth body with force. When Noah’s clothes (even his socks) were on the front seat, Mike spread his strong legs, and Noah slowly unfastened Mike’s jeans and pulled down the zipper. He fumbled for a moment, until he reached through Mike’s loose boxer shorts for the thick, hard cock. He leaned over and gently slipped it into his warm mouth while Mike moaned and felt up Noah’s bare ass with his coarse hand. It was a good dick to suck – really hard, extra thick and always tasted tangy because Mike hadn’t showered since the early morning.
That night, as usual, Noah sucked and slurped the big thing until his jaw hurt, and when it was just about ready to shoot a load Mike pulled out and slipped on a lubricated condom. He stretched his legs and Noah slowly climbed up on his lap. He pressed his hands on Mike’s chest for support, straddled the thick, familiar dick and then lowered himself onto it until he could feel the hard denim fabric of Mike’s jeans against his smooth ass cheeks. While Mike’s hands were firmly positioned on his waist, Noah arched his back, folded his hands at the back of his neck and began to ride. A couple of guys passing by on foot stopped to watch. Though a bit creepy (and never mentioned aloud) both Mike and Noah silently enjoyed putting on a show for the other guys who circled the rest stop on foot; they even slowed down to let the guys watch Mike’s cock slowly going in and out of Noah’s hole.
Mike enjoyed Noah on his lap, but he preferred to climax on top. So eventually Noah slid off the dick, went flat on his back and put his legs over Mike’s shoulders.
Mike, who could fuck like a bull, banged away to the finish while Noah moaned and begged for more, jerking his own cock, so they’d both come at the same time.
When the fucking was over, Mike’s eyebrows creased as he tossed the used condom out the back window and shoved his cock back into his jeans. Noah slowly bent over the front seat to gather his clothes, so Mike could gently slap his bare ass. With a turned down mouth Mike said, as he always did, “Thanks, baby, gotta go home now.”
But for some strange reason Noah didn’t reply, “See you next week,” as he usually did. And he didn’t bend over to gently kiss Mike’s crotch goodbye either. Actually, Noah didn’t even bother to get dressed. He just grabbed his shoes and clothes in a heap, pressed them against his stomach and got out of the car totally naked while five guys watched in the shadows.
Mike’s eyes popped, and he climbed to the front seat and lowered the window. “What are you doing?”
“I’m changing my life,” Noah answered, as he tossed his clothes into the front passenger side of his car and casually walked around to the driver’s side, still naked. There were red marks on his smooth ass, revealing paw marks that he’d just been nailed by Mike.
Mike opened the car door and jumped out, ignoring the small audience of voyeurs in the darkness. He reached Noah’s car and blocked the driver’s door. “What’s wrong?”
“Mike, I’m standing here totally naked, at least let me get into the car,” said Noah.
“Not until you tell me what’s going on,” said Mike. He wrapped his strong arms around Noah’s body, resting his large hands on Noah’s ass.
Noah sighed. In Mike’s arms he’d always been safe. He reached up, wrapped his arms around Mike’s wide neck and rested his cheek against Mike’s chest. He spread his legs and arched his back, hoping Mike would start to squeeze and feel up his ass again.
“Will I see you again next weekend?” Mike asked, as he began to play with Noah’s ass cheeks as though he were kneading bread dough. “C’mon baby, talk to me.”
Noah frowned. “No. You probably won’t see me again. I’m moving to New York; been thinking about it for a while. And I don’t want this to be dramatic; we both knew it would end sooner or later. You’re never going to leave your wife.”
“I’m sorry,” said Mike, “But you’re okay, man?”
Noah smiled. “Yes. I’m fine. And I think you’re a great guy, but I need more than this.”
“Get in and start your car,” Mike said, smacking Noah’s ass, “I want to make sure you get out of here okay, and no one rapes that pretty ass of yours … at least for tonight it only belongs to me.”
“Thank you,” Noah said. He wanted to say more, but just slipped into his car, started the engine and drove naked onto the dark highway. For a mile or so he felt safe; Mike’s headlights were in his mirror. He managed not to look back as he pulled off the highway and headed down a dark country road toward the rural Pennsylvania home where he’d been born and raised.
About two weeks later, after calling his mother and father to let them know he’d arrived in Manhattan safely, Noah was standing beside his black college luggage with brown leather trim and hailing a taxi at the Port Authority. He was headed to his new home; a large, two-bedroom, dream-come-true co-op he’d be sharing with three other gay men. The ad on Craigslist had read, “Three guys, ages 22, 30 and 33, looking to rent a room in Chelsea to a young, nonsmoker, willing to share one quarter of the rent.” At first it all sounded too good to be true, but after several e-mails, and a couple of phone calls, Noah decided this ad was the perfect opportunity to leave the rural countryside and begin a new life as a city boy. The situation had been explained faultlessly: three guys were all together – in a permanent three-way relationship. Noah would have his own room and his privacy when he needed it, in one of the gayest urban neighborhoods in the world.
The building, on 18th, just off Tenth Avenue, wasn’t awful, and it had a doorman who wore a long burgundy top coat, with epilates trimmed in gold and a matching cap. With a dull golden brick façade, chocolate brown window trim, and a sign over the lobby entrance that read “Penny Lane,” the place probably hadn’t been remodeled since the early 1970s. It backed up to a restaurant called “The Park” that appeared to go against its name until you figured it out. If you didn’t know anything about The Park you would assume a park-like setting, with trees and grass and benches, however, The Park Restaurant was actually a converted parking garage. Until he landed a real job, Noah suspected The Park might be a great place to wait tables.
The doorman announced his name into a metal speaker, and Noah walked through the brown lobby toward the elevator. He pushed a button for the tenth floor and rode up to m
eet his new room mates.
All three were home. Mike, the thirty-three-year-old, was the one who answered the door. Noah hoped his name wouldn’t be a bad omen. “Hey man, did you have any trouble finding the place?”
“No, none at all,” said Noah. Mike looked more like twenty-three than thirty-three, with short blond streaks, a painfully thin waist and a chest and arms that seemed to pop from the tight white T-shirt he was wearing. His low-rise jeans with a three-inch zipper were as tight as the skin on his tanned face, and Noah liked that he wasn’t effeminate in any way. The small, square entrance hall of the apartment, covered with the most exquisite wallpaper of sage green ferns he’d ever seen, rang with sophistication Noah had read about in magazines. The gray marble floor complimented the sage ferns, and Noah actually touched the walls to see if the ferns had been hand painted.
“I’ve never seen wallpaper like this,” he said to Mike.
“Thank you,” Mike replied, “I’m an interior designer, and a collector of vintage Florence Broadhurst wallpaper. She was a lively character from Australia, who didn’t begin to design wallpaper until she was in her sixties. She was murdered in her warehouse in the l970s, and the crime was never solved.”
“It’s spectacular,” Noah said, gazing at the walls, “Where did you find it in such condition.”
“I didn’t find it,” Mike said, “The whole place was already papered; that’s the reason I bought it. Originally I’d planned to live in The Village, but when I saw this wallpaper I didn’t have a choice.”
“Spectacular,” Noah said.
“C’mon in and let me introduce you to Randy and Angelo,” Mike said, taking Noah’s bags and placing them off to the side on the marble floor.
They crossed into a spacious living room with a tall ceiling, also papered with a famous Broadhurst design that included beige, blue and silver foil geometric shapes. Very l970s and now considered “retro.” Two guys stood from the black leather sofa with chrome trim (Noah knew there was a famous designer name attached to it, too, but couldn’t recall exactly what it was, and he didn’t want to sound stupid) and extended their hands. Randy’s hair was black and short with a turned up wave above his forehead. He wore lose fitting kaki shorts that stopped just below his knees, exposing slightly bowed legs covered with more black hair, black sandals on his large feet. His handshake was wilted; a large hand that felt more like a wet sponge than human flesh. Mike mentioned Randy practiced law with a small firm uptown. Then he introduced Angelo, certainly the twenty-two-year-old in the group, a light skinned black man with hazel eyes and a warm, friendly smile who didn’t look a day over sixteen. He simply wore a white T-shirt and blue and white stripped boxer shorts; his legs thin and muscular with short ankle socks covering his feet. Mike said Angelo worked in the garment district, but didn’t go into detail. Where Noah could have recognized that both Mike and Randy were two trendy gay men living in New York, he would have had to wonder about Angelo, who seemed so straight and un-gay he stood out much too clearly from the other two. When he shook Noah’s hand it almost hurt.
Boys Will Be Boys - Their First Time Page 6
