by James Lear
‘Good. Wait there.’ He climbed out of the pool, water running off the end of his hard dick, and pointed to a recliner. ‘Get yourself on there. On your back.’
I did as I was told. Oh, the relief of taking orders.
Graham had condoms and lube in a bag. He threw them to me.
‘Get ready.’
I lubed up my arse, making sure he could see everything, working a couple of fingers into my rectum, and then grabbed his dick and rolled a condom onto it. I liked being helpful and showing him how much I wanted him inside me. Not that he needed to be told; as soon as the rubber was in place, he was pushing into me. It hurt like fuck, but I was used to that now and knew how to control the pain. I breathed deeply, concentrating on letting go, opening up, and soon I was taking every inch of him and wanting more.
It didn’t last long. To an accompaniment of creaks and groans from the recliner, which was certainly not designed to take the weight of two rutting adult males, we thrust and counter-thrust our way to climax. I came first, spewing all over my stomach and chest. Graham scooped it up, stuck his fingers in my mouth so that I had no choice but to taste myself, then pushed harder and harder until his eyes screwed shut and the veins stood out on his neck and forehead as he came inside me.
They must have heard his bellows across the bay in St. Tropez.
I won’t bore you with all the details of my holiday; that would be about as interesting as looking at someone else’s photographs. Suffice to say that Graham fucked me again that night and again in the morning before we had to put some clothes on in order to not scare Mrs. Guy. We went out in the car, driving around the hills and along the coast to some pretty little coves. We ate lunch in beach bars, we had drinks by the pool, we stopped off at the supermarket to stock up on condoms.
On the third evening, I was lying by the pool, recently awoken from a siesta. Graham was out, seeing his lawyer about some endless property dispute; I had the run of the place. For the first time in days, I checked my phone.
A text from Angie, informing me that she’d taken a few items from the house, an inventory basically.
Texts from both my children, Nicky in Sheffield, Alex in Spain, both of them having a great time without their father.
And a text from Adrian.
Hi Joe, hope you’re well, just wondered if you’d like to go for a drink sometime soon. Adrian.
My heart raced. He wants to see me! He actually made the first move! I carefully added the number to my contacts and replied.
I’m on holiday for a few days. Back at work Monday. Next week?
He replied quickly.
Lucky you! Anywhere nice? Got a beach?
South of France. Staying at a mate’s house, near beach, with a pool
And then I had an idea. Holding the camera at arm’s length above myself, I took a photograph, framing it carefully to show that I was not wearing swimming trunks. I looked good, a light tan, good definition, a smile. I wrote, Who’s jealous now? and sent it without too much thought.
I waited for his response. A minute. Two minutes. Shit. I’ve gone too far.
Then it came. Another photograph. Adrian, sitting on his bed, clothes and shoes strewn around the floor, the wheel of a bicycle visible behind him. He too was naked, but his leg blocked the view. His face had an expression of comic sadness.
Not fair
Fuck, he was beautiful, his pale skin rolling up and down over round muscles, the dark ink of his tattoos.
And he was naked. Like me. Sending each other naked photos. How far would this go?
My cock was standing straight up. I photographed it. It would be so easy to send. I stroked myself a few times, watching it through the telephone’s screen. Was Adrian doing the same?
Shit—I haven’t replied—he must think I’m angry or put off. Write something quick.
I wish I was there instead of here.
He came back quickly.
Me too.
Do I send the dick pic now?
Another text came in. A photo. Adrian lying on his bed, one arm behind his head, his torso stretched out, the ridged abdominals giving way to the blonde fuzz of his pubic hair, and just the very top of his cock above the lower frame.
You’re beautiful, I wrote.
You too.
I want to see everything.
A minute or so went by, and there it was—from chest to thigh, just as I’d seen it in the showers, with one big difference. A hard cock. Not huge, smaller than mine by an inch or two. Perfect.
And so, of course, I sent the dick pic.
Jesus, wrote Adrian. That’s amazing.
All yours whenever you want it.
Next week?
Sure.
I could hear the gates opening, the engine of Graham’s car purring just outside.
I’ll text you later. xxx
I put my phone down, closed my eyes, and pretended to be asleep, my hard dick lying against my stomach.
Car doors slammed, and I heard footsteps.
‘Oh, Joe! We have company!’ I just had time to grab a towel and cover myself before Graham stepped onto the patio accompanied by two young men—locals, by the look of them, one dark with a scruffy beard, one blonde, both in shorts, T-shirts, and sandals. ‘This is Yves and . . . what’s your name again? Comment t’appelles tu?’
‘Jean-Pierre,’ said the blonde.
I stood up, wrapping the towel around my waist, trying to conceal my hard-on. It didn’t work. The boys knew exactly where to look.
9
WHEN I WAS YOUNGER, I USED TO GO OUT ON MASSIVE DRINKING binges—a few at home to get in the mood, then out to the pub for pints and shots, on to a club for more of the same, crawling home so pissed I could barely get the key in the lock, puking down the toilet and promising myself, as I fell into unconsciousness, that I would never do it again. Somehow I’d get through the next day feeling like hell, and my resolution would stick until self-disgust wore off and someone made plans for the weekend. The fun outweighed the pain, and if I fucked up at work or pissed Angie off, it was soon forgiven and forgotten. It was part of being young.
But I can’t hack it any more. The hangovers last for days, the weight starts to stick around the stomach, and remorse doesn’t evaporate in the elation of drinking. Disgusting, reckless self-indulgence has lost its appeal. And, as I was about to discover, this applies not only to drinking but also to sex.
All the ingredients were in place for a serious debauch: Graham’s villa, the pool, any number of comfortable horizontal surfaces, Graham himself with his big, stiff dick, and two very sexy French boys. Yves was slender and dark, his hair and beard curly and in need of a trim, his skin deeply tanned. Jean-Pierre looked like something from a 1950s French movie, hair carefully styled in a quiff, strong jawline, baby-blue eyes, a few sailor tattoos on his arms. Unless I was much mistaken, they were escorts, hustlers, prostitutes, whatever the right word is these days. I assumed that Graham was rewarding them for their company. But who was I to judge? I was getting a free holiday. Graham could afford whatever he wanted: houses, boys, married men with hungry arses.
‘Let’s have some champagne,’ said Graham, spinning his keys round his finger. ‘You boys make yourselves comfortable. You know where everything is. Have a swim.’
They’d been there before, separately or together. How many of us were there in Graham’s stable?
He disappeared into the house, leaving me and my hard cock and two hot young men speaking to each other in French. The situation was awkward, and I hoped Graham would hurry up with the drinks.
The boys laughed. ‘He says,’ said Yves, the dark, bearded one, ‘that he needs to borrow your towel.’
Jean-Pierre shouted and punched Yves hard on the shoulder, and they both laughed. I stood there with an erection and a stupid grin on my face, not knowing what to say. Yves, the bolder of the two, stepped toward me and held his hand out. ‘Towel, please.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Yes. Gi
ve it to me.’ He had an arrogant manner, all arched eyebrows and downturned mouth, and I might have punched his face if there hadn’t been more attractive ways of punishing him. I gave him the towel, throwing it over his head. Jean-Pierre laughed again, but his eyes were glued to my cock. Yves disentangled himself from the towel.
‘He said you were big.’ He shrugged.
‘What do you mean? Not big enough for you?’
He waved his hand. ‘Maybe big enough.’
‘I suppose yours is bigger.’
‘No. Mine is quite small.’ He nodded toward Jean-Pierre. ‘He’s the one with the big cock. N’est-ce pas, Jean-Pierre? Montre-lui ta bite.’
Jean-Pierre unbuttoned his shorts—they were those tailored shorts with a crease and turn-ups, with a light-blue check pattern, fitted carefully around his golden thighs, meaty arse, and big packet. He was not wearing underwear; I guessed in his line of work, they’re not necessary. His friend wasn’t lying: the cock that spilled out of his fly was huge and pale, with just a few wisps of blonde hair at the base. A thick blue vein ran down the shaft and branched over the foreskin. How much bigger did it get, I wondered.
‘You see? It’s enormous. And with all that, he is always a bottom. It is so unfair.’ Yves made a grimace of disgust. ‘So many times I ask him to fuck me with it, and always he says no.’ He fluttered his eyelids and flapped his hands, assuming a high, finicking voice. ‘Ooooh no, I never stick it up an asshole, I don’t like it, I just roll over and take it.’ He shrugged. ‘It is such a waste. If I had a cock like that, I would use it. I would be rich.’
Jean-Pierre said something in French while tugging on his cock and staring at mine.
‘Ah oui, d’accord. He says that he saves his cock for his girlfriend. The girlfriend that nobody has ever met.’
‘Fuck you,’ said Jean-Pierre, ‘and your little cock.’
‘See? He’s impossible.’ He pronounced it the French way, am-poss-EE-bler. ‘But now you see he is getting hard. It is bigger than yours.’
‘It’s about the same.’
‘Let’s see.’ Yves took hold of my cock with one lean brown hand—he was wearing a bracelet of cowrie shells—and grabbed Jean-Pierre’s in the other. ‘Come, together.’ He pulled us toward each other until our dicks touched, side by side. They were about equal—but I was at maximum hardness, and Jean-Pierre, I guessed, still had a little way to go. Yves stretched his fingers round us and wanked both cocks together. ‘There you are. Viens, Jean, pour la France.’ It was working—I felt the growing hardness, and yes, he had a good centimetre on me. His long foreskin was barely retracted, but through it I could see the shape of his glans, the ridge prominent as the skin slid back and forth.
‘Good to see you all getting acquainted.’ Graham placed a clinking tray of glasses and an ice bucket on the poolside table. ‘Yves—naked. Now.’
Yves let go of our cocks, which bounced around unattended for a while, and started to strip. Where his friend was all preppy tailoring, Yves was wearing frayed denim cut-offs and a faded camouflage T-shirt. He pulled it over his head, revealing a furry torso, pink nipples poking through the hair, and a long, jagged scar running from his left pectoral muscle down to the middle of his stomach.
‘Sexy, isn’t it?’ said Graham. ‘At least, I think so. He was in a car accident when he was a kid, he says, although I sometimes wonder if he annoyed someone so much that they stabbed him. Anyway, I like it. Now the shorts. Come on, Yves. We haven’t got all day.’
Yves kicked off his sandals and pulled down his shorts—they were so loose on his slim hips that they practically fell down when he breathed in. His cock stuck out of a dense, soft brown bush, and he wasn’t lying—it was small and very hard. Naked, he looked like a faun.
‘Turn round,’ said Graham. ‘Show him your arse.’
Yves did as he was told, presenting the furriest backside I have ever seen. The buttocks were small and nicely curved, but it was hard to see much skin through the dense covering.
‘Like him, Joe?’
‘Very much.’ And I did, for all his—what? Imperfections? A scar and a small cock? Over-abundant body hair? All of them, individually, turned me on; taken together, they made me want him to a painful extent. Jean-Pierre, who was folding his clothes neatly as he took them off, was more conventionally beautiful, his skin smooth over perfect muscles, sexy tattoos, and that big fat veiny cock, but Yves was mine. Graham could fuck perfect Jean-Pierre as much as he wanted. I’d be happy with my furry little animal.
‘OK. Drinks.’ Graham poured champagne. ‘And we have a little treat.’ He tossed a bag to Yves. ‘You can serve.’
I sipped my drink, watching Yves’s arse as he bent over a table, fiddling with something. I couldn’t wait to get inside him, to break down his Gallic self-confidence and make that little cock shoot while I fucked his hairy hole. I was leaking, the pre-come hanging off the end of my prick.
‘Voilà.’ Yves stood up, and offered me a small white plastic vessel—the lid of a bottle, I realized. It contained a clear, colourless liquid.
‘What is this?’
‘G,’ said Yves, with the soft French ‘zh.’
‘I don’t take drugs.’
‘Come on, Joe,’ said Graham. ‘It’s perfectly safe, and we’re only going to do one little shot. Trust me on this one.’
‘I don’t want to. I don’t need that shit.’
‘You don’t need it, no, that’s true. You can fuck all night and never get tired. But I want you to try it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it would give me pleasure.’
There was no ignoring the note of command in his voice, the clear subtext: I’m paying you, you’ll do as you’re told.
‘Try it, Joe,’ said Yves, coming closer, so close that I could smell his musky armpits. ‘You’ll like it.’
‘Really, no.’
‘Then the boys will have to leave.’
‘Come on, Graham. That’s ridiculous.’
‘You want to fuck him, you take the G.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I say so.’
I felt something cold down my shoulders, like an icy draft in the hot Riviera afternoon. I shivered and felt my erection begin to collapse. That’s when I should have said, ‘OK, Graham. You’ve had your fun. I’ll pack my bags and make my own way to the airport.’ But I hesitated for too long, and before I knew it Yves was pressing himself against me, the fur on his warm body brushing my skin, his lips tracing my collarbone.
‘Please, Joe. I want you inside me.’ He held the cap to my mouth. ‘Trust me. It’s good.’
And so, if only to stop the crazy slideshow of images in my head—dead bodies floating in the pool, my family, my children at their father’s grave, reporters at the gate, microphones and cameras and ambulances—I took the cap between thumb and forefinger and downed the liquid. It was slightly salty, but otherwise flavorless.
And I didn’t fall twitching to the paving stones.
‘Bravo,’ said Yves, and kissed me on the lips, rubbing his cock against my thigh. ‘Now, for everyone else.’ He went back to his ministrations.
‘You see?’ said Graham, after taking his. ‘It’s quite harmless.’
‘Now what?’
‘Wait. You’ll find yourself feeling happy and relaxed and very horny.’
‘I was that already.’
‘It’s just the same as having a drink, Joe. Don’t be such a prude.’
The boys were swallowing their doses with the ease of habit.
‘Bien. Now we fuck,’ said Yves. ‘Where do you want us, Graham?’
‘Around here. In the pool. I will be sitting there.’ He gestured toward one of the recliners. ‘First of all, Jean-Pierre can get me hard. You two get to know each other.’
Graham lay back, champagne in hand, while Jean-Pierre—a third of his age, a perfect beauty, as smooth and proportioned as a Greek statue—undid his shorts and started sucking his cock. I knew Graham well
enough by now to know that he needed a bit of pharmaceutical assistance to maintain erections—he was a great believer in Cialis, which kept him hard, he reckoned, for forty-eight hours—and I could see from the speed with which his cock was growing in Jean-Pierre’s mouth that he had taken a dose recently. It crossed my mind that Cialis, champagne, and G might not be the safest of combinations, but then I was distracted by Yves’s hand grabbing my cock, his lips meeting mine. I put my arms around him, one hand on his hairy arse groping and squeezing, the other on the back of his head. We embraced by the poolside, our tongues entwined, cocks pressed together, while I watched Jean-Pierre kneeling between Graham’s legs, his shiny blond head bobbing up and down as he swallowed his cock. Any misgivings or inhibitions I had were melting away. This was going to be fine. This was going to be great. This was going to be fucking incredible. And that, of course, was when the G kicked in, and there was no turning back.
‘Fuck him, Joe. That’s what he wants. Right here, where I can watch you.’
I didn’t need to be told twice. At that moment, by the pool, with the scents of pine trees and rosemary, the buzzing of bees, and the sun’s heat radiating back from the paving stones, Yves was the sum total of my desire, the single sharp focus of everything I’d ever wanted and feared in the last year, and I needed to possess him, to give myself to him in front of witnesses, to be watched and exposed and degraded. He got down on all fours, spreading his hairy buttocks, rubbing a finger over the rose-pink hole. It would have been so easy to spit on my hand, slick myself up, and plunge right in, but even in my intoxicated state, I remembered the words of the delivery man, echoing from a universe far away. You’re not going in there bareback, mate. Are you fucking mad? It was so vivid I glanced around, as if he might be behind me, and for a moment I felt myself back in the bathroom of my house, I saw the familiar carpets and walls, the sink and toilet, heard the traffic from the road outside. I was simultaneously there and here, Yves’s arse and the delivery man’s arse like a double exposure, two holes that I could fuck with one dick.
‘Condoms?’ Graham tossed me the bag he’d given Yves. ‘Everything is in there. Rubbers, lube, poppers if you want them.’
