“Why do you keep harping about him? I told you, he’s still in the closet. He’s not interested in me,” Gene insisted. His hand squeezed David’s solidly muscled thigh. “What’s the matter? You want to get rid of me? Are you getting tired of me already?”
“You know I’m not,” David replied. “I’m just being realistic, that’s all. If you want to seduce Fausto, then go ahead. Go for it, make your move with the guy. You’d probably be doing him a favor, if he’s as repressed as you think he is. Don’t let me stop you.” David kissed the tribal armband tattoo encircling Gene’s upper arm, then ran his tongue over it as well, licking the inked pattern until he had Gene squirming in response. “Look—I’m older than you are, Gene, and I’ve been around a lot more. I’m not naïve. I know that your very first lover isn’t going to be your last.” David hesitated, then smiled—more than a little smugly. “And let’s face it. You could do a hell of a lot worse than hook up with Fausto. I wouldn’t mind having a crack at him, myself.”
Gene grunted with disgust. “You talk too much, man. Use your mouth for something else for a change. Shut up and give me a kiss.” As their lips met in a fierce, bruising kiss and their cocks began to stiffen all over again, Fausto Mardones-Gil was the last thing on Gene’s mind—for the time being, at least.
Chapter Five:
Working Out
The following day was another scorcher—clear, hot, but mercifully dry. Fausto decided to ride his bicycle to the campus, and he wore shorts and a T-shirt, with the bag containing his gym gear strapped to the seat behind him.
Pedaling the couple of miles to school was a good warm-up exercise, and he was breathing hard and starting to work up a sweat by the time he swung into the parking lot, which was empty. It was a few minutes before two, and when a battered two-door sedan pulled into the lot, he correctly assumed that Gene was behind the wheel. It was a rather modest vehicle for Gene to be driving. Fausto had pictured him in an expensive sports car.
“Hi, man,” the quarterback greeted him brightly. Gene had on tight, faded jeans, sneakers, and a gray stretch tank top that hugged his torso and had obviously been chosen to put his pecs, shoulders, and arms on display. His nipples were visible through the fabric. Fausto, smiling at the other guy, had to admit that Gene had a lot to show off, and that the display was a provocative one.
“Am I late?” Gene wanted to know, as he produced the key David had given him and unlocked the gym door.
“No, you’re right on time.”
“I was afraid—I thought you might not show up.”
“Oh? Why?”
“I thought maybe I’d scared you off.”
“I don’t scare that easily.” When Fausto glanced at Gene, Gene suddenly looked flustered.
Inside the gym building, it was strangely dark, cool, and silent. The two students’ footsteps echoed off the walls as they walked to the locker room to change into their workout attire.
“Isn’t anybody else here?” Fausto asked.
Gene shook his head. “Not even the maintenance man, today, from the looks of it. We’ve got the whole place to ourselves.”
“It’s kind of creepy.”
“What, like a slasher movie? Don’t be silly. Come on, let’s change our clothes and hit those weights.”
Gene got dressed modestly, by his standards, for his workout today, in ankle-length sweatpants and an old T-shirt, the latter loose-fitting but with holes torn under the arms so he could move them freely. Fausto thought he saw Gene glance approvingly at the way his own body filled out the snug red gym trunks and white nylon tank top he had changed into. But then he told himself that he was imagining things, and that he’d better concentrate on their workout.
It turned out to be a productive session. They trained together for over an hour, virtually nonstop, taking turns spotting each other during difficult or potentially dangerous exercises. Both guys were dripping with sweat by the time they were finished.
They hadn’t talked much, except to discuss which exercises to do next or how much weight to use. The weight room was quiet except for the clank of the iron plates, the two guys’ labored breathing, and their occasional grunts and groans as they pushed their muscles on to greater efforts.
“That was good,” Gene declared, after he’d suggested a break, and they’d both slumped down on the soft mat that covered most of the weight room’s floor. The late-afternoon sun streamed in through the closed windows. “Hey—do you want to smoke a joint? I do that after a workout, sometimes. It helps me cool down. It seems to keep me from feeling so sore—so fucked out,” he added bluntly, with a laugh.
“I’m not really into drugs, Gene.”
“It’s only pot, for Christ’s sake! God, you really are a little innocent, aren’t you?”
“I just don’t want to fuck up my body with drugs.”
“All right, all right. I suppose you feel the same way about sex.” Gene had fished a pre-rolled joint out of his gym bag, and lit it.
“I’ve never had sex with anybody,” Fausto admitted.
“That’s all right.” Gene took a drag on the joint, then offered it to Fausto, who took it without hesitation.
They sat on the floor and smoked in silence, grinning at each other as they passed the cigarette back and forth. The ritual of pot-smoking together had instantly removed some barrier between them. Fausto didn’t feel at all embarrassed at having admitted his sexual inexperience, and Gene, far from putting him down, seemed sympathetic. That’s all right, he’d said—as though Fausto’s virginity was no big deal. Fausto was acutely aware of Gene’s physical presence, of their sweat, of his own aching muscles and pleasant sense of fatigue.
“Are you getting a buzz?” Gene inquired.
“I sure am. I don’t smoke all that often,” Fausto admitted, “but I can tell this is damn good stuff.” In fact he had hardly ever smoked at all, but he wasn’t about to let Gene know that. He sucked on the joint with nervous concentration.
“Relax,” his handsome companion urged him. Gene slid across the mat, closer to Fausto, took the last puff from the joint, and crushed it out carefully against a ten-pound barbell plate that was lying on the floor nearby. “Remind me to flush that butt down the toilet when we’re done.” He laughed. “We don’t want to leave any evidence behind.” Then he looked Fausto directly in the face and slowly smiled, his eyes traveling down the other football player’s torso until they rested between his legs, focusing on the lump that Fausto’s jockstrapped cock made inside his tight red gym trunks.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Gene asked.
“How the hell would I know what you’re thinking, unless you tell me? What am I, a mind reader?”
Before Fausto had a chance to react, let alone to stop him, Gene leaned over him, slipped his hand between Fausto’s parted thighs, and lightly rubbed his fingertips over the bulge of his crotch. His fingers suddenly made a tight fist, gripping Fausto’s erection through his trunks and athletic supporter.
“I was thinking how horny I always get after a good, hard workout, and how good it feels to jerk off afterward, before I go take my shower,” Gene purred.
“Oh, knock it off,” Fausto protested. “You’re stoned.”
“No, I’m just horny.”
“Quit fucking around.” But Fausto made no effort to pull away from the other boy.
“I’m horny, man. And so are you. Why don’t you just relax and let me take care of that big stiff prick of yours for you, huh?”
“¡Bicho es! Hell, no! Fuck off!” Fausto gasped—but, a moment later, he gasped again, much more loudly, as the other boy’s hot, sweaty hand slipped underneath one leg of his gym shorts and pushed his jockstrap pouch aside, wrapping itself possessively around his naked cock, bare flesh against bare flesh. “Christ! Let go of my dick, Gene! I mean it,” Fausto warned—but, even to his own ears, his voice didn’t sound nearly as convincing as he’d intended it to!
“Aw, come on,” Gene murmured. “Don’t
be so fucking uptight. We can have ourselves a little fun, can’t we?” As he spoke, his hand moved slowly, warmly, up and down around the stiffening shaft of Fausto’s cock—and the only unsettling part of the experience was how much Fausto liked the way it felt! As often as he’d masturbated himself to orgasm, he had to admit that, in a way, Gene’s hand on his prick felt even better than his own did. He suspected that if he let Gene continue working on him like this, he would shoot off very quickly indeed!
“Don’t,” he protested weakly. “Okay?”
“You sure like to play hard to get,” Gene retorted. “If you don’t like it, you can always punch me out. Or, better yet—you can do it right back to me!” With his free hand, he unfastened the drawstring at the waist of his sweatpants, then pushed them down to his knees. Then he yanked the elastic pouch of his own jockstrap roughly aside. His dick towered up from his lap, long and thick and dark-colored in the bright reflected sunlight that now filled the room. It looked incredibly hard and inflexible!
“Go ahead,” Gene whispered urgently, never taking his hand away from Fausto’s cock or slackening its pace. “Jerk mine while I jerk yours. Get even with me.”
If Gene’s logic was flawed, his manual technique was impeccable. Fausto stared at the other guy’s cock, then swallowed hard. He’d never touched another guy’s dick—and, in spite of himself, he couldn’t help wondering how Gene’s would feel. It certainly felt good to have Gene’s big, calloused fingers on his own meat, stroking it, squeezing it, already beginning to coax the hot cum out of his balls—!
“Go ahead, jerk it for me. Don’t be afraid. I won’t ever tell anybody we did it, if that's what you’re so goddamn worried about.”
Slowly, as though in a dream, Fausto stretched out his brawny arm and reached into Gene’s lap. The quarterback sighed with pleasure as Fausto’s fingers wrapped around his big cock and held it for a long moment—then began to beat it, exactly as Gene was doing with his.
“See? It feels great, doesn’t it?” Gene panted.
Fausto hesitated, then slowly nodded his head. “Yeah!”
“I told you it would. Jesus, especially when your fucking arm muscles are all pumped up from hefting the weights,” Gene groaned. His hand moved faster on Fausto’s cock, and his legs, hobbled from the knees down by his pulled-down sweatpants, were beginning to tense, the thick thigh muscles standing out in high, throbbing relief as he involuntarily flexed them. “Oh, hell, man, I’m getting too goddamn excited,” he muttered, staring into Fausto’s dark eyes as they played with each other’s hot, hard pricks. “Are you almost ready to shoot?”
“Yeah!” Fausto grunted. “Any minute now!”
“Me, too! Come on, you big-dicked fucking P.R. Work my prick while I work yours. Make me come!” The two athletes stared excitedly into each other’s eyes, the thrill of the forbidden spurring them on, as their hands and arms pumped in sync. “Christ, I’m just about there,” Gene gasped exultantly, his muscular torso shuddering as he sucked in deep, desperate breaths. “Squeeze my fucking dick, man, don’t be afraid to hurt me a little—squeeze the motherfucker—crush it! Oh, God, I’m coming! You’re making me come!”
Fausto felt Gene’s cock pulsate wildly inside his fist, and he pulled back slightly as a stream of milky white cum suddenly shot from the tip of Gene’s fuck tool, streaking through the air and splashing across the front of Gene’s torn and sweat-soaked T-shirt. At almost the same instant, Fausto felt his own too-long-delayed climax finally burst free, and he knew that he was pumping out his own thick, slimy jism all over Gene’s strong fist and onto the floor mat between their bodies.
“Holy shit!” Gene exclaimed breathlessly, bursting out into helpless laughter, when at last they’d both stopped coming. “You sure came a lot, didn’t you? Even more than I did—what a fucking mess!”
Dazed, Fausto looked at his own right hand. His fingers were coated with thick strands of the other guy’s sperm! He didn’t even have to look to know that his own depleted prick was in the same soiled condition. He could feel the sticky wetness of his semen gluing the head of his dick against his thigh! Feeling his face turn hot with embarrassment, he too laughed nervously.
He watched, fascinated, while Gene stood up and quite nonchalantly stripped off his soiled T-shirt. Balling it up in his fist, Gene knelt down and wiped the puddles of Fausto’s cum off the floor mat. Then he grinned at Fausto and slapped him on his bare shoulder.
“I told you that if you dropped a load of jism, you’d feel more relaxed,” he teased. When Fausto didn’t respond, Gene looked at him more soberly. “It’s no big deal, is it, man? I mean—you’re not going to freak out on me, just because we traded hand jobs, are you?”
Fausto did his best to imitate the other guy’s breezy attitude toward what they’d just done together. “No,” he said, slowly and thoughtfully. “I guess it was really no big deal.”
“Good!” Straightening up again, Gene reached under Fausto’s sweaty armpits and helped him get to his feet. “You feel like doing a little abdominal work to finish up?”
Fausto was grateful for the way Gene changed the subject. “Yeah, let’s.”
As though nothing out of the ordinary had happened, they stuffed their cocks and balls back inside their jockstraps, then pulled their pants back up, and resumed their workout.
Fausto half-expected Gene to come on to him again while they were in the showers together, so he was almost disappointed when Gene didn’t, but rather busied himself lathering up and rinsing off—as though he was completely unconscious of Fausto’s nude body this time.
“Hey,” Fausto exclaimed, having suddenly remembered something.
“What?”
“You called me a P.R.”
“Huh?”
“Back there, while we were, uh…you know. You called me a big-dicked P.R.”
“Did I?” Gene replied coolly. “I don’t remember. Anyway, you are a big-dicked P.R., aren’t you? I didn’t mean anything by it. What do you Puerto Rican guys call each other?”
“Worse things than that, I suppose,” Fausto admitted.
“What a surprise. So don’t start going all politically correct on me. You can call me a horny queer jerkoff or something, if that’ll make you feel any better.”
His annoyance forgotten, Fausto said, “Maybe I’ll call you a white-bread yuppie WASP.”
Gene snickered. “Oh, yeah, that’s some deadly insult, all right!”
It wasn’t until they were both dried off and dressed, and headed toward the door that Gene suddenly paused, then put his hand on Fausto’s shoulder.
“Hey, Fausto?”
“Yeah?”
“Did you enjoy it? The workout, I mean?”
Gene had a lewd, knowing grin on his handsome face, and Fausto felt the color rising in his own cheeks again as he tried to return Gene’s smile. He nodded his head and answered, hoarsely, “Yeah—yeah, I liked it. I–I didn’t think I would, but I did.” They both knew that it wasn’t the workout with the weights that he was referring to!
“Good.” Gene gave his shoulder a little squeeze. “Listen. I’m starting to put together my own home gym, at my house. I don’t have all the equipment that David’s got here, of course, but I can still put myself through a pretty hard workout. Next time, you can come on over to my place and try it out.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll see you at practice. And…I’ll call you.”
“All right.”
“Forget that crack I made about you being a P.R., okay? I really didn’t mean anything by it. Except that…well, maybe you’ve got a certain look about you because of it. A sexy look,” Gene specified. “We’re buddies, for Christ’s sake. You know I think you’re hot.”
“Do you?”
“Sure. I think Hispanic men are very sexy.”
They went their separate ways, and Fausto spent the rest of the day in somewhat of a daze. Gene’s very last comment to him lingered in his memory. Fausto couldn’t believe, for
one thing, that the other boy could be so casual about admitting that he found certain types of men sexy. Nor could Fausto quite believe, for another thing, that Gene found him attractive.
Fausto sighed. He’d worked out harder than he usually did, and during the evening he began to feel slightly sore. He went to bed early and slept heavily, a deep sleep interrupted only by vague, incoherent dreams in which his cock was hard and strange hands were touching his body—stroking his shoulders, his chest, his dick—!
He thought he saw Gene grinning at him. He could still see the mischievous gleam in the other boy’s blue eyes, could still see the other boy’s full, sensual mouth saying the words, “You know I think you’re hot.”
When he woke up late the next morning, he stretched his body out lazily as he lay on his back under the lightweight covers on his bed. The ache in his arms and legs had faded to a sensation of muscular tautness and responsiveness that was actually rather sensuous and pleasant. Fausto put his hands behind his head, stared up at the ceiling, and thought hard about the events of the previous afternoon.
In the bright morning light, he felt just a little bit ashamed of what he and Gene had done. But, after all, he rationalized, was it really so bad? He had been doing the very same thing—jerking off to orgasm—to himself for years, so it wasn’t as though Gene had corrupted him by introducing him to anything new!
Furthermore, a lot of Fausto’s buddies at school liked to get together and boast about how they’d talked their dates into giving them hand jobs. If your girlfriend wouldn’t actually spread her legs for you and fuck, a hand job was supposedly better than nothing.
No, it was the fact that he and Gene had done it to each other that was bothering him now. They were both guys, and it was supposed to be unnatural for two men to have any kind of sexual contact with each other. Trading hand jobs was queer stuff, technically. And furthermore, it was a sin. It was not for nothing that Fausto had once been an altar boy. And yet, even as he thought about it, Fausto could feel his dick stirring to life under the sheet, as the vivid memory of how good it had felt to have Gene’s hand jerk him off and how exciting it had been to feel the other guy’s cock shoot off returned to his mind.
The Fortunes of Fausto (Siren Publishing Allure ManLove) Page 7
