Gasping, sweating, Fausto completed the insertion with a single forceful, blind thrust. Gene let out a howl and his big body rose from the blanket to meet Fausto’s. His arms and legs locked around Fausto, and the two guys fell back on the sand, already pounding their hips together in the humping motions of fucking. Fausto pulled his prick part of the way back out of his buddy’s asshole, then instinctively pushed it back in, to the balls. Gene yelled incoherently with mingled pain and delight, clawing at Fausto’s back, urging him on. His asshole spasmed deliriously around the bulk of Fausto’s cockshaft as Fausto pushed it in and out of him again.
“That’s right—that’s the way—fuck me, man, go on fucking me just like that,” Gene moaned feverishly. His fingers twisted in Fausto’s wet hair. “Kiss me!” he pleaded. He brought Fausto’s face down to his and their mouths met with bruising pressure, their tongues frantically dueling, their saliva mingling. Fausto’s cock hammered brutally in and out of the other guy’s upturned butt, and, the harder he fucked Gene, the more the other young athlete seemed to get off on it!
Lurid images flashed through Fausto’s brain, of the porno film they’d seen the previous night—of that blond stud, getting his ass reamed out by his costar’s huge, hard prick—of the way the camera had zoomed in for a close-up view of the blond’s sphincter, stretched wide open like a thick fleshy rubber band gripping the shaft of his fucker’s oversized tool. The thought that he was screwing Gene, fucking him, like that, drove him insane with pure, raw lust!
It was too exciting to last long. Within minutes, Fausto was coming. He shoved himself deep into his friend’s guts and helplessly emptied his sperm into the condom, while Gene moaned and shook under him, and Fausto could tell from the contractions of the anus around his dick that Gene, too, was coming—again!
A thick pool of slippery jism oozed its way between their bellies a moment later, proof of Gene’s ejaculation. They were still hugging each other with desperate strength, kissing each other hungrily on the mouth, moaning and gasping for breath, when Fausto’s cock went soft and gradually slipped out of Gene’s asshole.
“Oh, man! Look at us,” Gene said, gleefully. “We’re both covered with cum.”
“We sure are,” Fausto agreed, as he got rid of the condom.
“We’d better go wash up.”
“Let’s not just wash ourselves off in the lake,” Fausto suggested, as they both stood up. “Let’s go swimming naked.”
Gene looked at him, and grinned. “You’re getting awfully bold, all of a sudden.”
“It’s you rubbing off on me. You’re a bad influence.”
“What if somebody comes along and sees us?”
“You weren’t worried about somebody coming along and seeing us fucking,” Fausto pointed out. “So who gives a damn if we get caught swimming bare-assed? Come on, I want to get in the water. I’m all hot and sweaty. I want to cool off.”
He dashed into the water, and, after a moment’s hesitation, Gene followed him. Secretly, Fausto was delighted that, for once, he’d taken the initiative, and had proven himself to be the more daring of the two of them. He grabbed the protesting, struggling Gene and ducked him, then wrestled with him in the refreshingly cold water of the lake.
Chapter Twelve:
Complications
Yeah, Gene always was a fantastic fuck, right from that very first day when we did it out in the open air by the lake! I can’t wait to fuck him again, Fausto thought feverishly, as he stepped out of Gene’s luxurious shower stall and helped himself to a clean towel. And—I want him to fuck me! It’ll be just like the old days, when we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. And—come to think of it—we couldn’t keep our dicks out of each other’s mouth or ass, either!
He dried himself, then went into the master bedroom. He noted, with amusement, that one thing hadn’t changed after all these years. Gene still tended to be untidy, where his personal possessions were concerned. His clothes were strewn all over the place, and even peeped out of half-closed drawers. Fausto found a drawer in which his friend stashed his workout clothes, and he selected a pair of thick white cotton athletic socks, a pair of gray sweatpants, and a bright blue T-shirt. He got dressed in the borrowed items quickly, and went back downstairs.
A spicy scent wafting through the air led him to the kitchen, where he found Gene, wearing only his boxer shorts, at the stove, leaning over a pot and stirring its contents.
Fausto embraced him from behind and kissed him on the back of his neck. “I thought the chef was supposed to be nude?” he teased.
Gene smiled. “Careful,” he said in a low voice. “My son just got home. He’s in the dining room, setting the table.”
“I can’t wait to meet him, Gene. But are we going to put on the ‘just friends’ act in front of him, or what?”
Gene hesitated. “Listen, Fausto. He’s not exactly naïve about such things. He knows that you and I were an item back in college. I’m not sure I’m ready to tell him that we’ve picked up again where we left off. Not just yet, anyway. Remember, I’m still trying to get over the shock of it, myself.”
“I understand.” Fausto decided to change the subject. “I borrowed these clothes. I hope that’s all right?”
“Of course it is. I told you to go ahead and make yourself at home. What’s mine is yours. I’m surprised they fit you, though.”
“I’m not as bulky as I was back in my pro days,” Fausto pointed out.
Gene smiled. “No—now you’re just bulky enough. To suit me, anyway.”
Fausto sniffed, and looked at the pot on the stove top. “What’s cooking?”
“It’s a surprise. And it’s got to simmer for a while. Go introduce yourself, while I jump in the shower and change. I won’t be long—just in case it does turn out to be a little awkward, at first. Which I doubt.”
Gene went upstairs, and Fausto went in search of the dining room, once again impressed by the generous layout of his friend’s house. A rattle of silverware steered him in the right direction. He walked into the dining room—and got the shock of his life!
“Hi, Fausto,” Marc said brightly. “How’d your book signing go?”
“Marc!” Fausto gasped. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I live here, silly.”
“You live here? Gene is…?”
“My Dad.”
“Your what?” Fausto almost choked on the two monosyllables.
“My Dad. As in, you know, my father? Well, my stepfather, actually, if he hasn’t gotten around to telling you that. Wow! You should see the look on your face. You really didn’t know, did you?”
“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me that last night?”
“It didn’t exactly come up in the course of the conversation,” Marc retorted, flippantly. “We were kind of busy talking about—and doing—other stuff, if you recall. Jesus, man—I’d ask you to help me with these plates, but you look as though you’d drop ’em!”
“I can’t believe this!”
“I don’t see what the big deal is,” Marc said, with that same infuriating nonchalance.
“If I’d had any idea who you were, I’d have never…done what we did,” Fausto sputtered.
“Why not?”
“What’s your father going to say when he finds out?”
“Who says he has to find out? Man! You’re really uptight about this whole thing, aren’t you? Okay, maybe I should’ve come clean, in your hotel room last night, before we actually did anything. For a moment, there, I thought the game was up—you know, when you wanted to see my driver’s license? I was wondering if I could put my thumb over my last name to cover it up, when I showed it to you. I don’t use my real father’s last name, you see. I go by ‘Marc Boudreau.’ But then, when you changed your mind and you didn’t want to see it after all, I figured I might as well just go with the flow.”
“Go with the flow! What a way to put it! Tell me—does your father know you’re gay?”
Marc shru
gged. “I think he suspects. We’ve never come right out and talked about it—about me, I mean. Of course he’s told me all about his fucking around with other men.” He looked at Fausto, slyly. “Present company included, I suppose it’s safe to assume? So—I come home, a minute ago, and I find my old man bare-assed naked in the kitchen with a big smile on his face, and I can hear the shower running upstairs. ‘Oh my God,’ I tell myself, ‘he’s actually brought a trick here, for a change! All right, Dad! Good for you. You go for it!’ Then, when he sees me, he gets all flustered, grabs his shorts and puts them on, and starts telling me all about his dear old college buddy, the famous football player, who just happens to be in town and whom he just happened to run into this afternoon, and whom he invited here for ‘dinner.’ Yeah, dinner, my ass! But I play along and tell him, ‘Gee, Dad, I can’t wait to meet Mr. Mardones-Gil—especially after all the things you’ve told me about him! I just hope that Mr. Mardones-Gil likes me!’” Marc exploded into whoops of laughter at Fausto’s expense. “Oh, there’s that same look on your face, man—and it’s priceless!”
Fausto’s mind was still reeling from the revelation that Marc, the hot-assed young waiter, was Gene’s son. You fucked him! he screamed silently at himself, aghast. You fucked Gene’s son up the ass last night! More than once, as a matter of fact!
Marc was scrutinizing him. “You’re not really going to faint or anything, are you?”
Fausto groaned. “Maybe I’d better sit down.”
“Pull yourself together and play along, for Christ’s sake,” Marc whispered, suddenly looking serious. “I can hear Dad coming downstairs. Put your game face on, big guy.”
A moment later, Gene strolled into the dining room, freshly showered and wearing casual clothes.
“Well, you two seem to have hit it off, judging by all the laughing I just heard,” Gene remarked.
“Mr. Mardones-Gil is a lot of fun,” Marc said, impishly.
Fausto forced his facial expression into the contours of a bland smile. “Now, Marc, I thought we’d agreed that you were going to call me Fausto.” He felt like an actor reciting a line in a play—and doing it badly.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” Gene announced. “Why don’t you light the candles and put them on the table, Marc? It’s not every night that we have such a distinguished dinner guest. We may as well go all out, and show Fausto we know how to entertain in style.”
“I’m kind of informally dressed,” Fausto pointed out.
“Oh, that’s okay,” Gene said. “We aren’t that fussy about such things here—as you can probably imagine, with two guys living here alone. We tend to fall into careless bachelor habits.”
“Yeah,” Marc agreed. “In fact, most of the time, the whole second floor of the house is a clothing-optional zone.”
“Marc! It is no such thing!” Gene protested. “You’re going to give Fausto the wrong idea about what goes on here.”
“Or the right idea,” Marc quipped.
During the meal, Fausto took his cue from Marc, who kept the conversation going and behaved as though he and Fausto had never previously met. They talked about Gene’s business, about Marc’s school work and his job at the restaurant, and about Fausto’s retirement plans and burgeoning acting career. Fausto had to admit that the boy’s poise and sophistication impressed him. Gene, relaxed and smiling, leaned back in his chair and observed them both, obviously proud of his son’s skill at playing host.
When Marc got up to clear the table, and leaned over to pick up his father’s plate, Gene put his hand on the back of the boy’s neck, pulled his head down toward his, and kissed him on the cheek.
“Dad!” Marc protested, reddening. “I’m too old for you to kiss me in front of other guys!”
“I hope you’ll never be too old for that,” Gene replied.
Fausto felt a surge of envy—and shame—as he watched the chaste intimacy between father and son.
“I’ll do the dishes,” Marc volunteered. “I’m sure you and Fausto have a lot to talk about.” There was a devilish twinkle in the boy’s eyes.
“Oh, we have plenty of time,” Gene said. “All night, in fact. You are going to spend the night here, aren’t you, Fausto? It’s still raining outside, and it’d be silly for you to go back to your hotel.”
“I have to fly out of here in the morning. Another city, another bookstore.”
“I’ll take you back to your hotel first thing in the morning, you can check out, and then I’ll drive you to the airport. We’ll have that much more time—to talk,” Gene said, smoothly. Now it was his turn to give Fausto a conspiratorial look. “You can sleep in the guest room. We’ve got everything here that you might need for the night.”
“The guest room?" Marc snickered. “What’s all this song and dance about the guest room? Jesus, Dad, I’m not a kid anymore! If you and Fausto want to sleep together, just say so! You don’t have to pretend the two of you are straight in front of me!”
Now it was Gene’s turn to look embarrassed—and tongue-tied, which was unusual for him.
Fausto decided to call the kid’s bluff. “All right, Marc,” he said matter-of-factly. “Your father and I want to sleep together tonight. What do you have to say about that?”
“I say I won’t bother to make up the bed in the guest room, then,” Marc replied, smirking. “One less chore.”
While Marc busied himself in the kitchen, Gene and Fausto retreated to the privacy of the study. It took Gene a moment to recover his ability to speak.
“Do you believe that kid of mine?” Gene asked. “What a mouth!”
“Yeah, I wonder who he got that from? Seriously, though—I think he’s great. But, Gene—exactly what have you told Marc about us?”
“Everything, I guess, although gradually, in bits and pieces. At first, when your career was just starting to take off, I only told him that we were friends and teammates back in college. Then, after you came out, I told him we’d been more than friends. By then I’d already given Marc the big ‘son, your father is gay’ speech. He put two and two together and started asking me questions about you and me. I didn’t lie to him, although I didn’t go into pornographic detail, either.”
“Gene—has it ever occurred to you that Marc could be—gay, too?”
Gene glanced sharply at him. “It’s odd that you should pick up on that. I know for a fact that he’s—experimented.” Gene sighed. “I know it’s just a coincidence. I mean, just because his stepfather’s gay doesn’t mean that Marc will turn out the same way. But I can’t help wondering if my being so open about it, at least since his mother died, has made him more open-minded about it, and maybe even encouraged him to—to experiment, as I said.
“You see,” Gene went on, “a month or so ago, Marc asked me if this buddy of his could come over here and spend the night. In the famous guest room, of course. I could tell that this kid had a crush on Marc, just by looking at the two of them, the way they interacted—you know? It reminded me of you and me, back then. I thought it was harmless. Even kind of cute.
“Anyway, after we’d all gone to bed, I remembered that I hadn’t set the alarm system. I went to set it, and when I came back upstairs, I passed Marc’s bedroom—and I could hear them doing it through the closed door. Marc’s buddy was begging Marc to fuck him harder, and Marc was telling him to keep his voice down so they wouldn’t wake me up. I have to admit it was a bit of a shock. In the morning, Marc was up and about first thing, doing a load of laundry. He was washing the sheets from his bed, so I wouldn’t notice the cum stains. And, of course, the bed in the guest room hadn’t been slept in—at all.” Gene laughed ruefully.
“Maybe Marc’s not as comfortable with this whole gay thing as he pretends to be, for my sake. And I have to admit it—the first thing I did, when neither of them was looking, was hunt through the waste baskets, in Marc’s room and in his bathroom, until I found the condom wrappers. They’d used three of them, for Christ’s sake. He must’ve fucked his buddy’s ass unt
il the poor guy couldn’t sit down. Assuming they didn’t take turns. Either way, they must have been at it, on and off, all night long. But all I could think was, ‘Thank God they used rubbers!’ You see, at that point I still couldn’t bring myself actually to sit down with my son and tell him, ‘I do hope you’re practicing safe sex with these boyfriends of yours?’” Gene sighed and shook his head.
“Maybe it’s just a phase he’s going through,” Fausto suggested. But then, Some phase! he thought, as he remembered he and Marc thrashing about on the bed naked, in his hotel room. Hell, three-rubber fuck marathons seemed to be the kid’s specialty!
“It wasn’t just a phase for us. For either of us. Was it?”
“I guess not. Not for me, certainly.”
“Not for me either, in the long run, Fausto.”
“But you had a certain diversion along the way,” Fausto said. “Tell me about your marriage.”
“I loved my wife. It had nothing to do with male or female, or gay versus straight. We suited one another. We were best friends, and partners. It wasn’t completely devoid of romance. I loved raising Marc. Our having custody of him was one of the best things that’s ever happened to me. But, the whole time, I still needed—well, just to be with a man, sometimes.” Gene paused. “Now it’s your turn. Tell me about this guy you had the long-term relationship with. The details in your book are a little sketchy.”
“Deliberately so. I wanted to protect his identity. We were together for almost ten years. That’s a pretty good run, by some standards. A lot of marriages don’t last that long. We ‘parted amicably,’ as they say. People do change. We ended up wanting different things out of life.”
Gene was looking at him intently. “And you, Fausto? What do you want out of life for yourself, now?”
Before Fausto could answer, Marc knocked discreetly on the study door, before opening it and entering. “I’m going to go to bed, Dad.” He kissed his father goodnight, and then he and Fausto shook hands with macho formality, although the sly look on Marc‘s face gave the lie to the gesture. What a farce! Fausto thought.
The Fortunes of Fausto (Siren Publishing Allure ManLove) Page 15
