The Fortunes of Fausto (Siren Publishing Allure ManLove)

by Roland Graeme

  When they were once again alone together, he and Gene talked about other things, until Fausto caught himself stifling a yawn.

  “Come on.” Gene stood up, smiling. “You’ve had a long day, and you must be worn out. I’ll put you to bed.”

  Fausto followed Gene as he made the rounds of the ground floor of the house, turning out the lights and setting the alarm, and then the two men also went upstairs.

  “I feel a little awkward,” Gene admitted, when they were in his bedroom together. “You’re the first man I’ve had in here in a long while, at least overnight. We usually go to the other guy’s place. The exceptions have been when Marc was spending the night at one of his buddies’ place. Then I could risk entertaining company overnight.”

  “I feel honored. But I can always go sleep in the guest room, after all.”

  “Don’t you dare! I couldn’t stand it—lying here alone all night, knowing you were right down the hall. What do you think I’m made of, iron?” Gene smiled. “Let’s get undressed.”

  They made love on the broad bed, with a dim light on in the room, and the rain still rattling against the windowpanes. It was an oddly schizophrenic session. At first, they were very tender with each other, kissing and cuddling, exploring each other’s bodies with their hands. Before long, however, their mutual lust got the better of them, and their aching erections demanded relief.

  Fausto took Gene’s cock in his hand and began to manipulate it slowly, stroking the full length of it with his fist. Gene closed his eyes, breathing deeply, his cock throbbing inside Fausto’s grip, his deep breaths quickly escalating first to sighs of pleasure, and then to low, erotic moans.

  “I have to have you, Gene,” Fausto insisted.

  “You’ve got me, buddy. All of me!”

  “I mean, up my ass. I want you to fuck me!”

  Gene sucked in his breath in a desperate-sounding rasp. “Oh, Jesus! Just the thought is getting me hot—keep playing with my dick, man.”

  Fausto did so. It jerked in his hand, and swelled out even larger, pulsating as the hot blood of excited lust pumped steadily through it to engorge the erectile tissues. Gene still had his eyes closed as he stretched out his arm, the one encircled by the Celtic tattoo, and fumbled in the top drawer of the nightstand. He pulled out a tube of lubricant and a box of rubbers.

  “Get one of these things on me quick, if you want to get fucked so bad!”

  Fausto put the condom on Gene’s cock, getting more and more turned on by the thought that the latex-sheathed hard-on would soon be filling his ass. Quickly, Fausto took the tube from Gene and lubricated his ass with a thorough swipe of the gel. Then, feeling whorishly brazen tonight, he turned around and positioned himself on his hands and knees on the bed, silently offering his butt to the other man.

  Gene was in no mood to wait, either. When he opened his eyes and sat up, the sight of Fausto’s ass—the smooth, flawless buttocks, the deep cleft between them spread wide open for his cock—made him too hot for sex to want to fool around any longer. He reached out and caressed both ass cheeks with his hands, separating the buns even more obscenely wide, so that he could inspect the manhole tucked away deep between them. It looked improbably tight and virginal, despite Gene’s awareness that Fausto liked to get fucked as much as he enjoyed doing the screwing himself.

  “Get ready, big man—here it comes!” Gene warned. Kneeling behind Fausto, he pressed forward on the buttocks and pushed the Hispanic stud’s ass down into the proper angle for insertion. Gene eased his mushrooming cockhead against the puckered hole, and pierced it easily. Both men groaned with delight at the incredibly erotic sensation of Gene’s dick sinking into Fausto’s asshole, inch by thick, throbbing inch. Gene could feel the wavelike undulations of the other guy’s rectum as its muscles sucked his cock in and held it.

  “Like a dog, cabrón,” Fausto panted, leaning forward until his palms rested on the upper edge of the headboard of the bed and his butt was thrust back into his fucker’s groin. “Oh, Gene, fuck me like a goddamn dog!”

  “Take it!” his fucker growled. He watched his cock go into Fausto’s ass, watched every movement Fausto made as it entered him—the way he gnawed on his lower lip, the way his arms tensed, stretched out tautly to press against the headboard and steady himself, the way his back’s muscles seemed to tighten up and ripple in response to the steady penetration, and especially the way his beautiful butch ass lifted itself so urgently to suck in Gene’s cock, to take it all, balls deep.

  The long, thick cockshaft glided in, and Gene felt the soft, dark hairs lining Fausto’s ass crack rub against his nuts. He began to thrust from his kneeling position, fucking his buddy with long, slow, even strokes. Every new humping motion he made sent Fausto’s sturdy body rocking back and forth, so that the mattress shook beneath the two men’s combined weight!

  Fausto had a sudden, horny fantasy—that this time, it could be Marc who was outside the door, listening. The thought made his asshole tighten up and throb even more hotly around his fucker’s cock!

  “This is wild,” Gene commented breathlessly.

  “You said it! Fuck me, man! Either your cock’s gotten bigger, or it seems to be going into me deeper than I remember it ever going before, back in the old days—and I love it!” Fausto exulted. “I absolutely fucking love it, Gene!”

  Supporting himself by spreading his hands out over Fausto’s jerking hips, his fingers splayed, Gene gradually leaned forward over Fausto’s back, lowering his weight onto it. Fausto accepted his weight with a groan of pleasure, and twisted his torso around and his head up and back, so that Gene could kiss him, their lips meeting and their tongues embracing inside their open, panting, slavering mouths as they fucked.

  Gene’s chest was pressed firmly against Fausto’s back. His arm slid under Fausto’s body, and his fingers gathered up the other guy’s scrotum and held it firmly in the heat of his palm, squeezing it slowly, in the same rhythm with which his prick was reaming out the football player’s exceptionally hot, responsive asshole.

  Fausto moaned more loudly when Gene squeezed his balls!

  “Jesus, you’ve got a sweet ass,” Gene whispered wetly into Fausto’s ear. “I’d almost forgotten what a hot fuck you were!”

  “Then you’d better refresh your memory, stud. Fuck me, Gene. Just fuck me! Use my asshole and fuck it all goddamn night if you want to!”

  Fausto began to take a more active role in their sex act, thrusting his hips backward with each withdrawal of Gene’s cock, demanding that the other man's big prick be reinserted to the hilt without delay. Gene felt the big man's ass squirming around his shaft like a handful of hot, vibrating jelly.

  Suddenly, Gene growled, “God damn it! I want to watch you, see your face, while we do it! I want to kiss you while we’re fucking, and I want to watch you come! Turn around!”

  He pulled his quivering dick out of the pouting ass pucker and pushed Fausto down on the bed, rolling him over onto his back. He lifted Fausto’s legs and brought them up around his own waist as he knelt between them. His cock found the guy’s asshole again and plunged deep into it, as Fausto’s legs locked around him and Fausto reached for Gene’s head, his eyes pleading for Gene to come down on top of him.

  Gene did so, kissing Fausto hard on the mouth, feeling their hearts beating against each other through their chests, feeling Fausto’s rigid staff pulsating wildly against his stomach.

  His tongue went inside Fausto’s mouth and tasted the nectar of his saliva. He began to thrust quite brutally now, trying to make himself come, wanting it to happen quickly now, and knowing that Fausto would only appreciate the rough fuck. A storm raged in Gene’s balls, torturing them. His body surrendered to the steady onslaught of his lust. His cock thrust itself deeply into Fausto’s ass and refused to be withdrawn this time, as it spasmed and began to unload inside the tight clasp of the condom. Gene flexed his own buttocks, grinding himself down into Fausto’s butt as the hot sperm gushed up within his prick and floode
d the rubber.

  Fausto seized Gene’s face in his hands and pressed their lips even harder together, bruising them, forcing Gene’s open and then prodding with his tongue for the succulence of the inside of his fucker’s mouth. He, too, was coming, and his wet semen turned the space between their bellies and chests slippery as they writhed against each other in the throes of their violent orgasms. A final torrent of jism left both men’s pricks, which spasmed, then gradually sagged—two lengths of pumping, still excited, but increasingly inert flesh.

  For what seemed like a long time, they lay together on the bed, with Gene’s cock throbbing within Fausto’s ass—both men listening to their own and each other’s labored breathing. They kissed with their tongues, warmly and deeply, and Gene rubbed his belly against Fausto’s cock—not trying for another orgasm so soon, but simply to maintain that sensual heat between their bodies, the feeling that even though they’d both climaxed, nothing was in fact over, but was just beginning for them.

  Chapter Thirteen:

  A Camping Trip

  After cleaning up, Gene and Fausto crawled back into bed together. Gene groped about underneath the covers until he found Fausto’s hand, which he clasped tightly.

  “That was fantastic,” Gene said. “The best sex I’ve had in a long, long time. Not that it was just sex. It was a lot more than that, if you know what I mean.”

  “I know exactly what you mean. I’m so glad we finally got together again, like this.”

  “Me, too. If only it hadn’t taken so long.”

  “Why’d we ever split up, Gene?”

  “We never exactly split up, Fausto. We were just a couple of dumb, horny kids, back then. Guys who are still in college—hell, no one really knows what he wants, at that age. We graduated. You got your first pro football contract, and you went off to start your career, and I went off to my first job, halfway across the country.”

  “I guess I took it for granted we’d stay in touch, though, and get back together again, before very long.”

  “I thought so, too. But they took you away from me.”

  “They? Who’s ‘they’? Who took me away?”

  “Everybody.” Gene suddenly sounded serious, even sad. “The football coaches, the other players, the fans, the commentators—all of a sudden, you weren’t the guy I’d known back in school any more. You were a big football star. You didn’t belong just to our hometown anymore, let alone to me. I felt as though I didn’t have any claim on you, somehow. Oh, not that you changed as a person, in the sense that you became stuck-up or full of yourself. Nothing like that. I remember seeing you being interviewed on television. You were always so modest and down-to-earth, which is one of the things the fans really liked about you. But I remember thinking, watching you, ‘He hasn’t really changed, has he? Deep down inside, he’s the same old Fausto, the guy I knew. Kind of shy. Kind of insecure, even. As though he thinks he doesn’t really deserve all this, even though God knows he’s earned it. It’s almost as though he’s afraid it’s going to be taken away from him, any minute.’ That’s what I used to say to myself, Fausto, every time I saw you on TV like that.”

  “You were right, I think. You know me better than I know myself. Maybe you always have.”

  Gene slipped his arm under Fausto’s neck and hugged him close, letting Fausto pillow his head on his chest. Gene kissed him on the cheek and ruffled his hair.

  “That’s enough philosophical talk for one night. Go to sleep,” Gene whispered. “But no, wait. Give me a kiss, first.” This time the kiss was lips against lips, brushing together and lingering in the darkness.

  During the night, as he slept in Gene’s bed, in Gene’s arms, Fausto dreamed.

  He dreamed, first of all, about his breakup with his long-term lover, the one he’d had the almost decade-long relationship with, the man he’d told Gene about.

  Once they’d agreed—“amicably,” as Fausto had mentioned to Gene—to go their separate ways, Fausto had been at loose ends for some time. No doubt like many men who found themselves in such a situation, he went through a phase of whorish promiscuity, deciding he might as well get himself back in circulation, and take advantage of the fact that he was single again. Becoming a more active player in the Los Angeles gay scene in fact helped him decide to come out, officially. Now that he was no longer involved in a serious one-on-one relationship, it seemed foolish to remain in the closet.

  He confided in Brent South, with whom he’d become good friends. Brent seemed to have impeccable heterosexual credentials. His name was constantly being linked with those of a succession of actresses, models, and glamorous socialites. But there was nothing remotely homophobic about Brent—rather, the opposite—and he fully supported Fausto’s decision to become more open about his sexuality.

  In his limited leisure time, Brent was an easygoing type, who enjoyed outdoor activities.

  “These women are driving me crazy,” he told Fausto, bluntly, on one occasion. “I’m going on a camping trip this weekend, just to get the hell away from them for a little while. Hey—how’d you like to come along?”

  “God, I haven’t gone camping in years,” Fausto admitted. “I’d love to, but I really don’t have any equipment.”

  “You don’t need any. I’ve already got everything we could possibly need. All you’d need to bring along is your personal items—and the right kind of clothes, of course. A decent pair of hiking boots, and so forth. You don’t mind roughing it a bit, do you?”

  “No,” Fausto said, with a laugh. “I haven’t gone that ‘Hollywood’ yet!”

  Brent grinned. “Neither have I, I hope.”

  As far as Fausto was concerned, the camping trip was a great success. It felt wonderful to get away from the city, and be out in the open air, alone with Brent. The other actor was indeed an experienced outdoorsman, who packed lightly but efficiently. Arriving at the campsite early in the morning, they set up their tent, then spent the rest of the day hiking and swimming. They ate lunch out of their backpacks, but as the sun set they returned to the tent and built a fire, over which they cooked their evening meal.

  The tent was small, just big enough for two men, and Fausto noticed that, instead of bringing along two sleeping bags—which was what he’d anticipated—Brent had packed only one. It was a large double bag, which he’d spread open over the ground cloth inside the tent. It looked warm and inviting, but it also implied a considerable degree of physical intimacy.

  “Ah—Brent?”

  “Yeah, Fausto?”

  “I’d sort of assumed we’d have separate sleeping bags.”

  “That one’s plenty big enough for two guys, with room to spare.” Brent looked at him. “What’s the matter? You don’t want to bunk down with me?” he teased. “I’m not your type?”

  “You’re the one I’m thinking about. Maybe you won’t be comfortable, ah, you know—”

  “What, sleeping with a gay guy?”

  “That’s it.”

  “I sleep with guys on these camping trips all the time. It can get a little chilly out here, at night. Having a little extra body heat nearby doesn’t hurt.”

  Fausto pretended to be casual about the whole thing. “Well, if you don’t mind, I don’t, either.”

  “Good. That’s settled, then. Come on, this grub’s ready. Let’s eat.”

  They ate greedily and in silence, their hunger the inevitable result of a day devoted to physical activity. As Brent set the coffee pot on the fire, Fausto found himself still preoccupied by the prospect of spending the night next to Brent, in that small tent, and in that sleeping bag. He was looking forward to it, if only because he liked Brent so much. A certain degree of physical intimacy almost seemed like an inevitable development, given their growing friendship. But, as he cast furtive glances at the handsome actor’s face, and at the way his muscular torso filled out his T-shirt, Fausto couldn’t help experiencing a slight surge of sexual excitement. What if he sprang a hard-on during the night, and Brent noticed it?
Would Brent think he was going to make a pass at him? Rather more pertinently—would Fausto consider making a pass at Brent, given the slightest hint of encouragement? Fausto wasn’t sure he had the willpower to resist the other man’s considerable physical charms.

  “Did you have enough to eat?” Brent asked, as he poured coffee into both of their lightweight metal mugs.

  “Plenty, thanks.”

  “You’re a big guy, Fausto. You must take a lot of filling up.”

  “I’ve been trying to keep my weight down a little, so I look good in those ridiculous space suits we have to wear, most of the time, in the show.”

  “You look fine in them. You look pretty good out of them, too, as a matter of fact. How many times did you have to take your shirt off last season, anyway?”

  “I lost count. Not as often as you, though—I know that for a fact. Is it written into your contract that you have to strip down and flex at least once in every episode?”

  Brent laughed. “It’s called keeping the audience happy. A lot of gay guys watch the show, you know. The producers aren’t fools. They know we’re not exactly doing Shakespeare. They’re happy to pimp us out as prime-time pinup boys, to keep the ratings up.”

  “Does it ever bother you, Brent, knowing that—ah—there are gay men out there, thinking about you as a sex object?”

  “It doesn’t bother me at all, as long as they watch the show, and I get my paycheck. My bank account doesn’t have a sexual orientation—and it has no shame.” Brent poured himself another cup of the steaming hot coffee, and gazed into the crackling fire. “Can I tell you something, Fausto? Now that I’ve got you out here with me in the middle of nowhere as my captive audience, so to speak?”

  “Sure. You can tell me anything.”

  “Fausto, you’ve been very honest with me. About your being gay. You know it doesn’t matter a damn bit to me.”

  “I do know that, Brent, and I’m really grateful to you for it.”

  “Well, maybe it’s time I started being a little more honest with you. I’m bi.”