Date: Thu, 20 Nov 2014 11:06:34 -0800 From: Macout Mann Subject: Sam Caldwell's Further Adventures 6 This story contains explicit sexual activity between men. Please read no further if you are offended by such or if you are a minor. Any resemblance to actual persons or activities depicted is purely coincidental, but actual places and events are mentioned to add a sense of reality to the story. Please also donate to nifty.org to keep stories like this one coming to you free of charge. And please let me know your reaction to the story. It means a lot to hear from readers. Write me at macoutmann@yahoo.com. SAM CALDWELL'S FURTHER ADVENTURES by Macout Mann Chapter 6 Aris Back in Atlanta, one of the messages on Sam's answering machine is from a Marios Kanteres. The message says that the caller wants to discuss having Sam do a portrait of his son. The prefix on the callback number indicates that the caller probably also lives in Buckhead. Sam checks the phonebook and Kanteres does have a published number, and sure enough he lives on West Paces Ferry Road, where the lots are five acres or more and the smallest houses are more than five thousand square feet. Sam smells money, and returns the call. "This is the Kanteres residence," a mature male voice answers. "This is Sam Caldwell," Sam says. "I'm returning Mr. Kanteres' call." "Mr. Marios or Mr. Aris?" the voice inquires. "Marios." "I will inform him that you have called. If he in fact did call you, you may expect him to call back shortly." The line goes dead. To say Sam is frosted is to put it mildly, and when the phone rings five minutes later he suspects it will be Kanteres. "This is the Caldwell residence," he says. "Marios Kanteres," a thickly accented voice responds. "Yes," Sam says. "This is Mr. Caldwell?" "It is. Please state your business." "I sense you were annoyed by my servant, Mr. Caldwell. I apologize. Please understand that I get many, many unwanted calls. We have devised this method to avoid them. Sometimes Benjamin is less than polite. Again, please accept my apology." The explanation does little to soothe Sam's feelings. "You wanted to talk about a portrait of your son, I believe. You should know that I seldom do portraits." "But the ones that you do do are very fine," Kanteres responds. "As you know Atlanta is hosting the Olympics in 1996. That's four years away, but my son, Aris, is sure to be representing the United States in discus. I want a life-sized picture of him in action with his discus." "You realize that you're talking about ten-thousand dollars at least," Sam said. "Money is no object," Kanteres says. "So you want him in uniform ready to hurl the discus with a crowded stadium in the background?" "Oh no!" Kanteres becomes very animated. "We are Greek. I want him posed as if he were in the ancient games." "You mean you want him in a classical setting in the nude?" Sam was incredulous. "Precisely. That is the way the ancients competed." Sam waited several seconds before responding. "I would like to meet with your son and see if I feel that I can do him justice," he said. Kanteres agrees, and an appointment is made for Aris meet Sam at the Habersham. "Mr. Caldwell?" It was the doorman. "Yes." "A Mr. Kanteres says he's expected." "Please send him up." When Sam opened his door, he was overwhelmed. Standing in the hall was Adonis. Over six feet tall, black hair, deep sparkling eyes, olive complexion, bright smile. Dressed in a Mediterranean Blue polo that clings to his beautifully developed chest and impeccably tailored black designer jeans. Sam can't believe what he is seeing. The vision before him is about five years younger that he is and also carries a discus. "Hi, guy," Aris says. He extends his hand and Sam grabs it firmly. "I was expecting somebody with an accent," Sam grins. "Oh, I'm an all-American-boy," Aris laughs. "Mom and Dad were born in Greece, and Dad does milk his accent. Thinks it helps him in his import-export business." Sam leads Aris into his apartment and says, "So you want to be painted, do you?" "Not as bad as my dad wants me to be," Aris continues to laugh. "He says you want to check me out or something." "I just want to see what yall have in mind. You mind stripping for me?" "I thought you'd never ask," Aris smirks. He makes short work of it. Besides his Adidas the polo and jeans are the only garments he has on. "God, you've got a beautiful bod," Sam says. "I try to stay in shape. I can see you do too." "Can you show me the poses yall are thinking about?" Sam asks. "Sure thing." Aris grabs his discus and demonstrates how he prepares to throw it. In the process his dick stiffens as well. "So are you wanting to paint me hard or soft?" he giggles. "It's your dad's nickel. I guess he gets to say." "Oh, he'd say the ancients weren't nearly as hung up about erections as we are these days." "Let me make a few sketches," Sam says, picking up his pad for the first time. It isn't something he needs to do; but when he encounters a new subject, Sam always likes to see how comfortable he is in transferring to paper or canvas what he is seeing in the flesh. He draws Aris' beautiful form from several angles, while his dick responds to what he is admiring. When Sam lays his pad aside, his dick is clearly straining against his jeans. Aris wastes no time. Through the fabric of Sam's jeans, he cups the hard tool in his huge palm. "Seems like you are as interested in me as I am in you," Aris says. "Not always a good idea to mix business and pleasure," Sam replies. "Not always any reason not to," Aris grins. Sam can't resist touching Aris' gorgeous chest. Aris answers by slipping Sam's t shirt over his head and unleashing his jewels from their denim prison. "Dad had you investigated," Aris says. "We were ninety-nine percent sure you were gay. But we had no idea you were so well endowed." Aris again does not waste time. He falls to his knees and tastes Sam's sausage. It's like he's a starving refugee. Sam rewards with him with ample protein. Aris doesn't ask Sam to reciprocate and Sam is glad. He would go down on Aris--and sure as hell he will--but he doesn't like tit for tat. Instead, with both of them still naked, he says, "Pleasure done, back to business. "We'll need to paint you out of doors to get the hues and the shadows right. That means it has to be done while the weather's good, since you'll be bare assed." "There's a place we can do it out behind our house," Aris suggests. "And there's a nice bower right there for other things," he leers. "Well I'm pretty free right now," Sam tells him. "Have your dad give me a call and we'll work out the details." They both get dressed and Sam asks where Aris parked. "I let your doorman have my car," Aris says. "Then I'd better go down with you. Otherwise you're sure to get ripped off." When they reach the lobby, Sam tells the doorman to put Mr. Kanteres' parking fee on his tab. As he gets in the car, Aris still slips the doorman a twenty, saying that he expects to be back often. As Sam turns back to the elevator he encounters Merritt. "Who was that hunk?" Merritt drools. "A soon-to-be subject of a Caldwell portrait," Sam leers obscenely. "I gotta have a piece of that," Merritt says. "We'll see." Aris' father is quick to call. Sam says that normally he'd have his agent handle the details, but that he needs to get to work as soon as possible. After assuring Kanteres that the agent will still get her full commission, he offers to do the job for twelve thousand, six payable in advance, the remainder when the picture is delivered. He says that he is sure there will have to be some further negotiation over the background after he has painted Aris' figure, hence the higher fee. Kanteres agrees. Sam also brings up the question of whether Aris should be painted hard or soft. "For modern sensibilities, soft would be better," Aris' father answers. "Of course you may have to guess what he looks like soft," he laughingly adds. Actually, although Sam just hustles for fun these days, from what he has heard, he suspects that before it's all over, Marios Kanteres' dick will be shoved up his ass more than once. Hence the extra cash. On a Tuesday afternoon in August, Sam arrives at the Kanteres' home, just a few doors down from the Georgia Governors' Mansion. He is greeted by Mrs. Kanteres, who has as heavy an accent as her husband. She leads him to a wide lawn behind the house. It is ideal for posing Aris. Not particularly private, but at least it can't be seen from the road. And nearby there is a secluded bower of grape vines just like Aris had said. Sam scopes out the position of the afternoon sun and he is setting up his easel to take best advantage of the light, when Aris appears. He is wearing a short robe and nothing else. He quickly strips, and reveals that his oil-coated body is glistening, another ancient touch. They decide that he will pose as though he is on the point of releasing the discus. To maintain that position will be very stressful, so they also decide to `play by ear' how long the sessions will last. Aris is confident he can pose for an hour at a time, but after forty-five minutes he calls a halt. They then decide the plan on forty-five minute sessions each Tuesday and Thursday. Sam says that it might take six `sittings.' Aris, still naked, leads Sam into the privacy of the grape arbor, where Sam is surprised to see a blanket spread on the grass, a bottle of Ouzo, the traditional Greek liqueur, glasses, and a cutting board containing feta cheese and Greek olives. "Thought we could use some refreshment after the `sitting,'" Aris says. Sam has known what to expect, so he has worn only a sleeveless t shirt and shorts, which Aris peels off in short order. Aris' dick did remain flaccid during the session, but now it is totally rigid. "You've got such a nice bod," he tells Sam. They lay back on the blanket, munch the goodies, sip the Ouzo, and discuss how the `sitting' went. Sam is the first to move to the real purpose of their tete-a-tete. His hand cups one of Aris' pecs and gently squeezes. "You are one beautiful motherfucker," he declares. "I'm so glad you like guys." His hands wander over Aris' body, then his lips and tongue trace the path his fingers have followed. He nibbles the treasure trail that crosses Aris' gut, and then kisses the knob at the end of his flagpole. "Taste me, baby," Aris says. No sooner said than done. "I forgot to bring any lube," Aris pants. "I want you in my ass." "All in good time," Sam gurgles. Sam finishes the third "sitting" with Aris the following Tuesday. The Olympian has found that twisting around on tiptoe with a two pound disc in an outstretched arm is more tiring that he first thought it would be. So the sessions have been reduced to a half hour. Still Sam is making great progress, and their bouts in the bower are all that either can ask for. Lube has been provided and both asses have been filled with life-giving cream. Soon after Sam gets home the phone rings. It is Win. "Hey Buddy, how is my favorite `nephew?'" "Well, I'm here," Win answers. "Reporting as ordered." "Let's get together tomorrow for dinner," Sam suggests. "I'll pick you up at your dorm."