An Uncommonly Good Man 19

The Journal of Julian Corsair,

An Uncommonly Good Man

Julian Corsair – Chapter Nineteen– "You cannot teach a crab to walk straight." – (Aristophanes)

Stretching, twisting my body in order to work the kinks out of it (as if Pauley hadn't already straightened out part of me internally before we slept) I then snugged up against my still-sleeping lover, admiring his peaceful, relaxed, and just fucking gorgeous body illuminated in the half-light of the emerging morning sun! Lifting the covers, letting my eyes drift down his hairless chest to his lower abdomen where a sparse, but nice dark-haired treasure trail led to his black, curly, soft bush, surrounding the base of his almost seven inch penis, standing tall, almost straight up, curving nicely toward his belly, not unlike a military sentimental at his post, alert, and ready to fire on any intruder.

"Are you just going to stare at it or give it a bit of "ah toot" to herald the morning?" Pauley softly sighed, reaching up to stroke the back of my head. I kissed him and lowered myself to first nibble, then sink my lips and mouth over his lovely phallus. Turning, presenting myself to him, twitching my ready trumpet against his sweet lips, we began blowing a merry tune finalizing in a crescendo of triumphant notes; not quite Reveille, but close enough!

We shared our cum-soaked lips, luxuriating in each other's arms until I reluctantly pulled away from his warmth and comfort. "Have to get going, my man," I announced. "Your brother Gareth and his family will be here today through the weekend and it's going to get busy around here. Your Mom and Dad, Hugh and his family, and Emily and her family will be here Friday afternoon and evening for swimming and a potluck supper, and," I added, "you and Ben have to go to work."

Groaning, Pauley acknowledged they had couple of resorts to mow before the weekend and three cottage lawns to mow, trim, and weed the flower beds. Scratching his balls, flopping his now flaccid member up and down in the process, he headed for the shower. Not wanting to waste water ("waste not, want not"), I joined him and received a thorough scrubbing- inside and out!

Ben and Pauley left for work with a wave and a honk of the truck horn. I busied myself around the house preparing for the company we expected. I checked on the runabout boat tied up to the dock, walked up to the shed to ensure we had extra gas for the boat motor since Gareth loved to fish, doing so every opportunity he had. The canoe, with paddles tucked up underneath on the thwarts, was hoisted on the rack near the dock, ready for use by anyone so desiring. I figured by noon, the motor home with Gareth and family would pull in; I didn't miss it by more than fifteen minutes. A quick call to Pauley on the cellphone announced the arrival of his older brother. I was about to call Tom and Rosa giving them the news, but was halted in my efforts when they drove in and parked near the motor home.

Rolling my eyebrows in question, Gareth responded with, "I gave her a call about a half-hour ago; figured if I didn't she'd drive me nuts, calling every fifteen minutes to see if we were there yet."

We had a great week! Hugh's kids, except for Jared who had to work, came from town and spent most of the week. They had a wee of a time playing with their cousins. The "Rabbit Patch" resounded with giggling boys and girls swimming, boating, or just plain being kids. Gareth and his wife did some fishing, some swimming, and a whole lot of relaxing. Pauley and Ben had to work, although they did adjust their schedule somewhat so they'd have more time with Gareth and his family.

Friday afternoon and evening, Tom and Rosa, Gareth's family, Hugh's family, Emily's family from Lake View, Pauley, Ben, and I enjoyed a fun afternoon and potluck supper. The day was capped off with a campfire in the fire ring down near the beach where we spent the evening telling stories, drinking sodas and beer, and eating s'mores. Gareth's would be leaving for Madison in the morning, so this was a sort of "farewell" party until the next time someone came to visit.

Retrieving a couple of beers from one of the coolers, I settled myself next to Tom, handed one of the beers to him and asked casually, "I know you immigrated from Canada and Dr. Edwards convinced you to do so, but how did he ever become involved with your family; if it's any of my business?"

I knew I was treading close to subjects that were personal- family business type personal- and the La Pont's were notoriously closed-mouthed when it came to issues they felt was nobody else's concern. Evidently Tom, knowing how I felt about his son, approved of the match and the question, so he opened up to me.

"Dr. John" (I'd not heard of him referred to as such by Julian) "and my daddy went back a long way. My dad was considerably older than my mom. Evidently Dr. John and my dad, Lester, became acquainted during the Second World War. Both were involved in some sort of military intelligence work; Daddy for the Crown and Dr. John for the U.S. Army. Momma immigrated to Canada from England and worked for the National Government in Ottawa and that's where she met Daddy. They married and had three children. My younger brother lives in Alberta with his family and my younger sister lives just outside Sudbury in Ontario. Anyway, when I was born, Daddy asked Dr. John if he'd be my god-father and he agreed. My name is actually John Thomas Bentley La Pont, but for some reason, they always called me Tom."

When work became a scarce commodity and after he graduated from high school, Tom accepted Dr. John's invitation to come here to live and work. While here, he met Rosa, became a U.S. citizen, and raised his family. Dr. John and Julian helped Rosa and him get started and stayed very close over the years. Dr. John passed away a couple of years after Lester La Pont.

"Those five years, before you came to live with Dr. Corsair, were lonely ones for Dr. Corsair with Dr. John gone. To see him bounce back like he did after you arrived was great!"

Our conversation was interrupted by Rosa announcing it was getting late and time to go. A glance at my watch indicated it was past ten at night. Here in the north, it stays daylight so late in the evening, one can easily lose track of time. Although disappointed our discussion had to stop, I understood. There'd be another time, I hoped.

Saturday evening, after spending the day cleaning up the grounds, we ate a late supper and Ben, Pauley, and I flopped down on the living room floor, ready to relax, and enjoy another episode of Dr. J.'s journal.

Summer session classes were a god-send since they were instrumental in helping me finish my bachelor's degree in three and a half years. Under the urging of Mr. Harksen and with the guidance of a couple of the "Lucky Lads" who taught at the "U," I applied for and received a graduate assistantship to help me with the costs of my Master's Degree program. There was no difficulty with me being accepted into the program since my test scores were high and my GPA was 3.9 (I received a couple of "B's," both in physical education). I decided a couple of things; one, continue in my chosen field, Economics with secondary studies in Finance, and two, strike out on my own by getting my own apartment. Not that I didn't enjoy living with Grover and having Kenny as my roommate, but Kenny was entering medical school and he'd be more than busy. In fact, he was considering moving also; a group of medical students invited him to share a house with them.

My financial situation was secure enough I could afford a small two room (with bath) apartment. It had one bedroom, a combination living room/kitchen, and bathroom with combination tub/shower. If money did run short, although I could see no reason why it should since my graduate assistantship paid tuition and books along with a small living stipend, I could seek additional employment elsewhere. I was too old to work the streets, of that I was certain. There were plenty of young, good-looking, guys around to handle the market available. Once in a while I'd find a fuck-buddy at one of the local hangouts on State Street to relieve my aching loins. Gainful employment would be difficult to secure since a great many service men, now that the Korean War (sorry "Police Action") was over, returned to campus under the G.I. Bill. The Bill didn't pay all of their costs, but it helped like hell. As a result, those service men were hot on the job market, snapping up all they could, and rightly so, I thought.

Money and employment were the least of my concerns I was to find out. Studying for my own classes and then teaching a couple of freshman classes really kept me hopping that spring semester. The most frequent opportunity I had to take pleasure in the carnal arts was with my own hand.

Early May, just a couple of weeks before Spring Term ended, I was walking down State Street late in the evening, having decided a cold beer at one of the pubs would be a fine treat, cruising some of the local bars hoping to spot someone I knew or would take a fancy to, and as fate would have it, only ended up with a beer and no cock!

Crossing an alleyway, I heard a cry of pain and then an angry retort; "You asshole, that's my money!" The darkness concealed the young-sounding, vanquished individual. His angry, high-pitched accusation was followed by a deeper, more mature voice responding, "Tough shit you little faggot; just go hustle more men to fuck you," and laughed. Stepping aside, allowing the same darkness concealing the two in the alley to effectively hide me, I lurked just out of sight at the building's edge at the opening to the alley. The assailant, I assumed correctly, emerged from the alleyway and collided with the metal lid of a garbage can I inadvertently (Hah) placed at face level, thrusting it out at just the right moment.

I can only surmise the severity of the impact of the lid on the guy's face and head was increased by my gripping the lid by the handle and whamming it at his face as he emerged! Hey, I was raised in the city; who says you have to fight fair? He collapsed quicker than a cuckold's cock when confronted by the husband of the one he was pronging. Keeping the lid over his face and my foot on the lid, I cautioned him, "Don't fuck around buddy or I'll squeeze your balls off when I remove the money from your pocket." Evidently he believed me; he was as silent as a giraffe in the zoo. Good thing he couldn't see me; he was one hell-of-a-lot bigger than me. Yet, all things considered, at the moment he was the one with the bloody nose and sore head, not me!

Extracting the wad of cash he'd taken from the kid from his pocket, I slipped it into my pocket just as a young kid, pants barely up around his waist as he held them in place with one hand, scuttled up the alley to where I kept the lid on the thief. A quick perusal of the young man revealed a cut lip, a few scratches on his face, and one very purple-black eye.

As he staggered up to me, I demanded, "Who are you and what the hell you doing out at this hour?"

The kid looked at me with more disdain than respect; "I'm the fucking Pope and I'm hearing confessions. Get in line asshole! What's it to you?" With that he started going through the vanquished assailant's pockets.

"If you're looking for you money, I've got it," I said.

"Then give it to me!"

"Nope!"

"Why?"

"Not until I find out what happened; and quit going through the guys pants."

"Just lookin' for what else he has I might want."

I reached down, grabbed the little smartass shit by his shirt, causing him to let his pants fall down around his ankles, and said firmly, "You don't earn it; you don't take it!" and dragged him, kicking to the street. By his time, his pants were only hanging on one foot, leaving his bare ass shining in the street light and his cocklet wobbling with each step I took.

"What's the big fucking rush?" he whined.

"Excuse me, young Man of Steel," I shot back, "in case you haven't noticed, I think he's bigger than both of us and I want to put some distance between us and him." I hesitated in our flight just long enough for him to pull up his pants, but I didn't release my grasp on his shirt. Ducking into another alley, cutting back a couple of blocks, I finally stopped, pretty much out of breath from the effort of trying to run and drag the lad with me.

I took a deep breath, intending on traveling some more, when my little companion, asked, "Now can I have my money?"

"Not yet; you need to answer some questions for me. Either you are a very experienced and highly desirable boy-whore or your ass has been well used tonight if the amount of cash I took from the guy is any indication. So, which is it?"

"Neither," he sneered, "I'm in charge of the U.S. Mint and I'm checking for counterfeit bills."

Clearly, this kid had an attitude and was in need of an adjustment, but I wasn't going to do it right here! I looked more closely at him; something about him was familiar, although bloodied and bruised, by the way he was squirming and limping, it wasn't only his face that got injured; then it hit me! "You're the kid downstairs in apartment 2A. You've a little brother too."

He looked me over closely in return. "You're the college guy on third floor!"

"Yep; my names Julian and what's yours?"

"Peter."

In a much softer tone, more comforting and concerned rather than demanding, I asked, "You're hurting, aren't you Peter?"

The tough guy act disappeared and tears started streaking down his face as he nodded, affirming he was, indeed, in some pain and not just from the shellacking about the face he'd taken. Putting my arm around him, speaking gently, I said, "Let's get you home and cleaned up, then you can tell me all about it, okay?"

We caught a late bus near the Capitol Building and rode it out to the stop near our apartment building. After the short, but slow walk, I led him upstairs to my apartment, preferring to bypass his in case his mother might ask some questions concerning his condition. Inside, where the light was better, I got a clearer picture of what I had to contend with. Peter was probably five foot tall, weighing around ninety pounds or so, and if I'm any judge of man-flesh (in this case, boy-flesh), not much beyond age thirteen or fourteen. His cheek, under his left eye was definitely bruised since it and the tissue surrounding the eye were yellow, purple, and black in coloration. There were, as I saw earlier, a few cuts on his face and he had a split lip, not bad, just enough to cause some discomfort, although I doubted it would stop him from ingesting pieces of meat ranging from two inches or twelve, depending on the clientele.

"We need to get you doctored up," I announced, "but first you need a hot bath in order to soak your buns for a while."

"Why?"

"Well, first of all, you're filthy dirty, and secondly, the guy in the alley reamed your ass good and proper and it's sore as hell, isn't it?"

Sheepishly, he nodded; "Yeah, he wasn't so long as he was fat, with a big, thick cockhead and he wasn't one fucking bit gentle ramming it in."

Before he could ask for it, I volunteered he could have his money after a bath and medicating.

Peter acquiesced, "Better call my little brother and tell him I'm up here. He's home alone so I'll tell him to come up, okay?"

I had no problem with that. I filled the tub with hot water, watching him strip off his clothes, I asked, "How old are you, Peter?"

"Sixteen," he replied quickly.

"Bullshit," I snorted in reply, "by the looks of that pecker hanging there, you're not a day over thirteen, at the most."

"I am too," he replied indignantly, "by three months."

His cock, circumcised and flaccid, about three inches long, was rooted at a base of sparse, dark hair, the beginnings of a man's bush, but supported by two nice, fairly ample, teen-age balls. The doorbell rang, bringing a halt to my visual inspection, so I instructed him to scrub everything really well, and walked out to the door. Upon opening, I saw Peter's little brother, maybe eleven or twelve and also in need of a good scrubbing.

"Where's Peter?" he asked.

"In the tub," I replied, "who are you?"

"Harley!"

"Well, hello, Harley, you're just in time to join your brother," and marched him to the bathroom. Ordering him to strip, I watch as his dirty clothes were peeled away, leaving me with the sight of a young lad, not into puberty, little inch and a half circumcised cock, although flaccid, pointing straight out over two marble-sized balls snugged up tight to his crotch. To say Harley was a not a looker would be a mistake; of course, his brother Peter was no slouch in the looks department either.

Turning from Harley to Peter, slowly washing himself in the tub, I grabbed some of my shampoo and before Peter could say "shit and two are eight" I kneeled next to the tub, globed shampoo on his wet head and began working it into the hair and scalp with my fingers. Peter relaxed all of a sudden, sighing, "God, that feels so good!"

As I worked, I realized I had a naked little boy leaning up against me, his face up against mine and his bare torso pressed up against my back. "Would you do that to me?" he asked softly.

"I certainly will, Harley, as soon as I'm done with Peter."

I rinsed Peter's head, instructed him to climb out and dry while I ran fresh bath water for Harley. As he dried, he stood facing me and did little to conceal his very nice, stiff and pointing upright, five inch or so teen cock.

"You got a stiffie," giggled Harley.

"So do you," snorted Peter and Harley brazenly thrust his hips forward, displaying a very stiff and upright pointing three inch or so little boy cock. Both boys' dicks didn't sag to the front or side; just straight up toward the sun!

While I shampooed Harley's hair and then scrubbed his pieces parts, much to his delight, Peter finished drying himself, then waited, sitting on the toilet seat, until Harley was done. I wrapped a towel around Harley and bid both boys to accompany me to the living room/kitchen and sit on the couch while I tended to Peter's injuries. Some antiseptic and a couple of bandaids took care of the facial cuts, but the worst was yet to come.

"Bend over and spread your cheeks, Peter," I instructed.

"He's going to fuck you, Peter;" snickered Harley, then, "do me after you do him, okay?"

"Are you?" questioned Peter hesitantly.

"No, but I am going to check out your money-maker in order to make certain you're not injured real bad."

"It's pretty sore," he acknowledged.

By the looks of his anus, the anal ring was puffed and looked tender, with a couple of small, not large tears or cuts near the outer edges. This wasn't the first cock he'd ever taken. This lad's pecker pocket for older men evidenced heavy use over a time. I applied some ointment Grover gave me for this very purpose and applied it to the outer injuries. Using a generous amount on my forefinger, I slipped my finger in his ass to coat the inside with the medication. When I wiggled it around, spreading the ointment, Peter pushed back, moaned, and began flexing his ass muscles.

"Don't get your hopes up that I'm going to bring you off, Peter. I'm done," and withdrew my finger. Surprisingly, it was clean, indicating he knew enough to douche well before going out on the street. I gathered them both under a blanket on the couch, gave Peter his money, and asked, "Now, boys, tell me what's going on?"

The boy's story, as it unfolded, was really quite simple and familiar; Peter worked the streets because they needed the money to help with rent, clothes, food, the bare essentials, and because he liked it. Dad was long gone and Mom often left the boys for a couple of days or more. Peter took care of Harley, but sometimes Harley tagged along on the street, offering his own ass as well. It was actually safer when they worked together, one serving as a lookout or "screamer" if help was needed. Harley also loved taking it up the ass.

"Where's mom tonight?" I asked.

"Doing church work," prompted Harley.

"Yeah, on her back in the missionary position," chortled Peter.

"Or on her knees in a prayerful pose," snickered Harley.

It was getting late and I was tiring, so towels wrapped around their waists with promises to return their clothes when I did my own laundry, I escorted them downstairs to their own apartment. Returning to my abode, I slipped the lock, stripped naked, and went to bed.

I was wakened by a warm, small, smooth and hairless butt being pressed up against my crotch and a stiff, teenage penis tickling my rear cargo hold seeking entrance.

"Okay," I groaned wearily, "how did you guys get in here?"

"I pinched your apartment key," confessed Peter as he began poking between my ass cheeks until he made contact with my pucker. By now I was boned, but was determined to send them away, until my resolve weakened when I felt a small, warm hand encircle my stiff rod, guide it to an already lubricated, small, puckered boy hole, position it, and with one push backward, Harley had me up his bum to the hilt.

Peter leaned over my shoulder, pushing himself in my love chute as far as his rod would go and said, "He likes to be fucked before going to sleep."

So do I, but I wasn't going to say anything, instead sighing, muttering about half-aloud as Peter began pumping slowly, "In for a penny, in for a pound" and accepted the fact I was being fucked, quite proper, thank you very much.

To be continued:

***

Thank you for reading Julian Corsair– Chapter Nineteen –"You cannot teach a crab to walk straight." – (Aristophanes)

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Nick Hall

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