The following story is a work of gay erotic fiction dealing with a sexual relationship between an adult man and aboy of high school age. If such stories are not to your liking or if you are not of legal age to read such stories inyour jurisdiction, please exit now.

Again, special thanks to Andrew for his proofing and editorial assistance with this story.

This is a work of fiction and in no ways draws on the lives of any specific person or persons. Any similarity toactual persons or events is entirely coincidental.

This work is copyrighted by the author and may not be reproduced in any form without the specific writtenpermission of the author. The story is assigned to the Nifty Archives under the terms of their submissionagreement but it may not be copied or archived on any other site without the written permission of the author.

This is the fourth chapter of a story titled Columbus Avenue, which is a sequel to the series titled Montgomery Halland the story titled Cutler House. While it is expected that the individual stories will stand independently, theyshould be more enjoyable if read as a group.

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jvoyager@hotmail.com

I guess it had been a longer day than I thought. The flight from Memphis to Kennedy and the taxi ride into Martin's apartment on Columbus Avenue had been exciting and new and I'd felt full of energy, despite getting up so early. Mom and Dad had driven me from Greenwood into Memphis for the flight and we'd had to leave at 6:00 AM.

From the time we reached his apartment until time to dress and meet Martin's friends for dinner last evening, he and I had been engaged in almost constant sex. On the short walk back from the restaurant it hit me. I knew I would sleep about ten hours. Martin insisted on hanging our clothes up properly. "That's a very nice suit, Tim," he'd said, speaking of the suit and other new clothes Dad had bought me for the trip. "My advice is to always buy the best clothes you can afford, but then take proper care of them."

"Yes, Dad," I teased as I picked up the pants and jacket from the chair where I'd tossed them in my rush to get into bed.

"Here," he'd said, handing me a rather fancy wooden hanger. "I moved some stuff to make room for your things," he said, pointing to a more than ample space at one end of his huge closet. "This is for your clothes."

I grinned, realizing he'd made space for me in his closet, even though he'd offered me the guest room. "You must have been pretty confident I'd be sleeping in your bed, not down the hall," I said, continuing to tease him and feeling myself revive a little.

"Not confident," Martin said, "just hopeful."

We continued to undress, placing each piece in proper order, the suit and my white shirt on hangers, the tie on a rack and my shorts and socks in a hamper with his dirty clothes.

"Yolan, my cleaning lady, will be here on Monday. She'll do your laundry when she does mine." Martin went over to turn off the last of the lights. He'd locked up and turned off the living room lights as we came through to the bedroom. The only light was the soft glow from the street lights six stories below.

"Does she know about me?"

"Everything," he smiled as he walked naked to what had become his side of the huge bed. "She and I have no secrets."

"What did you tell her?" I asked as I joined him and we snuggled under the covers.

"I told her that I'd found the most beautiful boy in Mississippi and fallen head over heals for him."

"Did she believe you?"

"Oh, yes. She believed I'd fallen in love and she agreed you are beautiful. I showed her the photos my brother took at one of those picnics my mother gave at Montgomery Hall last July."

"I don't remember him taking photos."

"Oh, he did. You alone looking very pensive, the sun behind your back lighting your golden hair and making your naked body glow."

"Naked!" I asked with some alarm.

"Well, nearly naked. Speedos, sky blue ones. And you were correct, what you said to Roger tonight, you do look very good in blue."

"Why did she believe you'd fallen for me?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"Yes, Martin, I do."

"Well, to be quite frank, Yolan is rather used to seeing a parade of hunky young men through my bedroom. There hasn't been one since I came back in July. After a couple of weeks she got curious. I told her I'd met someone in Mississippi and if things went as I hoped, you would be the only one in my bed from now on."

I rolled over and kissed him. It was a slow, gentle, loving kiss, given and returned in the same way. "I love you so much, Martin," I whispered as our lips parted and he gently rolled me over onto my back. "Are you going to fuck me?" I asked, still in a whisper.

"No, lover, not tonight. Three times in one day is more than any ass should take."

"I'm tender but you can if you want."

"I don't want to wear you out, and besides, I think you more or less drained my supply. I'm an old man, you know, and you're aging me quickly." He kissed me again and then moved down to caress my chest with his soft lips. "You, however, could do it again, I'm sure."

"Fuck or come?" I asked.

"Either. Both," he said as his lips engulfed my left nipple, the one that's hard wired to my cock.

"Fucking takes more energy than I've got. I can always come, though."

"Well, I guess my ass will have to go unserviced," he smiled up at me. "Just lie still and let me take care of you."

When I started to say something more, his hand covered my mouth. I understood and nodded my consent.

Martin slid down a little in the huge bed, taking the covers with him, exposing my naked body. My cock was already pulsing and fully hard. He is right about the advantages of teenage stamina.

He smiled up at me and then lowered his mouth to my cock. There is nothing hesitant about the way he takes me, nothing gradual or slow. It is as if he knows the way, or put the other way, that my cock knows the way into his throat. One moment his lips hovered just above my pulsing cock, the next the head of it was as deep in his throat as it could reach.

I moaned with the sudden pleasure of it, the sudden sense of having been possessed and claimed.

He withdrew, leaving me wet and needy. "I'm going to make this quick, Lover," he said, again smiling up at me. "We're both worn out and tomorrow is another long day." I nodded, knowing the sudden torture that would follow, and consenting to it.

His lips again moved in one swift stroke down the pulsing length of my cock, ramming it deep into his throat where the miracle began. He swallowed again and again, and with each contraction of his throat, my cock spasmed, approaching the inevitable end.

"Oh, Martin," I sobbed with the pleasure and pain of it, "I love you so."

My raw cock was searing from his work, each contraction sending such pain and pleasure through me that I knew I could not last. Within a minute he had me to the edge.

On other occasions, when we were both rested and my cock was not raw from over use, he would back off and let me retake control. Now he pushed me on, taking me to the edge and over. I felt my meager offering escape my body and merge with his. My body was too used to offer much.

He stayed with me as my cock softened in his throat, withered in his mouth, slipped, wet and warm from between his lips. Then he rose up and laid beside me, folding me like a doll into the curve of his body, my back against his front, his arms locked around me holding, protecting me.

He kissed my neck and pulled the covers over us.

"Now sleep, Lover. I'm here."    

I'm used to waking early. My days begin with track or swimming. That Sunday morning I woke to the gentle autumn light streaming through the sheer curtains and Martin sitting beside me on the bed.

He kissed my forehead and whispered in my ear. Time to get up, pup."

I moaned.

"Orange juice and the shower are ready for you."

"I want you."

"Just a kiss and a very gentle hug. No sex for you today."

"You've got to be kidding," I said, fully awake and not believing what he'd just said.

"Look at yourself," he said. "Your poor pecker is one red and swollen mass. I bet even water hurts it when you shower."

"You could fuck me," I protested.

"I haven't looked yet, but I'd be willing to bet your ass is in worse shape than your cock. Give me that glass and roll over. I want to take a look."

I handed him the half consumed glass of juice and did as he said."

"Mmm, and to think I did that to you," he said when he spread the cheeks of my buttocks and looked at the damage.

"Bad?"

"Actually, I've seen worse."

"Maybe we won't have to go a full day."

"Well, we'll see. But first things first."

He rolled me over and held out his hand. Taking it, he pulled me from the massive and very disorderly bed and led me half awake into his palatial bath.

"In you go," he said, pushing me into the already running shower. I was pleased to see that he followed. "I've already showered," he said as I leaned back against the marble wall. "This is your turn. Now hold still and let me work on you. He ran a soft sponge over my chest and down over my legs, avoiding my crotch. "Raise your arms," he ordered and I did. He ran the sponge up my sides and then over my shoulders." Now turn around," he said. "You'd better support yourself against the wall." He was right. I wasn't too steady.

My back came next but again he avoided my most sensitive part. Hair followed as he ran his fingers through it and massaged my head and scalp.

"That feels to good," I managed to say.

"Good. It's supposed to wake you up. When he finished he turned me around and handed me the sponge. "I don't want to touch your cock or your ass," he said. "They look too tender for anyone but you to wash."

When I washed myself I gasped at the pain. I knew I was raw, but had no idea it was that bad.

"You'll heal," he grinned as he took one of his incredibly soft  towels from the rack and began to dry me. When he was finished and had dried himself he coaxed me from the shower and led me to the long marble dressing table. "Now, bend over," he said, "and assume the position."

"Oh, Martin," I groaned.

"Do as you're told."

I leaned against the cold stone countertop and felt his fingers work their way into the cleft of my ass.

"I thought you said you weren't going to fuck me today," I said, knowing what he was really doing and loving him for it.

"You wish," he said as he applied a generous glob of some healing salve to my puckered ass. "Now turn around and just lean back against the dressing table." Again, I did as I was told. He gently stretched and stroked my cock until the red and swollen tissue around the head glistened with the salve. "We'll do that again at noon," he said, putting the tube away and leaning over to give me a gentle kiss on my pouting lips. "Can you shave yourself."

"I shaved last night."

"You may think you're still a peach fuzzed boy, buster, but you do have a nice bit of stubble showing."

"Not much," I said, turning to look at myself in the huge mirror. "Besides, we're both blonde enough to get away with it."

"Shave, mister, or I'll hold you down and do it for you."

"Promise?"

"Yes, but you won't like it." He took his own razor from the drawer on his end of the dressing table and began to work lather into his beard.

I growled a little and did the same, noting that we had now established which end of the dressing table was his and which was mine, just as we had established which side of the bed belonged to each of us. The realization made me feel warm and suddenly content.

Martin reached over to turn on a radio and we worked away for a few minutes to the familiar sounds of "Weekend Edition."

"Will you want something to eat before church?" he asked as he finished. "We're going to brunch after the service."

"I can hold out with another glass of orange juice."

Back in the bedroom I watched as Martin took a pair of soft gray slacks from his end of the huge closet and went to the dresser for a soft shirt and a subtly patterned sweater.

"The church isn't in suit and tie country?" I asked, remembering the expression he'd used last night.

"I thought about taking you to St. John the Divine," he said, "but we can do that another time. Today you get my usual parish and slacks and sweaters are just fine."

"What about this evening?"

"Same thing will be fine."

"I assumed that an admission interview at an Ivy League university demanded coat and tie."

"It would if you were going for a formal interview. We're going to the home of a very close friend of mine and he was clear that it would be informal."

"Okay by me," I said as I chose a pair of tan wool slacks and a pale blue sweater, both of intentionally different colors than the ones Martin was already wearing. "You seem to know everyone."

"No, not everyone. Dick Halyard is a client."

"An author?"

"Yes, just published his fifth book. But he's also a full professor and chair of the admissions committee."

"Handy person to know."

"Handy for you, buster." He looked on as I dallied over my choices of clothes. "You'd better get a move on."

"I know what I'm going to wear but I'm sort of wondering about two rather sensitive parts of my body. Do you think I should try to cover my cock before I pull my jockeys on?"

"Good point," he said. "We could wrap some gauze around it but I don't know if it would stay."

"I guess I'll just pull on my underwear and not worry about it."

"Let me see," he said, turning to me. He spread the cheeks of my buttocks and tried to look at my ass. "Bend over," he said. I braced myself against the foot of the bed and did as he asked.

"How does it look?" I asked.

"Very rosy and very swollen. Remind me to never fuck you more than twice in one day."

"Yeah, sure. I wouldn't care if I was raw and bleeding. If I could talk you into it I'd want you to fuck me now."

"Well, buddy boy, it isn't gona happen. I want you to be able to sit down for church and for that interview this afternoon. Stay right there," he added as he headed for the bathroom. Within a minute he was back with a box of tissue. He folded a couple of them into a pad and pressed it against my ass. "Pull your jockey shorts on but don't pull them all the way up." When I had them almost on Martin placed a second pad of folded tissue in the crotch and helped me pull the shorts on up so they'd hold it in place against my red and swollen cock.

"That feels good," I said, "and it will probably keep the goo off my jockeys."

"Yeah, that's probably the best we can do."

Half an hour later we were walking north on Columbus and then back west, crossing Amsterdam and then Broadway. The church was not at all what I expected. It was not much larger than our church in Greenwood and the service turned out to be much less formal. They followed the Book of Common prayer so I had no problems with the service, but the music was more like jazz than the church music I knew. I loved it! The congregation was a rather interesting mix of young people about my age. Most of them were Columbia University students, Martin told me later. Then there was a large group of rather professional people, couples with kids, lots of kids, and a lot of single people as well. I got the feeling that some of the men were couples and an almost equal number of women were probably couples as well.

The sermon was great. It was about the "Good Samaritan" and how he came to the rescue of a stranger whom all the "good guys" passed by. I knew the story, of course, but this time it was told from the view point of one of the uncaring establishment types who had just gone on by.  He was disgusted that someone would reach out to help such an obviously unworthy person as the man who'd been robbed. It brought home feelings about myself and what I was learning about myself. I guess I needed to be reminded that God loves me for who and what I am.

As the service broke up and we were leaving I realized that Jim Knight and Roger Good had been sitting a couple of rows behind Martin and me. I knew we were going on to brunch but had forgotten to ask if some of Martin's friends would be joining us.

"Hey, Martin, there are Jim and Roger. Are they going on to eat with us?"

"Yeah, is that okay?"

"Oh, sure. I liked them a lot. I'd like a chance to talk with them a little more without your straight friends around."

"My, we are getting Homo-centric aren't we?"

"Not really," I said, feeling just a little misunderstood. It just seems as if there are issues I'd like to hear their thoughts on, you know, as a gay couple."

"Well, you may get more than you bargained for. I asked another couple of friends to join us as well. I'll introduce you to them downstairs."

We worked our way through the crowd of people, of singles, couples and families who were being reunited with their kids who'd been off in Sunday School classes. At the back of the church we fell into the flow of people going downstairs to the parish hall. Coffee and lemonade were being served along with an assortment of light food.

"No eating, young man. We're going someplace special and I don't want you ruining your appetite," Martin said as we worked our way through the crowd.

"Have you ever seen me without an appetite?" I teased, but followed his advice. With a coffee in one hand, Martin spotted Jim and Roger, waved and pointed toward a less crowded corner of the large room. I took a glass of lemonade and we made our way toward the appointed meeting place. By the time we reached it Martin had made quick first name introductions to half a dozen people. I'd shaken hands, heard comments like, "Oh, so this is Tim," and been hurried on our way. By the time we reached Jim and Roger they had rounded up two other men whom I guessed were much nearer my age than Martin's or Jim's or Roger's.

"Tim, this is John Thompson," Martin said, "and his partner, George Henry." We shook hands and I did a quick appraisal of the two new members of our group. John was about my height but a good deal lighter. I would guess that under corduroy slacks and a bulky turtleneck, he wouldn't weigh a hundred and forty pounds. He had brilliant red hair and rather flamboyant sideburns. His skin was pink and looked as if it didn't do well in the sun.

George was the tallest of the six of us, at least six inches taller than me, and gangly. He also had on corduroy slacks, but no sweater. Instead, he wore a heavy wool shirt, open at the collar, displaying a mass of black chest hair. He looked Mediterranean and I wondered if he might be Greek, although his name didn't suggest it. His black hair was slightly wavy and looked as if he hadn't seen a barber in months. His eyes were of such a piercing black that they seemed to hold your attention in an almost hypnotic manner. Neither John or George was at all handsome and collectively they were not a particularly good looking couple. But there was a kind of magnetism about them which I quickly realized sprang from the fact that they were so obviously in love.

"John is a graduate student at NYU," Martin said.

"Economics," John added.

"And George is doing weird and wonderful things at Columbia ."

"Not all that weird, really," George said with a big grin which seemed to transform his whole being. "I'm post-Doc, retro virus research."

"Like HIV, that kind of thing?"

"Well, sort of.  More basic."

"You don't seem old enough to have completed a Ph.D.," I said, and then feared I'd said the wrong thing.

"George has a medical degree and a Ph.D.," John said with obvious pride. "But you're right, he's still a baby. He completed his pre-med. when he was only nineteen."

"And you, old man, will finish your doctorate next spring at the advanced age of twenty-five," George grinned as he put his arm around John's shoulder and drew him into a sort of sideways hug.

"Enough," Martin teased. "I'm starving and we have a table reserved for twelve o'clock."

"Castro's?" Jim asked and Martin nodded. We made our way toward the door.

Before we reached the exit to the street we were intercepted by a very good looking man whom I recognized as the preacher.

He had changed from vestments into slacks and sweater, which seemed to be the standard uniform here. "Martin," he called, "don't you dare leave before you introduce Tim."

He was about the seventh person who'd known my name and I began to wonder what Martin had been saying about me and my visit.

"Charles Hamilton," Martin said. "I guess introductions aren't really necessary."

"I really enjoyed your sermon," I said, trying to overcome my discomfort. I guessed Hamilton sensed my embarrassment.

"No need to feel embarrassed, Tim. It's just that your visit has been eagerly anticipated."

"Really?" I said with obvious surprise.

"Yes, I was even told to keep an eye out for you."

"By Martin?"

"No, by Peter Miller."

"Really?" I was in shock. Hamilton knew our rector in Greenwood, Mississippi?

"We were in seminary together," Hamilton explained. The world is small enough but the church world is very small, indeed."

"I guess so," I stammered.

"Well, Tim, let me know if Martin isn't taking good care of you. I hope you have a pleasant stay in New York."

We moved on through the now thinning crowd and out onto the street. It was only a short distance to the festive restaurant and soon we were all six seated at a round corner table.

One look at the menu, which was intirely in Spanish, and I said, "I could manage last night in French, Martin, but today I guess I'd better leave it to you."

"Your wish is my command," Martin teased.

"I wish," I said before I thought, which caused a round of laughter from the other four.

"Are you not taking proper care of your guest, Mr. Cutler?" Jim quipped. "Tim, if you feel there's been some serious breach of promise here, I'd love to represent you."

"Me, too," Roger added. We could take your case pro bono if that would help."

"No, I don't think it's that serious," I grinned, reaching for Martin's hand under the table and adding, "by and large the service has been good."

"Just `good,' I don't think that's adequate," Martin said, getting into the spirit of things.

"Actually, the service has been excellent," I said, my voice suddenly serious. "I couldn't ask for more."

"Or better," Martin smiled. "Quality as well as quantity."

"The quality and the quantity have been excellent," I added.

"Do I sense the beginning of something rather serious here," George said as he looked over the top of his menu.

"Actually, that's more or less why I wanted you to join Tim and me for brunch," Martin said. "We're dealing with a bunch of issues, some of which you guys have already been through. I figured it was time to do a little brain picking." He paused and then added, "I was also hoping you could reassure Tim on some issues."

"When it comes to committed relationships, you couldn't have found four better advisors." Roger said as he caused a general smile around the table.

"Tell Tim how long you two have been together," Martin said, nodding toward Jim and Roger.

"Seven years," Jim responded. "None of my straight siblings have had marriages that have lasted as long."

"Don't look at me," Roger smiled at me. "I'm an only child."

"Me, too," I responded.

"Oh, doubly cursed," Roger grinned at me, "an only child and queer to boot."

"Really, Roger," Jim said in mocked shock, "don't use the `Q' word. You might shock the boy."

"Oh," I responded, "I'm okay with `queer.' Only I wouldn't say `doubly cursed,' I think I'd say `doubly blessed.'"

"Well said, young Tim," Jim shot back.

"One issue I'd hoped we could discuss is what it's like for you to be in such solid relationships. The other obvious issue is the difference in our ages. Any brilliant thoughts about that?"

"How old are you, Tim?" Jim asked.

Before I could answer, which I would have been completely willing to have done, Martin put his hand on my leg and quickly said, "let's just say I'm old enough to be Tim's father and leave it at that. A very young teenage father, I should add, but it would have been possible."

"How much older is Allen Bridges than Nancy?" Jim asked.

"Twenty-one years," Martin said. "I had the same thought so I had a look at the personnel files."

"Well, there you are," Roger said with real confidence, "you certainly aren't twenty-one years older than Tim, so stop worrying."

"I wasn't worrying," Martin said. "I guess I just don't want to be accused of cradle robbing."

"Well," Jim said, "if Allen's twenty-one years older than Nancy, I'd just say `what's good enough for the straight gander is good enough for the gay gander.'"

"Nancy is his second wife, you know," Roger added. "She's generally regarded as a sort of `Trophy Wife' around the firm."

"What does that make me?" I asked.

"A `Trophy Lover,'" Roger grinned. "Definitely a `Trophy Lover,' and don't you forget it, Tim. Flaunt it, Babe, flaunt it."

I realized I had turned a bright blushing red.

To be continued.