Love and Life After Death


Copyright© 2015 – Nicholas Hall


Part 1 of 2


I almost chuckled aloud as I mused considering my present circumstances and how I got here; I could feel my butt cheeks clench with each spurt of my semen into the warm orifice, that tight sheath encircling my spewing organ, milking me of my essence of man. Really, I suppose it's a rhetorical statement since I knew very well how I "got into this." I greased up my manly stiff hose, did the same to his almond colored (on the outside, quite pink and lovely just inside the ring) rear entrance, lifted his legs up to grasp my hips, placed my now weeping rod at his inviting, winking entrance, leaned forward, engaging his sweet, young lips with mine, and pushed as he lifted his pelvis to shove back, opening himself and assisting me.

It was now, resting somewhat after a slow, amorous, and most satisfying, breathless, (almost) fuck, my cock still swelling, pulsing, and swelling again as his wonderfully talented anal muscles and massaging inner bowel milked from it the last vestiges of my seed, matched with the copious fluids emanating from his own orgasm now forming small pools and puddles on his chest, abdomen, and finally his sparse bush of pubic hair where the last of his sweet fluids oozed from the delicate slit at the end of his beautiful young penis.

This was our third tryst of the night; just before we slept, once during the night when he crawled on top of me and rode me like a stallion, and now in the morning, stretched out on his back receiving me between his legs face to face so we could kiss and cuddle, as the morning sun was peeking through the window of our home overlooking the Mississippi River. He opened his eyes, smiled, pulled me closer with his arms, flexed his butt muscles to keep me seated deep into his inner core, and said, "I love you so; how could I have been so lucky?"

Lady Luck shined her bright lights on me, I thought, as well, earlier this summer when I flew to La Crosse, Wisconsin. It was there I really found balance, satisfaction, contentment, love and life after death.


"There is nothing – absolutely nothing- half so much worth doing as messing about in boats ...or with boats... In or out of'em, it doesn't matter."

(Kenneth Grahame –The Wind in the Willows)


How we loved that particular quotation from Kenneth Grahame from The Wind in the Willows, I thought as I put the fifty-two foot houseboat in reverse, gave the dock boy who'd cast off my bow lines freeing the craft from the dock, a wave of thanks and goodbye, applied power to the engine, and began backing out of the slip where it was docked after winter storage on land at the marina in La Crosse. A slight "bump" and a gentle momentary rocking of the craft gave me every indication of my lack of skill or practice in handling the large watercraft since I either nudged something leaving the slip or took on more load, which I knew was impossible. I thought my skills would improve once I was out on my own into the main river channel and on the way home.

Powered by a single 150hp outboard engine, the craft was all we dreamed of for many years, looking forward to the day we could "power down" active participation in our farm and roadside fruit stand in Muscatine, Iowa and "power up" opportunities to relax in our later years and enjoy cruising on the Mississippi River flowing by our riverfront home.

My long-time lover and partner in the farm, Martin Evans, and I talked often of retiring early or at least entering into "semi-retirement" before the age of sixty and enjoying the river not only from the front porch and deck of the home we owned, but from the surface of the actual river itself, journeying on it via a houseboat, relaxing in the back sloughs and sandbars replete throughout the Upper Mississippi from Muscatine north. There were many small towns, and large, we wished to visit, explore, and enjoy along the banks of the river and a houseboat would be a most convenient way to do so. Each town or city had a marina or marina's where we could dock, enjoy the city, and still have our own bed and house to reside in after a fulfilling day.

Our life together had been busy, full, and rewarding through our work, friendships shared with others, financially through the profits of the farm, and personally, each one of us loving and giving to the other as couples in long-term relationships do. We were complete, whole, in each other, freely giving of ourselves to the other, and sharing in all things.

Martin Evans and I were farmers; not what people generally thought of as "farmers" raising pigs, cattle, milking cows, growing corn or beans, but vegetable/fruit farmers or "growers" as we preferred to say. In fact, we grew melons- watermelons, cantaloupe, and muskmelons and also a sizeable "pick your own strawberries" operation on some of the most productive land for doing so in Muscatine County. Muscatine melons were much sought after and valued for their flavor and juicy fruity interiors. The soil was rich with alluvial deposits, although not of the same tilth as the "loam" rich and black soils found in other parts of the state, more of a lighter, sandy texture, requiring water and some added nutrients for the crops we grew. Aided by the warmth of the longer summers, the climate, and growing season, this land produced some of the largest, sweetest melons imaginable!

The cantaloupe and muskmelons, were large, the largest slightly smaller than a volleyball, with bright orange flesh and a sweetness aromatically evident when first cut in half in order to clean the seeds from the interior cavity during preparation for eating. The watermelons, depending on the variety, were dark green to light green (some with stripes), weighing five to twenty-five pounds with deep red centers or smaller, "seedless" varieties. In recent years the public and many markets preferred the smaller "seedless" variety since the melon could be readily consumed. The majority of our crop was wholesaled out to markets and the remainder sold from our roadside stand. Harvest was generally complete by early September.

The plants were started in the greenhouse and transplanted when the weather was right. Generally speaking, all melons would mature in seventy to one hundred days and be ready for market, if the weather cooperated and diseases such as fulsarium wilt, powdery mildew, or Anthroacnose didn't damage the plants.

We'd been blessed with good crops and generally good prices over the thirty years we owned the farm; profitable enough for us to pay it off, build a new home (also paid off) overlooking the river, and buy the houseboat.

I couldn't help but sigh deeply as I piloted the boat from the harbor and slough out into the main channel of the river. At the moment, there were none of the massive "tow" boats pushing loaded barges up or down the river heading either to ports down south or up north. There were quite a few pleasure boats, including fishing boats and other craft including houseboats, plying up and down the river as the people in them enjoyed the beautiful sunny mid-May day.

The houseboat was all Martin and I wanted in a pleasure craft we could live in and travel in relative comfort while away from home. The advertisement offering the boat for sale in La Crosse caught our attention; it seemed to have all of the "bells and whistles" we were looking for and at a reasonable price. The fifty-two foot craft was equipped with the 150hp motor now pushing it downstream, a five thousand watt generator for use when not connected to a land-line electrical power source or batteries, gas/electric appliances, satellite dish, navigation lights including a large spotlight for night travel, sonar for depth finding, radar unit topside for night and inclement weather travel, ship to shore and ship to ship radio, fifty gallon tank for fresh water, two forty gallon waste storage tanks (one for grey water and one for sewage or black water) which had to be pumped when docked, full bathroom including freshwater shower (there also was a shower located outside on the stern deck that pumped river water to wash with if fresh water was in short supply), a well-equipped galley (kitchen), living room with television, radio, CD/DVD player, queen-sized bed in the master bedroom, two bunks for guests in the hall across from the bathroom (head), covered front deck, top deck lounge area, walkways along each side of the cabin for moving from bow to stern without going through the cabin, and solar panel topside for recharging the two marine batteries when the motors or generator were not running. Last but not least, there was a small twelve foot flat boat with a ten horse motor and mounted on the rear fan or aft deck held in place by a hoist high enough not impede the view to the rear of the houseboat, allowing the small craft to be launched with little difficulty.

We flew to La Crosse last fall after harvest was complete, decided the craft was just perfect, bought it, and spent a week cruising around the La Crosse area learning how to navigate and run the houseboat, before deciding to head back home. The night before we were to leave, while out to dinner, Martin suddenly collapsed and died from a brain aneurysm. I put the houseboat in dry dock, took Martin home for burial, and left the boat in Wisconsin all winter.

His death was so sudden, final, and life changing for me. Martin was only one year older and at age fifty-six had not been ill at all during our life together other than an occasional bout of the flu or a cold. Our plans for an early retirement were gone in an instant, leaving me adrift in a sea of confusion, indecision, and deep emotional loss!

The first three to four months after his death and funeral, I must admit, I drifted, not physically around the countryside, but emotionally, seeking a way forward without my beloved partner. Dealing with a loss so great was difficult for me, as it is for many, but slowly, slowly I began to pull myself from my depression. It wasn't until after Christmas, I found a way to move into the future for whatever time I had left for myself before I reached the same end as Martin.

It was a most difficult holiday for me as it is with many widows, widowers, and others who have had a personal loss such as mine. Holidays seem to be the most trying of times when so many happy memories of good times together are clouded and almost flooded with the sorrow brought by the absence of the one those good times were shared with.

I decided several thing after Christmas; keep the house we enjoyed so much and keep the houseboat, bringing it down river in the spring to be used and enjoyed, docking it in the marina not far from the house. It would help, I thought, ease the pain of Martin's loss since we'd never really, except for the brief time in La Crosse, used it together. My decision to sell the farm was the most difficult decision and one I knew I had to make. We spent many years together, building up the business, bringing it to a strong profitability and securing our financial future; now my future!

The real estate market was good to excellent and it was time to cut the final tie. The farm was listed for just a little over a month and I had three strong offers to buy. Choosing the best offer, I accepted it, and after closing, with the money deposited, I was no longer a fruit and vegetable grower, but retired at age fifty-five.

"No sense crying over spilt milk," I muttered aloud, decided I needed some water and set the wheel, pinned it so the craft would stay steady on course, and scooted to the kitchen ("galley, dammit," I muttered aloud correcting myself), to get a bottle of water from the refrigerator to slack my thirst.

Opening the refrigerator, selecting plastic bottle of water, I mentally patted himself on the back for what I considered was a fine job of provisioning the boat for the journey downstream. Two days of shopping in La Crosse filled the pantry with canned and dried foods, as well as several cases of bottled water; the refrigerator freezer was filled with various meats, vegetables, and several pizzas. I'd made certain the main refrigerator had the necessary condiments, salad dressing, fresh vegetables, milk, and cream. There was no danger of going hungry since I also planned to stop at several of the communities on the way south to shop and do laundry.

Twisting the top of the water bottle off, raising it, I took a long hard pull, filling my mouth with the cold, refreshing liquid, when a voice behind him asked,

"Got another one of those? I'm thirsty!"

"Jesus Christ!" I shouted spraying water from my mouth, shocked and surprised another person was on the boat with me. I wheeled about and standing before me was the dock boy I waved a farewell to an hour or so previously.

"What the hell are you doing here?" I sputtered, flummoxed by the boy's appearance and daring.

"Waiting for a bottle of water," was the simple reply, made casually and without threat or malice.

Angry at the unwanted and unwarranted intrusion into my personal space and life, I stifled what I wanted to do and say as the presence of the young man, who, for whatever reason, stowed away on my boat and now had the fucking nerve to ask for a bottle of water, and asked, quite calmly I thought,

"Just who in hell do you think you are?"

"Someone who will get his own bottle of water so you can run this boat or have you forgotten there's no one steering the damned thing?"

"Oh shit!" I groaned and sprinted to the helm (that's the front of the boat where the steering wheel and other controls are), stepped in front of the captain's chair, pulled the set pin to free the wheel, and clasped it with one hand while holding my water with the other. I quickly scanned the surrounding water for other craft and the depth finder (sonar) to see if there was enough water under the keel (bottom) to float the craft.

"Why don't I hold your water bottle while you get things under control and calm down a little bit," the young man offered.

"I'm calm!"

"You sure didn't act like it when you spit water all over; now I have a mess to clean up!"

"Who said you have to clean it up?" I shouted.

"Do you have to shout? I'm only a couple of feet from you holding your water; remember. It's not as though we're on one of those Carnival® cruise boats you know."

"Do you have to be so damned aggravating?" I sputtered.

"No, but do you have to so angry all of the time?"

This conversation was going nowhere and I still had no idea who I was dealing with or why so I decided to change tactics.

"I'm Tony Warren," I offered by way of introduction, taking a deep, calming breath, I hoped, "owner of this vessel and am currently trying to decide if I'm going to head to shore to hand you over to the authorities for trespassing or toss your ass off now and let you swim to shore."

"Well, that's a thought," pondered my interloper, "but if I drowned, you'd have to live with that and if you turned me over to the authorities what would that accomplish? Either way, you'd never really get to know me and lose a deckhand, a cribbage and chess player, a darned good cook, and a provider of pleasant company and companionship on your journey."

I'd seen this young man around the docks the past two days as I loaded the houseboat for my journey. I assumed he worked for the marina since he was the one that cast me off and sent me on my journey. Now, however, I doubted he ever worked for them and was a runaway. I needed to know his name and age and whatever else I could learn about him. He didn't look dangerous, but you never know now days.

"Now," I began while still tending to the task of piloting my boat, "I need to know who you are, how you got aboard, and where do you think you're going to do once you're in my company on my houseboat. I hope this is not a pirate attack; is it?

He giggled and waggled his head "no" but offered no more.


He smiled- a real killer smile, replying "Aaron Reed."



"Doubt it; got any proof?"

I had every reason to doubt his age; I'd guess his age around fifteen or sixteen at the most. He was probably five foot two or four, slim, narrow hipped, small in stature, almost petite, delicate; weighing maybe one hundred to one hundred fifteen pounds if he was lucky, and had the build of a younger teen, not a young man age eighteen. His hair was dark, eyes just as dark with just a hint of an epicanthic fold indicating some Asian heritage mixed with Caucasian or, such as in my case, Mediterranean ancestry since his skin was olive in color, just a little darker than mine. Aaron Reed was one cute young man, to say the least!

He reached into his pocket, produced his wallet and pulled out a State of Wisconsin Identification Card and handed it to me.

"No driver's license?" I queried.

"Nope; if you'll notice, I lived in Milwaukee; no place to park a car so no need for a driver's license. Besides, I took the city bus when I wanted to go somewhere."

Never seeing a Wisconsin I.D. card before, I decided to take it on its face and assume it was genuine. Aaron's picture was on, along with his address, and birth date, showing he was eighteen years old by some three months.

"It looks authentic to me," I muttered,

It fucking should, Aaron thought to himself, cost me a hundred and fifty bucks to get it!

"but, you sure don't look eighteen," I continued as I looked him over, "no facial hair and built like you're maybe fourteen or fifteen." It was really a bluff on my part to see if he would stumble on his age, but since I'd never been in contact with a person of Asian heritage, I couldn't be certain he wasn't eighteen or older. We'd employed migrant workers of Mexican-American descent and legal immigrants who came for the harvest and planting and there were some of the young men I could have sworn were only fifteen or sixteen when in fact they might be twenty-one or twenty-two. I guess I'm just a poor judge of deciding age by looks!

Aaron interrupted me; "I've told you my name and age so what's your name and how old are you?" challenging me with an emphasis on his last four words.

This kid had balls, I'll give him that! I pulled out my wallet, dug out my Iowa Driver's License, and showed it to him, announcing, "I'm Tony Warren, age fifty-five, fifty-six in a month!"

Aaron looked at my license and then, the little shit, began a visual inspection of me, from head to toes.

"Well, you don't look fifty-five years old!"

I snorted, "How am I supposed to look – old?"

"Yeah," he replied with a smile, "old guys don't look as fit as you. Most are really wrinkled, with fat guts, small dicks, and big balls hanging in low sacks!"

"Ha," I replied, "at least you got one of four right!"

Aaron looked at the man in front of him, the owner of the vessel he was on, the man who could determine whether he'd allow him to continue on this journey with him or toss his ass overboard. Aaron spent two days watching Tony Warren load his boat, joke with the people in the marina, smile and wave at him whenever he saw him, and Aaron genuinely liked him.

Tony Warren offered him the chance to escape from the hell he'd known and maybe, just maybe, find a new life someplace else; at least that's what he hoped! He decided Tony, age fifty-five or fifty-six, wasn't really such a bad looking guy, in fact rather attractive; pretty good looking for his age or any age for that matter. Aaron tended to have an attraction for older men, but hadn't yet experienced any relationship with one.

Tony was probably four to six inches taller, weighed maybe twenty to thirty pounds more, greying hair, trim waist, well-tanned, and really looked fit. He did wonder, if as Tony indicated, which one of the four physical attributes he guessed right. There was no doubt it wasn't a fat gut or lots of wrinkles so was it a small dick or big balls?

He continued his pondering while he looked quickly around the main cabin and the controls at the helm. Posted above the window to the front where Tony could watch ahead to steer the boat and navigate, was a picture of Tony and another man. He'd missed seeing that before when he was on the boat. He'd have to remind Tony to lock up when no one was aboard; Aaron slept here the past two nights while Tony was loading and staying someplace else.

"I guess you're really age fifty-five after all," Aaron said to me as he handed back my license. "Who's the guy in the picture?" he asked, pointing to the picture I had above the window.

For some odd reason, his question angered, yet saddened me, and about to retort in a sarcastic and perhaps defensive manner, I hesitated, realizing young Aaron was only curious and meant no harm, so answered quite calmly, strongly, not really caring what he thought of me or my relationship with Martin,

"That's Martin Evans, my partner, soulmate, and lover for over thirty years!"

"Cool!" he answered happily in response.

I turned my head to look at this seemingly very accepting young man and saw not disgust, but admiration, pleasure, and genuine acceptance of gay men.

"He passed away last fall," I continued, still keeping my eyes on Aaron, "shortly after we bought this houseboat. We only spent one week enjoying it together."

I felt my voice begin to break and stifled a sob before it could fully erupt, although it didn't stop the tears from streaming down my cheeks.

Aaron said nothing, but stepped up to the wheel, put one arm around me, and gave me a very comforting and affectionate hug, consoling me, letting me know he cared for my feelings as well. With that simple gesture, he became part of my life, my journey, and I proceeded to tell him of my life with Martin; the farm we operated, my sale of it, the desire to continue owning the houseboat, and of taking a trip down the river to berth it in Muscatine. It was not as if Martin and I had no experience on the river, we owned several pleasure boats over the years and spent a great deal of time on the water, especially after Martin and I built our new home overlooking it.

I lost track of time as we visited; well, I visited and Aaron listened which I found most pleasing, and suddenly became aware of Lock and Dam 8 at Genoa downstream. I radioed the Lockmaster requesting permission to lock through and was informed there were several other small watercraft wanting to do the same; we were to join them.

Aaron was fascinated by the process through which a boat was "locked through;" the opening of the huge lock gates, the lowering of the water until it was the same level as downstream, the opening of the downstream gates, and our journey out and downstream. It was just a ways downstream I spotted an island with a nice sand beach, probably created by the constant dredging of the channel by the U.S. Corps of Engineers and decided it would be great place to fix our lunch. I slowed the engine, dropped to the downstream end of the island, and motored up into slack water formed by a cove.

Slowing even more, fearful I'd ground us, I began watching the depth finder. When I had about two feet of water under the keel and was about ten yards from the actual beach, I put the engines in neutral and activated the anchor hoist, dropping the main anchor and securing us. The water was deep enough for us to float free, but shallow enough for us to walk to the sand beach on the island if we wanted.

"I'm ready for lunch; how about you?" I asked Aaron.

"Sounds great, but I notice you have a shower on board; can I take one before lunch? I'm a little stinky and haven't had a chance to really get clean for a couple of days," he acknowledged.

I explained, while I did have a shower, it used either fresh water from the storage tanks or from a city water hookup when we stayed at a marina. As a result, since we were not at a marina, we'd have to be careful with our fresh water use and filling our grey water holding tank. I also spent some time filling him in on how the fresh water, grey water, and black water systems worked.

"Our holding tanks only hold enough for about three days of waste, if we're careful, and no, we can't empty them into the river- it's against the law."

Aaron nodded, looked discouraged until I said I could use a scrub also so we may has well use the river and the beach. With that said, I gathered up two towels, a couple of washcloths, and a bottle of head and body wash, waved him forward, walked to the small ladder used for boarding when anchored, and stripped down to my bare essentials.

His mouth dropped open and when I turned to face him and tell him to do the same, he was already wiggling out of his shirt, shoes, and jeans. He muttered as he stepped out of his jeans, "I wasn't wrong about the big balls part."

I just smiled, watching him slowly pull his thin, well-worn boxer briefs down and step out of them. With a nod, I picked up the two washcloths and the head and body wash, climbed down the ladder and waded ashore. Aaron was still standing on the deck when, after leaving the items on the sand, I returned, climbed back up, dug out another anchor and rope, re-entered the water and secured us with a second anchor, "Just in case," I shouted and waved him in.

Aaron took a real good look at Tony's package as the older man climbed in and out of the boat and waded ashore. Tony's balls were relatively large and low hanging and his cut cock, even while limp, was somewhat bigger than average he thought. Compared to his own, it was gigantic, but Tony wasn't very tall either so maybe it just looked big, although Aaron doubted it.

Tony's ass was not all that saggy as he thought an old man's butt cheeks should be nor was there a great deal of fat on the older man's body. In fact, thought Aaron, he's in pretty damn good shape!

I watched as Aaron stepped down the ladder into the water. He was short enough so the water came up over his crotch almost to his hips, covering his male parts, causing him to piss and shiver at the same time, but not before I got a really good look at them. His penis was uncircumcised and about two to three inches long with a very short tube of foreskin just barely covering the head and his balls were not tight up against his body, but low enough to indicate they'd dropped and he was well into if not passed the development stage, although I still had my doubts. His pubic hair was not full, dense as I expected, but light in coverage and black like the hair on his head. Aaron's legs and arms were sparsely and thinly covered by the same dark hair.

As he neared me, I picked up a washcloth and the head and body lotion and waded out to meet him. When we met, I told him to duck and get wet so I could shampoo his head. He looked at me rather oddly until I explained,

"Martin and I used to shampoo and wash each other and found it most relaxing and comforting." I squeezed a dollop of lotion on his head and began a careful, thorough shampoo of his beautiful dark hair. "It was a way for us to forget about all of our troubles and worries," I continued as a massaged his hair and neck.

"And fucking sexy to boot," thought Aaron as his prick began to stiffen.

I felt him relax as I gently shampooed his hair, leaning back up against my chest, listening to my voice as I spoke of the good times Martin and I had together. I also tried to draw him out, seeking answers to why and how he ended up in La Crosse and on my boat, but he responded very little, answering with only a "yes" or "no" to my subtle inquiries. I still thought he was younger than what he said, but I had little experience with Asians so how was I to know?

"All done," I announced, "duck and rinse."

Aaron did as I requested, dunking his head and whole body under the water to clear the shampoo from his hair, sputtering as he came up for the second time, giggling, "That felt good; now I'll do you, but you'll have to either bend over or kneel on the bottom so I can reach your head."

I obliged by kneeling on the sandy bottom, giving him access to my head and graying hair. He put a dollop of shampoo on my head, transferred the bottle to my hand, and began massaging the soap into my hair and on my scalp. As he worked, he leaned forward, his chest, back, and what felt like about a five inch very stiff cock making contact with my back. I felt it, made no comment, but felt my own staff begin to rise in response. I'd never had any experience with men this much younger, especially after being with Martin all of those years, but now I felt things beginning to change.

Aaron announced he was finished, I ducked and rinsed, but stood facing him, allowing my now engorging cock to point out straight at him. His eyes fell quickly to view my staff, licked his lips but said nothing. I turned walked to shore, picked up my washcloth, spread soap on it and began scrubbing my body, paying particular attention to my cock and my ass. Knowing Aaron was hard as well, I waved him ashore and held out a washcloth for him to use.

He didn't seem a bit embarrassed or shy about stepping up to me with his stiff rod pointing north. I was right, it was about five inches or so long. As he scrubbed, he did make one comment while looking at me; "Big!" and that was it.

We rinsed and waded back to the boat to towel ourselves dry. As he climbed up the ladder, his small butt almost in my face, I couldn't help but notice it and the small wrinkled pucker tucked away between those lovely mounds. In the cabin, he fished around in his backpack hunting for clean clothes, but seemed to have little luck.

"Need something to wear?" I asked.

"Yeah; I didn't have a chance to do any laundry the last couple of days."

Not certain if I had anything that would fit him, we did rummage through my clothes closet and dresser, finding a pair of shorts (they fell down around his ankles when he put them on) and finally decided on a long-large tee-shirt of Martin's still in the dresser. Aaron slipped in on and it did cover him, at least from his shoulders to his knees. It would work well while on the boat, but going to town someday- don't think so, because when he bent over, his ass poked out. He thought that was hilarious, but also enjoyed being naked underneath.

During lunch, which Aaron ate quite readily explaining he hadn't had any breakfast, I didn't press him on his background, instead spent the time discussing the boat and how things worked on it; all the way from how to take showers, use the head (bathroom- damn, I'll never get used to the new words; may as well use the ones I'm most familiar with), lights (including the solar battery charging panel), the refrigerator, television, satellite, water and waste system, and the motors which pushed the craft.

When it was time to up the anchors, Aaron peeled off his tee-shirt and waded ashore to bring in the extra anchor. He acted as though he'd been running around naked his whole life. I did notice he did chub up when he climbed back on board. When he came into the cabin and front where I was standing in front of the instrument panel and wheel, he smiled and asked, "How's that?"

His nice fat stiff cock was sticking almost straight up and twitching just a little. Trying hard not to stare, my own cock beginning to lengthen in my shorts, I merely responded, "Just fine; really, just fine, and raised the main anchor, started the engines, and began backing away from the island to continue our journey.

"Can I steer if for a while and sort of learn how things work? Aaron asked and sidled up next to me.

Nodding my consent, instead of standing in front of me as I expected, he hoisted himself up on the cushioned seat where I was sitting and positioned his sweet buns between my legs, his naked legs touching my exposed thighs and legs and his butt up against my crotch. That action, his warm, smooth almost hairless body up against mine, really gave me a serious hard-on! The end of my stiff dick was poking out of the bottom of the right leg of my shorts, resting tight against his right butt cheek.

It was distracting, I must admit, but I decided to begin a careful, patient instruction on handling the helm, increasing and decreasing speed through the use of the throttle, how much depth was under the keel by watching the depth finder, and steering the craft. I really had to be careful where I put my hands since more than once either a hand or my arm would brush his stiff prick. He never commented and neither did I. I hoped he didn't' realize what he was doing to me!

Never, ever in my life, I thought, at least since Martin and I'd been together had someone this young and this good looking brought me so instantly to a cock-stand such as I had now. Perhaps it was because I missed Martin so much or perhaps it was because I'd been without the companionship and sexual liaison with another male that brought it about, but really all I could think about was nursing that sweet prod of Aaron's to climax and mounting him, giving him a good rogering! It was something I loved, but in the later years of our relationship, Martin often begged off, claiming it was "too painful" and I was "too big" to make it satisfying for him. I didn't argue or complain; after all, lovers do what pleasures the other party because you love him!

Aaron continued at the helm until we rounded a bend and spotted the metal interstate bridge at Lansing. Off to the right of the channel, I spotted a marina, and took the helm from Aaron.

"We're going to head in there for the night if there's a place to dock. After we're secured, I'll see if there's a laundromat nearby so we can get some clothes washed and dried for you. You best get your shirt back on, can't have you running around naked all of the time."

The young man who met us when we docked, pointed out a slip we could use, hooked me up to electric and city water and assured me, in the morning, I could pump my holding tanks and top off my fuel tanks as well. Aaron gathered up his laundry, I stuffed it in a laundry bag, and after setting up the satellite dish so he could watch television if he wished, headed to shore to take care of business.

To be continued in Part 2:


Thank you for reading "Love and Life After Death."

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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