Copyright 2008, 2012 by Carl Mason

All rights reserved. Other than downloading one copy for strictly personal enjoyment, no part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, except for reviews, without the written permission of the author. However based on real events and places, "Mike Hennigan" is strictly fictional. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. As in real life, sexual themes unfold gradually. Comments on the story are appreciated and may be addressed to the author at carl_mason@verizon.net

If you would like to read additional stories by this author, please turn to the "Authors/Prolific Authors" link at the beginning of the Nifty Archive.

This story contains descriptions of sexual contact between males, both adults and teenagers. As such, it is homoerotic fiction designed for the personal enjoyment of legal, hopefully mature, adults. If you are not of legal age to read such material, if those in power and/or those whom you trust treat it as illegal, or if it would create unresolvable moral dilemmas in your life, please leave. Finally, remember that maturity generally demands safe sex.


(Revisiting Chapter 2)

Finally realizing that his prize seemed rather embarrassed as if unfamiliar with the end game, the college stud separated himself, reached down into his jeans, snagged a sizeable bill, and pressed it into the hand of the radiantly grinning youngster. Walking back towards his car, he exclaimed loudly, "I want to see you again, you know." As the sports car fired up and rumbled slowly back onto the road, the newly baptized youth could only yell, "I'm coming back...I'll be back here...Watch for me...Watch for me!" Losing his balance, he sat back down on the ground with a thump and a grimace. In awe, Eddie reached out his hand.

In the morning - not because he felt guilty, but because the new eighteen year old felt so DAMNED GOOD for a change - Mike cleaned up as best he could, donned his one halfway decent shirt and trousers, together with socks and shoes (which he rarely wore anymore), and headed off for Mass.

(Continuing Our Story: Real-life Angels)

Although the youth didn't see a person he knew, the familiar sights, sounds, and smells of an event that had always been part of his life comforted him. Indeed, when the priest talked briefly about a Christian approach to birthdays in his homily (short sermon) much of the pain and regret he associated with his most recent outrage lifted off his shoulders.

This feeling of well-being so persisted after the ceremony that he found himself wandering into the church garden rather than immediately taking off for his old cement bridge. Having accepted a soft drink from one of the "Greeters" whose job it was to look out for new visitors, he stood around, mouthing a variety of monosyllabic words to his elders and the few teens who had been coerced into staying around for "coffee". He was surprised, then, when he felt someone tap on his shoulder. It was the "Greeter" who had first spotted him when he came into the small garden. The well-dressed man of, perhaps, thirty-five years grinned at him and asked if had heard correctly when he told a kindly older woman that he had recently missed his birthday, and a friend's soccer-crazed son that he was homeless. It wouldn't have taken much for Mike to level the charge of "prying into his personal life". Indeed, in most situations, he probably would have grunted to himself about "old farts" and departed the garden at full speed - if, that is, he had entered it in the first place! Strangely, in this instance, he felt the words suggested that someone might conceivably care. He smiled softly and said that he was sorry for "complaining". Actually, he continued, the warmth with which the parishioners had welcomed him felt...good. He hoped that he would see them again.

The Greeter introduced himself as Lawson Forsythe and said that he hoped the young man might give him a few more minutes. "Mike Hennigan, sir," he replied politely, as he accepted a piece of cake and a second soft drink with which a high school student had suddenly appeared. "Thank you very much." "You're entirely welcome, Mike," Forsythe responded as he observed the teen vacuuming the piece of cake. Steering the lad over to a bench at the side of the lawn, he suggested they sit before he continued, "Now what is all this stuff about missing your birthday and being homeless, Michael?" Momentarily, Mike couldn't help but defer to the older man, the man who appeared to be kind, stable...and, maybe, even a little concerned about him. (After all, look at all he had been through during the past month.) Tears backed up just behind his eyelids, but he kept them in check. His face flushed, his eyes locked on the grass, he gave Forsythe a brief (but, with regard to the things he told him, a truthful) account of his recent troubles.

"We can't have that, Hennigan. We just can't have that - not in California...not when you've more than proved your bravery. Do you see that man over there, the older man in the gray suit speaking to the padre?" Mike nodded. "That's Seymour Casin," he continued, "one of the greatest directors in the history of film. He has a home up on the cliffs above the beaches. It's his birthday, too, and he's invited people of all ages for a pool party. I'm able to take a guest. Would you like to join me and forget about your troubles for a few hours?" "Oh, wow!" Mike broke out without thinking. "Would I ever! I've always wondered what went into a film." Suddenly, he choked off his words and sat thoroughly dejected on the bench. Clearing his throat and blushing deeply, he managed to get out that he was so very sorry, but he wouldn't be able to accept the invitation. Forsythe wasn't about to take no for an answer. When pressed for reasons, Mike admitted that he was pretty grimy and sticky, he didn't have clean clothes, and he didn't own a bathing suit. (Defensively - almost childishly - he protested that he could swim like a fish. That wasn't the problem!) "Not to worry, Michael," the older man replied. "Let's stop by my house and get you a sandwich. I promise that your concerns can easily be taken care of." Mike wanted to go to the pool party so badly that he gave not the slightest heed to any of the problems possible in the situation. Grinning like an eager eight year old, he stood up and grasped the Greeter's arm.

Just as he pulled into the driveway to the side of his large Victorian home set in an old, but comfortable neighborhood, Forsythe snuck a quick peek at the boy. His head was thrown back against the head rest, his eyes closed. He could still see the remnants of tears that had pushed down through the slight film of dirt on his cheeks. Without turning towards the lad, he feigned sneezing and loudly apologized. "Come late spring around here, a lot of people have trouble with allergies. I'm one of them. Reach into the glove compartment, will you, and give me the small pack of tissue?" Again, without looking sideways, he took a couple of tissues from the pack, wiped his face, and loudly blew his nose. Handing the remainder back to the youngster, he grunted, "Thanks, Mike. Use it if you need it." When they had gotten out of the car, the man noticed that the trail of tears has disappeared from the boy's face.


"We've got one thing to do before you can get cleaned up," Forsythe said jovially, as they entered the foyer of a very lovely home. "Sir?" Mike replied. "Well, son," the man laughed, "it's going to be a while this afternoon before any food - ribs, corn, pies, drinks, and stuff like a birthday cake - will be served. Mind if I get you a sandwich so that there's no chance of my suddenly turning around and seeing you watching me with narrowed eyes and dripping fangs?" For a moment there was silence. Thinking his attempt at humor might have gone astray, Forsythe asked, "You don't like that kind of food?" After another minute, Mike shook his head, gave a crazy, disbelieving little cackle, and snickered on and off all through lunch. "No problem, sir," he finally managed to get out. I'll like everything." With that, he reached out and lightly brushed Forsythe's upper arm with his fist. With a deep bellylaugh, the older man grabbed him by the collar and pushed him out towards the kitchen. For days, every time Mike remembered that lunch of a thick sandwich, a can of pop, and ice cream, he began to drool.

After locating a couple of thick towels for the youth, indicating the shower controls and the supplies of soap and shampoo, and the like, Mike's host made ready to leave the bathroom. "One more thing, Big Guy" he added as he grasped the doorknob, "Don't put those same clothes back on when you've showered and dried off. When my son drove off to college, he left quite a few things in his closet. I think that some of them should fit you. Go into his room next door, check out what I've laid out on the bed, and choose what pleases you." Without turning around, he departed the bathroom.

Forsythe was beginning to think he was going to have to hurry Mike up a bit when he heard a shout from upstairs. "Yes, son," he replied. "Sir, will you please come upstairs for a moment?" Trudging up the stairs and down the hall past the bathroom to his son's bedroom door, the older man rather held his breath. Stepping into the room, he swore he saw...his son, Barry, fingering his guitar as he faced the windows. "Yes?" he murmured in deepest shock. Slowly, the boy began to turn around. With every step, the tension in Forsythe's chest and the pain that ripped his head apart mounted dizzily.

He came back to consciousness on the son's bed. Mike's expression was frantic. "Sir! Sir!" he kept crying as if it were a mantra. The boy's muscular arms were holding him as he squatted on the bed, his thick torso...so like Barry's...stretching one of his son's favorite sport shirts, one sleeve pulled back, displaying a smooth, beautifully muscled forearm; his muscular thighs and prominent package suggesting that the chinos could just as well have been bought for him. "Agh-h-h-h!" he cried out in pain that could surely only be matched, let alone exceeded, in hell itself. "Sir! Sir!" cried the terror-stricken, newly minted eighteen year old. "What can I do? Should I call 911 for an ambulance?" Forsythe breathed deeply, slowly raised his open hand and lay it against the side of Mike's face, finally smiling into his troubled eyes. "No, son. Everything's ok. I get like this now and then, but the doctor's tell me that I'm going to live for a long time!" "Sir!" Mike sputtered insistently. "I'm worried about you!" "Ah," Mike sighed philosophically, "Everyone should have someone to worry about him!" "Really, Sir!" Mike almost snapped. "What happened?" "Later alligator, Forsythe sighed. "I'll tell you anything you want to know...later. For now, can I possibly talk you into massaging my shoulders and head for about ten minutes before we get ourselves together and head for Seymour's little shack in the hills?"

(The Cliffside Pool Party)

A half hour later found the duo rolling along in Forsythe's nifty little sports convertible. The air felt fantastic! Even Forsythe's shoulders and head had never felt better! "Obviously, Mike, you found everything you needed?" "Oh, yeah," a happy lad answered. "There was even a pair of dress shoes that fit me. Oops! One exception..." "What's that, beast?" "I didn't find one bathing suit!" With a leer, he added, "Didn't your son wear them?" I know you're joking, young man, but you're closer to the truth than you may realize. Up here in the hills, we tend to wear swimsuits only if there are those around who would be offended if we didn't. Easy rule, yes?" "I guess so, boss. What does that mean for this afternoon?" "Well, I'll bet about half the crowd will enjoy spending the afternoon in the nude, including me. Another 35 percent will wear those God-awful "fashion bathing suits" found in online swimwear catalogs. Maybe five percent will stick with bathing suits that went out with Calvin Coolidge...and the remainder will simply wrap large towels around their waists!" "So you're for birthday suits?" Mike asked with a snicker. "Well, here's one more!" he laughed. Maybe he was wrong, but there was something in his voice that suggested to an old fart like Lawson Forsythe that Mike wasn't all THAT sure of himself.

Lawson grinned to himself, thinking that if their brief stop in Casin's magnificently-appointed outdoor dressing rooms on the second level of his villa didn't dazzle the boy, the long walk down the marble steps to the pool and deck on the third level surely would! He wasn't mistaken. Actually, he wasn't particularly surprised to discover that Mike's experiences on the street had dissolved much of his natural reticence to be seen in the nude. As they approached the bottom of the main stairway, their arms around the other's waist, the absolute horde of partygoers began to applaud and cheer enthusiastically. That did it! Mike stumbled slightly, but Lawson simply tightened his grip and steadied him. "What the...?" the thoroughly confused youngster squeaked. "Relax, handsome," Forsythe whispered out of the side of his mouth (Bogart-style). "They're just acknowledging the most beautiful human being at the party...an old Hollywood custom! Just smile and keep moving towards Seymour." "Oh, shit..." Mike mumbled, trying his damndest to grin even though his face felt like steel - and he was beginning to worry about what was happening down below.

Seymour Casin, a thick white towel wrapped around his still-trim waist, stood to greet them as they approached. "Lawson!" he called out, "I was beginning to fear that you weren't going to make it! Introduce me quickly - or I'll sign your companion to a contract and take him back to Hollywood with me!" "He just might like that, Seymour," Forsythe said with a laugh. "This is Michael Hennigan, a young man whom you missed at after- Mass 'coffee' this morning." Cordially shaking Mike's hand, Seymour smiled and said wryly, "Well, I shan't make that mistake again!" Gradually, earlier conversations were renewed and the two latest arrivées began to circulate, first together and then, as Mike became more comfortable with the game, separately.

Lawson Forsythe had always been convinced that only a crazy Roman emperor...like Nero...could have built this great villa overlooking the sea. For his part, Mike was absolutely flabbergasted. Never before in his life had he been in such a beautiful place. The white marble buildings, the tall eucalyptus trees stretching towards the sky, the peculiar sunlight that cast a golden glow over everything, even the live oaks... Wow! On the other hand, there were those "fashion" swimming suits about which Forsythe had been muttering on the way up into the hills. Oh, man... He swore some of them contained less cotton than that found on a Q-Tip! Some left your butt uncovered, anchoring the suit on your balls. Some covered your stuff with a tiny pouch, leaving all else open to the air; some left your stuff open, covering the rest. Some were so narrow that you had to shave off all your pubic hair to wear them! Some covered so much that one suspected their designer was a frustrated muumuu queen! They came in every color of the rainbow...and in most materials. Mike had something good to say for each of them! Nor had he ever seen so many people in one place who were uniformly good looking, completely tanned, and seemingly in good shape. And they're all men, he snickered to himself!

It was basically a mid-20s to late-30s crowd, plus a few older men, several handsome young sailors from San Diego, and three or four youngsters in their late teens or early 20s, including Mike...and Cousin Marty (who winked as Mike passed by). Mike did notice that the younger men were all in the nude. Younger or older, one more thing could be said of this bunch. They were without question the most "touchy-feely" crowd that he had ever encountered. Man! Talk about wandering hands! It didn't matter with whom you were talking! Generally, it was just a hand that wandered down your back and onto your buttocks, but it could be considerably more invasive! In any case, by the time the young Kansan had wandered around the great deck that surrounded the pool, he felt that there was very little territory on his body that hadn't been explored!

In truth, it was even more clear that a goodly number of the "explorers" were determined to stake a claim rather than merely show the flag. Around the edges of the deck, there were numerous alcoves - also in marble, often shaded by creative planting, and all in great demand. For the summer, they were richly appointed with chaise lounges and other deck furniture. Mike knew he was far from Kansas when he observed that every nook was occupied by men, young and old, all vigorously engaged in sex. It was at that point that he spotted Lawson on the other side of the pool. Quickly swimming across to avoid the crowded deck, he hauled himself out of the water. Immediately he was greeted by his mentor who crouched down beside him and planed the water off his glistening body. "God, Lawson, I feel WONDERFUL!" the boy enthused as he smiled into Forsythe's eyes and stretched his torso backwards so that the man could get to his chest. "It's that kind of day, dear boy," his friend replied. "I saw you over there sniffing around those alcoves, by the way," he added. "Have you taken advantage of this rare opportunity to fully enjoy the beauty of the day?" "Dunno, sir, it's still all so confusing and kinda embarrassing...out in the open and all," the boy said in a lowered tone of voice. Reaching up, he rested his hand on Lawson's shoulder as if to beg his forgiveness. The reply, "Not to worry, son. Hopefully, this will only be the first of many such days," brought an immediate smile from the beautiful youth.

Looking up, Forsythe saw an impressive figure approaching. "David, David, how are you?" he exclaimed, rising. He grinned and told Mike that Prof. David Brixton was the new chair of Cal State Playa's exciting film program. Although in reality they hated each other, the greetings appeared to be warm and sincere. "Happy to know you, Mike," Brixton said pleasantly. "I don't want to interfere with any plans, but if you're interested, several of my students are getting together to view Dyagilev's latest film. It's a new Mosfilm release. Mike looked inquiringly in Forsythe's direction, accepting with enthusiasm once he saw Lawson's ok. They were off immediately for a viewing room...Brixton's hand resting lightly on Mike's erotically flexing buttocks.

Five of Professor Brixton's student attendants - one undergraduate and four graduate - greeted Mike with enthusiasm. Grabbing some beers, they quickly settled down on the thick rugs and the large pillows of their host's home viewing facility. As the highly rated film got under way, Mike squirmed happily, leaning back against Brixton. He softly moaned with pleasure as the man who had vowed to develop a film program competitive with the noted program at USC (University of Southern California) put an arm across his chest. When the young chairperson wet his fingertips with his tongue and began to vigorously rub the boy's nips between his fingers, he threw caution to the winds. Lifting his head and brushing it lightly against the professor's lower jaw, he raised the exploratory hand to his lips, sucked on its fingers for a moment, and then boldly placed it directly on his cock. Both men's bodies lurched sharply as the Kansan's rod went rigid, rising and pulsing hot before their eyes. Without the slightest hesitation, Brixton rose over the lad's body, laving and nibbling it as he worked down its full, provocative length. There would be no more foreplay. Rather, he dominantly sipped the mildly flavored precum from its source before subjecting his conquest to a passionate attack. Before being reduced to a limp rag, the innocent was bitten, pounded, and raised to the very height of his erotic fantasies, physical and psychological. Mike tried, but he was unable to do more than partially mute a sharp cry and a resounding grunt as he came...all over himself, as well as several of his neighbors! As the film rolled on in its characteristic Russian rhythms, the moment was celebrated with several muttered cries of "Atta boy, rookie!" and "Way to go, Dr. B!" True, there was also an explosive sigh that emptied Mike's strained lungs of the oxygen that he had inhaled and held over the several minutes of frenzied activity. When the lights went back on, of course, the grinning neophyte was surrounded by five guys whom he fervently fantasized would be close friends one day. Ready for a little fun, they circled him, crawling and growling like a pack of wolves. That is, they circled him until he conveniently left the opening demanded by the script for such matters. At that point, the reader will guess that they attacked, dramatically relieving him of any remnants of youthful energy that remained. Covered in sweat and cum, he sank to the floor in ecstasy. When he limped back to Lawson Forsythe nearly an hour later - in fact, as the sun was beginning to set over the Pacific - there was little doubt as to what had transpired. "Those Russian films," his benefactor sighed. "They'll get you every time!" "Da," his weary companion sighed.

After enjoying a glorious bar-be-que, never-ending birthday cake (one piece of which the famous director personally fed to Mike to the cheers of the entire company) and an evening of music and laughter, the two returned home. Having kissed in the foyer, Lawson pecked Mike again at the foot of the stairs and reminded him that they needed to talk in the morning when they were both up, around, and adequately coffeed.

(To Be Continued)