Warning: this story contains scenes involving

  • man- in -on-man sex
  • dope
And it's all fiction.

Note that I do not recommend the outrageous overuse of pot that you'll read about here. Rather, I'm a firm believer and a splendid example that anybody who has not finished growing ought NOT to take any substances that mess with their heads. But, alas, stories happen, and so did this one. (So speaketh one in whose mother tongue a bottle opener is called either a "beer opener" or a "society helper".)

This is a background story for "The Tail of the Tiger" which is posted at the boy-band section here at Nifty and at my site. You don't need to know anything about The Tail of the Tiger in order to read Launch: it can stand on its own.

We're in Copenhagen, the capitol of Denmark (about 50 km south of where Hamlet takes place). It's 1987 – back when there were still free concerts at the park Femøren, and years before the police stormed the free-town Christiania and the country in general went downhill under our present narrow-minded, diversity-phobic, ham-fisted government of unimaginative, wrinkled hens asses-

Okay, okay, I'll stop now; there's a story in line:

© Morgenfryd 2004


The red flag with the yellow dots moved sluggishly in the cool breeze from the sea, yet it was enough to rock the bamboo stick that it was tied to. The girl on the blanket beneath the red flag was talking with a young man – a redhead, long-legged, and with a good ass on him.

Still, Martin mostly kept an eye on the girl. It was a matter of priorities. Unfortunately, it didn't seem like the redhead was bringing her new supplies: the girl shook her head at whatever he had asked.

The flag made the guess at the kid's question easy. It was the flag of the free-town of Christiania – which usually meant that there was dope to buy by the blanket. The guy wasn't the first one to ask in vain. The girl and her friends had run out of dope to sell a while ago. Probably the two guys who had left had gone to fetch new supplies.

Palle poked Martin with an elbow. "Look at that one."

"What one?" They were lying on their backs with their heads on their rolled up leather jackets. Palle had taken his shirt off despite the cool breeze. The languishing crowd on the grass around them was buzzing. The first band had just stopped playing; there was a lot of activity on the scene, it looked like it might take a while before the next band was ready.

"The redhead, man. He's hot."

"Yeah. Give me another beer." The effect of their last joint was fizzling out. Martin was not about to point Palle's attention to that; he would notice the absence of buzz soon enough. They had only enough weed left for one and a half joint; when Palle realized that they were running low, he would bug Martin to come with him to look for more. Right then, Martin was not up to being bugged into moving anywhere. They might as well save the panic for when the Christianits had restocked. Besides, he was comfortable on the blanket, and Palle was right: that redhead was nice to look at.

Palle dug around in the plastic bag, and pulled out a couple of bottles. "Think he's coming on to the girl?" He dug the bottle opener out of his pocket, and opened their beers.

"Could be. No – the others are getting into it too. I think he asked them something else." It looked like he was getting into a longer conversation; he slid easily from hunching into sitting cross-legged. A pale knee was poking out of a rip in the jeans; he had the skin of a redhead: pale, and freckled where the skin was exposed to the sun. Tall and lean, the shoulders and knees were knobby – as if the framework was in place but had not yet finished filling out. He might not even have finished growing.

Palle drank, and dried his mouth on the back of his hand; he sighed with content. "Grasshopper's legs, man, I dig them. Look, I think he's coming on to the guy.…"

The Christianits were laughing at something the redhead had said, and he smiled easily. "That's just your horny prick talking." Maybe there had been something extra bright in the smile the redhead had given the bearded fellow with the paunch. The openness in that smile, and the intense attention he showed when somebody spoke to him, more than hinted that his head hadn't yet caught up with the body.

"Maybe he has a thing with beards." Palle had been too lazy to shave for a couple of days.

Martin's thighs still were raw from last night's blowjob. "Wouldn't do you any good. That's a wasteland, not a beard, on your face, man. That guy, he's got a beard."

"Hmpfh." Palle drank. "Your turn."

Martin grunted and sat up, picking up the makings, making sure to keep the plastic bag out of Palle's sight.

"Make it a good one."

"Sure." Martin had intended to make the joint a good one in any case. Never having gotten the knack of fractions, he didn't go with half sizes.

Palle still had his attention on the redhead – there were plans going on in Palle's head. That meant trouble more often than not: it was a good thing that deep Palle-thoughts didn't happen often.

The redhead had the short haircut and easy attitude of somebody way outside their reach, a clean middleclass boy of the kind that looked freshly scrubbed even when dunked in mud. Probably buying dope at a free outdoor concert was as bad as this one got; he would know to stay away from the likes of Palle and Martin.

Emptying the small plastic bag turned out to be a mistake. Palle recognized the sound, and rolled up to look. "That's the last?"

"Yes." Martin waited for the panic to set in. It didn't.

"We can get some when those guys return from home base." Palle, too, had been following the supply situation under the red flag.

The expected but missing panicky reaction in Palle unnerved Martin. "What are you up to?"

"I want him. Grasshopper's legs, man. And big hands – did you see the hands on him? And that ass, I want my dick in that little, white ass, like. Whoa!" Palle grinned.

"You're crazy. He's not going look to our side at all, man. And he's straight."

"He was making eyes to the guy with the beard. I saw it."

Martin snorted, and rolled his eyes at Palle's optimism.

"Well, right now he's looking at us."

"He's just looking at the crowd. Idiot."

"You just fix the bait, and leave the fishing to me."

"Now, if you had shaved - maybe. But look at you!"

"Hey, he likes a good beard on a man."

"You call that a beard? I call it being too fucking lazy to shave. That's what it looks like."

"A beard. It's a beard."

Martin snorted – maybe he was repeating himself, but a snort was one of the arguments that Palle couldn't come back on.

Palle stroked his thin, mousy hair and fingered the leather thong that he used to keep it tied at the nape of his neck. "What do you mean, shrrrnk? I look good. I smell good, too - I took a shower. Today. Almost half an hour, man, and with soap." He flecked a bit of grass off the tattoo on his hairy chest, and patted his flat belly with a senewy hand that had a permanent black residue of motor oil around the nails.

"Wasteland, man."

"A sex bomb." The most amazing thing was that Palle was serious. "You wait and see. Sssh. He's coming this way."

"His friends are probably around somewhere; he won't have time for us. Besides – he's straight. There's a girlfriend."

Palle ignored Martin; he waved the redhead over when he was about to leave the Christianit camp, and sent him his brightest smile. "Hi."

The redhead walked over to them, smiling tentatively. "Hi?"

"You waiting for them to get new supplies?" Palle motioned towards the Christianits

The friendly, pale blue eyes surveyed them. The expression was open – almost naked, like a child's. "Yes. Do you have anything that I can buy?"

Martin recognized the careful way he spoke, and adjusted middleclass to upperclass: Gentofte, perhaps Hellerup, the guy was a frigging Gentofte-boy. Palle was in way over his head.

"We're on the last, man. You can join in if you like, there's plenty of room for one more." Palle kicked at Martin's leg to clear a space on the blanket.

The smile brightened, sending unexpected shock waves through Martin. The guy was too shiny – it was the aura of the rich or something.

"Thank you." The red head dumped a worn and bulky knapsack in the grass, folded his long limbs, and sat down.

It was a kid, probably shaving less than once a week, if at all. Martin got a cold feeling in his belly – the one he usually got when it was time to run.

"I'm Mikkel," the kid said, and made to shake hands.

"I'm Palle, and the gloomy guy there is Martin." Palle, having shaken as if it actually had been part of his upbringing, elbowed Martin, probably wanting a smile out of him.

"Hi." Martin licked the paper, and finished rolling the joint. That open gaze – if half the amount of what came out went in, then he, Mikkel, saw way too much. It was some comfort that this kind of guy was going to disappear as soon as they had finished smoking. It had to be the smoke he was seeking; it definitely couldn't be the company.

"You want to light it?" Palle offered Mikkel his own turn of the honor without a blink, picking the joint out of Martin's hand.

At least the kid knew what to do – he pulled a Zippo out of his pocket, and lit up quite handily. His hands were big, they were clean but obviously they had seen work: there were calluses. Maybe he was not quite a kid. Gentofte would explain the clean bit; the calluses were a surprise.

The joint went from hand to hand in silence for a moment.

"So, did you like the band?" asked Palle when he took the joint from Mikkel, making sure to make skin contact in the exchange. Martin curled his toes in embarrassment.

"Mm." Mikkel expelled smoke. "Lone Kellerman isn't really my cup of tea – I only heard the last of it, though."

My cup of tea? The guy actually said that; maybe he was living with his grandparents. Or maybe that was how people spoke in Gentofte. Mikkel passed the joint to Palle, who unabashedly let his fingers slide along Mikkel's. Mikkel just smiled, staying discomforting wide open; it didn't look like he had a clue. Martin took a breath of relief and relaxed: the guy was very likely straight; straight guys tended to be stupid like that.

Or maybe he was a virgin. Martin didn't like that thought one bit.

"She does sound like a fog horn on speed," grinned Palle and put his lips where there only a moment ago had been a paler pink set. "I really like her in concert. But we're here for Delta Blues Bland, mostly, do you know them?"

"No. Are they good?"

"Oh, man. Yes." Palle spoke while holding his breath. "Last time I heard them on a festival – it was like, you know, that guitar went right to balls." He unabashedly used Martin's words describing the memorable event.

Mikkel smiled showing very white teeth. He had a mouth that wanted to smile. Hell, he probably had to work to not-smile. Martin quenched a sudden impulse to punch that mouth; the guy was too bloody clean. He shouldn't sit here smoking up with evident routine in the company of two losers. He should be at home with his grandparents, drinking tea out on the patio, and discussing the latest golf game, or whatever one talked about when one was with one's grandparents, and they were rich, and it was almost summer.

"I've never been to a rock concert before." Still smiling Mikkel looked around, obviously enjoying the whole thing. "This is nice."

He called this a rock concert? Martin clamped down on a groan before it escaped.

Still with his attention on Mikkel, Palle let out the smoke, and passed the joint to Martin. "You're here alone?"


Martin drew smoke in while trying to angle his head so that Mikkel couldn't see the look he sent Palle. Drop it, he mouthed. Rock concert! Definitely a kid.

But Palle chose not to notice, continuing fishing for information with his usual hamfisted elegance. "Your girlfriend doesn't like rock concerts?"

Pressing his teeth together to keep in a violent groan, Martin held the joint out for Mikkel, and kicked Palle. The kick was not an accident. Palle wagged an eyebrow, and made a show out of moving to give Martin more room. Incidentally, Palle's knee came into contact with Mikkel's. That wasn't an accident either.

Mikkel shook his head and smiled, while those eerie eyes flickered between Martin and Palle. Heaven knew what the kid made of them. Losers, Martin guessed, hoped.

"I like girls... but not like that." Mikkel calmly pulled smoke into his lungs.

There was too much naive honesty in that. This kid was trouble on two legs, trouble for himself and, like any other target, he would be trouble for all innocent bystanders. Somebody groaned. "Fuck! You don't say things like that." Surprised, Martin discovered that not only was the groaner him, Martin, the talker was him, too.

Palle was too busy handling the gift of almost-agreement he had just been given, floundering with a silly grin on his face, and momentarily out of speech.

Mikkel passed the joint to Palle. "No?" came with the flat tense voice that comes from speaking while keeping the smoke trapped in the lungs. "Why not?"

"Other guys, other guys may beat you to pulp. Like in fucking permanent damage. You get me, kid? Don't fucking tell strangers stuff like that about yourself."

"Maybe I misunderstood. I thought...." Mikkel emptied his lungs studying Palle, still sitting there with a broad grin fixed in place while the joint in his hand was going uselessly up in smoke. "Were you hitting on me?"

"Yes. Sure. I mean, just a little-"

"No! He wasn't," Martin said and wasn't sure what to do with that statement after it got loose.

Palle glared at Martin. "What the fuck is up with you?"

"Just stop it, okay. He's a kid, man. Look, he doesn't even shave!"

"I'm sixteen, and I shave once a week. Almost." The now reddened eyes were glittering merrily. "It's okay, I like being hit on." He patted Martin's foot. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cause trouble between you two. Are you boyfriends?"

"No," said Palle, forgetting to be angry. "Really? You-"

"Yes," said Martin, going with an overwhelming feeling of contrariness.

"We are? When did that happen?" Palle discovered the dying joint in his hand. "Blast." He sucked the last puff out of it.

"Four days ago."

"Four days? Really? Four days ago? Boyfriends?"

"Yes. Sure."

"What did we do four days ago?"

Martin shrugged and looked around. Truth be told, he couldn't readily remember what they had been doing four days ago. Not without counting on his fingers, and that was too much bother. Besides, it looked like the supplies had arrived: the two guys that had left were back, and people were homing in on the Christianits

"We didn't.... You're just saying that. Man, you're just saying that. Why are you saying that?"

"What?" Martin had lost the thread, keeping an eye on the situation at the other blanket.

"We didn't get engaged or anything, did we?"

"Well, we had that weird midnight ceremony with the dead bat... look, just forget it okay. Go shop, man. The guys are back."

"No, you go. I have a good looking guy to hit on."

"Fuck you, man."

"He's legal." Which sounded really odd coming from Palle.

"My naked ass."

"Really, there was a dead bat?"


"What did we do to it?"

"We ate its heart. Raw. You know, cut it out and divided it in two tiny lumps, very slimy, you know. And we had a bonfire-"

"Four days ago we were heading home from Jylland. Man, we got off the ferry at midnight!" Palle's memory would kick in at the most inconvenient times.

There went that chance of grossing the kid out.

The kid was biting his lip, and his eyes were positively dancing while he watched them. He looked disconcertingly far from being grossed out, even though the thought of eating the raw heart of a bat made Martin slightly queasy. The kid was tougher than he looked.

"Hey?" One of the recently returned Christianits stopped by their blanket. "Mikkel?"

"Hi. That's me. You're Vagn, right?"

"Yes." The guy hunched down next to Mikkel. "I hear you're looking for a place to stay."

"I am. Do you know of any?"

"Not right now. But – you can bring your stuff, and we'll find a mattress for you somewhere to use until you can get a room of your own. It can be a couple of days or a couple of months. But don't worry, there'll be something, eventually."

"That's great." Mikkel smiled blindingly with his whole soul, and the guy smiled back, helpless under the onslaught. "Thank you. How do I find you?"

"Just ask for me at the Common Kitchen – they'll know how to find me."

"I will. I'm so glad that you can help me out."

"No trouble, man. I'll see you around, then." The guy smiled and got up. "Take care." With a glance towards Palle and Martin, he gave Mikkel's shoulder a pat as he left.

Well, Mikkel might not have taken their measure properly, but that guy surely had.

"You don't have a place to stay?" Palle asked, recognizing a chance when it was put right in front of him, and written with blazing neon tubes.

"Yes and no. I've been staying with a friend and her mother. It's a two-room apartment so it's kind of crowded; I really want to get out of their hair while things are still good."

"Go home, man, go home," Martin knew what he was talking about. "Patch things up with the rents, eat the dirt, man – much better for you."

Mikkel shook his head. "Maybe, just maybe, ten years from now, I'll think that what I did ten years ago was pretty stupid. But that doesn't change the fact that I had to do it. Have to do it." He was speaking quietly, with the ease that comes from deep conviction. "I cannot go back."

"Moving from Gentofte to Christiania – that's … different. A lot different."

"I was hoping so."

Palle reached for his cigarettes. "We got a room-"

Arrgh! "No we don't."

"We could clear the-"

"No. He's better off with a guy like Vagn than with us, and you know it. So just shut up." While Martin was on the roll, he might as well let it all out. "Palle just wants his dick in your ass," he said to Mikkel.

Palle sat up straight. "Hey! Now, you shut up! What the fuck man-"

"You do?" Mikkel did not appear offended at all – rather he looked ... interested, of all things.

Palle's mouth hung open for a moment, then he snapped it shut. "Sure. Hey, I wasn't just offering you a place because of that. Martin's right, you're better off with a guy like Vagn."

"Do I have to move in with you to … acquire your dick up my ass?" sounded really odd in the nasal, snobbish speech of Gentofte.

Martin groaned. For a smart kid this one was being really, really stupid.

"Yes!" Palle lifted his arms in a blessing of the gods. Or whatever. Then he blinked. "I mean no, no you don't. Really, you want to? With us, I mean, with me?"

There was an imp in there, it came through in the small, hot smile and the glitter in the eyes. A suddenly shy imp, the slightly bent neck said. And a very horny one, the flush in the cheeks and the sudden darkening of the pale blue eyes said.

Mikkel's smile went right to Martin's balls, a mere inkling of what Palle was experiencing being at the center of it.

Mikkel, apparently not knowing that his body was broadcasting yes, yes like a siren, nodded.

Palle let out breath with a whoosh. "Okay. Ah. Okay. Man.... Eh."

Mikkel rubbed Palle's knee. "It's okay. Don't worry, I'll be gentle." In Gentofte speech.

Palle flung back his head and laughed, and Martin was chuckling before he knew it. Damn it! Good shit always did this to him.

An electric whine from the speakers cut through his eardrums, and sawed at his spine. Good shit did that too: opened his ears, doubled his hearing or something.

The band was on the stage, plugging in their instruments.

Palle poked Martin. "Go get us some."

If he didn't then he would have Palle poking him until he did. Martin got up. "Just what are you going to say to Niller?"


Palle was processing – he would get the meaning soon enough without Martin's help. Niller, Martin's older brother, would tear Palle apart for bringing that kind of boy home.

Behind him he heard Palle, "Are you coming home with me?"

Fuming, Martin went to get more funny tobacco. The opening wail of Troels Jensen's guitar shred the air.

When Martin returned, Palle and Mikkel were on their backs next to each other, shoulders touching, bent legs jumping in time to the beat. And holding hands. Discreetly, but. Holding hands! In public! Palle was acting like a fucking teenager. Martin kicked him before he sat down.

Palle just flipped him off, and told him to get the beers.

Martin gritted his teeth, set on being grumpy. But good shit did things to him, and to his memory in particular, and he forgot about being mad, what with good music getting inside his head, bubbling under his skin, and running up and down his spine. It was almost as good as sex.

When Karlo came to pick them up, Martin was in a rather fine mood, and he protested when Karlo wanted them to leave before the performance was over.

"We have to," was short for "we have to get out of here", and Karlo was nervous, and not the slightest happy when Palle told him that Mikkel was coming back with them.

"Don't be silly," Palle told Karlo, and walked ahead with an arm around Mikkel's shoulder, leaving a blinking Karlo behind.

"What's up with him?"

"He's horny and the kid's willing."

"He – that one? With Palle? You sure?"

Martin nodded. "He came on to Palle like a freight train, man."

Karlo shook his head. "Niller's gonna throw a fit - we've got a load of stuff in the back of the van."

"Smokes?" Martin quietly asked.


"Palle can sit in front with the kid." He grinned. "With Niller."

"We have the dog, too."

"Hey – why don't you stay in the back with them? I can hold the dog-"

Karlo laughed, and patted Martin's shoulder. Martin kicked a pole as they passed it. "Fuck."

And true enough – Niller was not happy. Palle shook the growled protests off like water. At least the kid had the sense to look daunted. "Come on," Palle pulled him by the hand into the back of the van.

When they were on their way, Palle coolly instructed Niller that they had to pick up a few things from Mikkel's place. Niller's heavy fist punched the weel, and the horn, that hadn't worked for a while, suddenly decided that now was the time. Another punch took care of that.

Suddenly Martin was glad that it was Karlo in front next to Niller, and that he, Martin, was sitting on a plastic box in the back with wire mesh between himself and Niller's growl.

The cardboard boxes tied down on one side of the van were not the original cartons; at least they would be okay with what Mikkel could see in the car.

Martin was looking ahead through the mesh, trying not to pay any attention to what was happening in the dark behind him. He was telling himself that he was not hearing little wet sounds of kissing, it was just a freak detail in the noise of a motor that tended to have its own ideas.

When they stopped at a red light he realized that he had been wrong. The motor stopped entirely, and the wet sound was still there, louder in the sudden quiet. And it was still there when a swearing Niller had gotten the motor started again, because by then the wet sound had hard wired itself into Martins brain. And it got worse: in the few seconds the motor had been quiet, he had also heard the throaty sounds, the sighs, and the gasping, and the sound that sliding jeans clad bodies make.

Of course when the car sped up again, those sounds were loud inside his head, just like the wet sound.

He shifted, his dick was hard. It was some instinctive reaction to Palle's gasps.

Another red light. The motor kept humming this time, and there was still wet sounds and sighs in Martin's ears.

Mikkel was sitting astride Palle who was on his back on the old mattress. Kissing. Devouring!

And Martin definitely wasn't watching, wasn't seeing the apparent relish in Mikkel's stance or the curious hands sliding over Palle's body, nor was he seeing Palle's hands moving inside Mikkel's T-shirt. He wasn't seeing any of that because he wasn't looking.


A couple more turns and lights, then Niller announced, "We're here. Hurry up."

And Martin wasn't seeing Mikkel raise his head, eyes glittering in the semi-dark, wasn't seeing the glitter of wet, swollen lips catching the weak rays of light that made it from the front to the enclosed space in the back.

Mikkel nodded and fumbled with the door, unable to see.

Palle reached out and pulled the door open for him. "Do you need a hand?"

"No, no. It'll just be a couple of minutes." Mikkel jumped out agilely, and closed the door behind him.

Niller had been following Mikkel through the window, now he turned in the driver's seat. "What the hell is going on here, Palle?"

"I'm having sex with Mikkel."

"That's a child!"

"He's sixteen – and he wants me."

"And you're twenty-four – you're supposed to be the smart one of the two of you. But, fuck, that wasn't what I was talking about. He's a kid, and kids talk. You think he'll keep his mouth shut when he's with his friends? Do you know what you're doing?"

"I usually don't. Isn't that what you always say?"

"Fuck you! You be careful with that kid - you hear me? You be fucking careful and when we get to the Farm you keep him away from where he's not supposed go. Your responsibility, you hear? One wrong move and you, you, are responsible for all of us ending up behind bars." Niller's and Martin's apartment in Copenhagen wasn't safe at the moment. Hence the stashes kept at the Farm. "You take him home to his mother when you've finished, you hear? And tell him to keep quiet, make sure he understands that he better keep quiet."

Palle swallowed audibly under the onslaught.


"I can't - his ma-"


Palle nodded.

"And if he wants to go home in the middle of it all, you stop, and you take him home. I don't care how hot you are, if he whimpers – you just stop. Listen to him. Or we'll have the police swarming all over the place waving a charge of rape. Okay?"

Niller should have known that it was way too many instructions for Palle to cope with in one go. Palle, although hit in one of his few sensitive spots, nodded his understanding. "Man, I'm not going to hurt him. Fuck."

"If you join them." Now Niller was talking to Martin. "That goes for you, too."

"What? I'm not going to – not with a kid."

"It goes for you, too."

"I know."

"Fuck you two idiots. And I'm an idiot." Niller turned and started the van. "I should just go."

"Hey!" Palle protested.

"Wait – his knapsack-" Martin said.

"Dump it," Niller said. "Hurry."

That was how, when Mikkel pulled the door open, he found Martin and Palle in a pile, obviously fighting over his knapsack. From the front sounded Niller's groan and Karlo's chuckle.

Palle and Martin froze. Mikkel watched them for a moment. "Are you fighting over my knapsack?"

"No," Palle said.

"Yes," Martin said.

"Do you two ever agree on anything?"

"No," they said.

"There's no reason to fight over it. I mean, there's nothing in it – just a lunchbox, a couple of books and a jacket."

"We weren't – hey, get in, hurry," Palle said, and let go of the knapsack to pull Mikkel plus the load he was carrying inside.

But Mikkel wasn't playing this time. His hand closed around Palle's wrist like a wise. "What's going on here, Palle?"

"They're just being stupid – they think I'm going to hurt you, but I'm not. I promise. Come on in."

Unaware how difficult it was to get promises out of Palle, Mikkel studied him with suspicion, then apparently satisfied, he nodded and let go. "Mind taking this?" Which Palle didn't, taking the rolled up sleeping bag, a large and very full sports bag, and a school bag from Mikkel. A school bag that clunked when it hit the floor – it was heavy enough to hold actual books.

Mikkel jumped in and pushed the door shut. Niller started the van and entered the traffic. Karlo sat with his large, fat dog on the lap; Krabat was shaking and panting, he didn't like to be in a car. In Martin's opinion, the dog would have been better off alone at home, but Karlo was peevish about the old animal. Very likely he was afraid of coming home and finding it dead; Karlo could be stupid like that.

They were accelerating down the ramp to the motorway when Martin heard a groan slightly different from the ones that his mind was making up.

Mikkel was on his back, stroking Palle's shoulders while Palle was going down on him. Both of them were stark naked. In the faint light and next to the swarthy, ink covered Palle, the kid's pale skin looked soft like a woman's, glowing, almost like it was asking for touches-

"Hey." Karlo had been rummaging in the glove compartment. "Here."

Martin took the condoms Karlo pushed through the mesh. It would be a while yet before Palle would need them – he preferred the feeling of his dick going into a body that was soft and pliant from a recent orgasm. It wasn't always he could make himself wait that long: it was a standing point of debate between them; Martin liked things done in a different order.

But right now Palle was pushing Mikkel's legs apart; it didn't take much pushing: the legs moved up and to the side, laying the tender treasure between them wide open with a willingness that hinted that this was no virgin. That was a relief.

And Martin wasn't looking! No, no. And he was so not sporting a boner.

Palle's eyes glittered when he looked straight at Martin, he didn't need to say anything, couldn't with his mouth full of flushed, hard dick. Martin knew a demand for lube when he got it; frustrated, he pulled the lube out of his jacket, and threw the tube at Palle. Still with the dick in his mouth, Palle easily plucked the tube out of the air. He had obviously been expecting that kind of throw.

Apparently this was Palle's day of luck – Mikkel took to the lubed fingers with a high groan and an arching back. Palle's eyes widened in wonder, and widened even more when the kid reached down, grabbing Palle by the wrist, pulling an unknown number of Palle-fingers deeper inside. He let the dick slip out of his mouth to watch the kid writhe and spear himself.

"He likes that." Karlo was sitting sideways now, and was watching too.

Which was frigging irritating, because the way they were sitting gave Martin the choice between looking at the scene on the mattress, which was just too much, or looking at Karlo's face, which told all too clearly what was happening on the mattress – or looking at the windowless side of the van which was just too boring.

A revelation shot through all his frustration: he dug into his pockets for the makings for a joint. He needed one, urgently. And he wasn't looking up to see Karlo's amused face, so not.

And he wasn't looking to see why the kid was grunting in protest. The reason became clear enough when Palle said, "Hey, relax, we're not stopping. I need more lube, and another finger – going to make you ready, okay? Going to make you ready and fuck you good. You want my dick, don't you?"

The throaty "ngh!" was a small, hot, and very urging sound of agreement.

The hard thing in Martin's pants jumped.

Palle had been watching porn again. It always made him unusually eloquent for days after: "That's good, because I want your ass, Mikkel, I want my hard dick deep your fine piece of ass, and I'm going to give you a rough ride, so rough."

The horny groan that followed made, if not the van, then at least Martin's hands shake; he almost lost the joint when he was licking the paper. Hands still unsteady, he rolled the joint. He did not want to know what Karlo was laughing at.

That was when he realized that the lighter was in Palle's jacket, and Palle didn't look like he was inclined to stop fingering his horny catch to hand Martin a stupid jacket. And Martin certainly was not inclined to climb past them.

"Here," Karlo passed him a lighter.

Martin lit up, keeping his eyes on the flame.

"Palle's going to need the rubber pretty soon, now," Karlo informed him, sounding very calm about it all, but his voice was deep, and fuzzy at the edges.

An entirely unnecessary piece of information, because Mikkel was going, "I want – I want it now." And Palle never could say no when he was faced with that kind of honest need. Martin knew that from experience; it was his secret weapon.

"Here," Martin said, gruffly because his lungs were full of smoke, and he threw the condoms. They landed on the floor next to the mattress.

Palle frowned at them but didn't protest. "Come on, Mikkel, turn around. I want you from behind, I want to go in deep, really deep, into that hot ass of yours."

Too much porn. Too little smoke, but that could be remedied.

And that kid was all too agile and good looking: all smooth lines when he looked over his shoulder, slim muscles shifting under glowing skin, watching with fascination visible in his stance while Palle rolled the condom on and smeared himself with lube.

Palle grinned happily when he looked up and saw the expression on Mikkel's face. "Okay - spread. Lay it all open."

The long legs spread instantly. "Okay?"

"Yeah. It's fine." Behind Mikkel Palle lined himself up, and Mikkel straightened so that his face became visible: flushed with heat, the lips were dark, dark. He closed his eyes. Then widened them in surprise; something was hurting.

Oh, no. Virgin alarm.

"Relax, Mikkel." Palle rubbed Mikkel's back. "Okay, relax."

Palle was usually good at preparing his way and getting in at the right angle. Even when he was high, and way beyond sanity, he could get in without hairs or folds of skin getting stuck and pulled – Karlo could attest to that; he had the hairiest ass around.

But Mikkel was hurting, that was clear enough. And deeply frustrated: "Come on, just push."

Palle gauged him. "Man, I don't think you know what you're asking. Martin – give him some of that."

Martin moved to kneel in front to Mikkel, surprising himself by doing it without putting up any fight. Not that it mattered: he was damned sure that no matter what he did, those two would go on. And those trusting eyes in front of him clung to his face, as if expecting him to somehow fix things…. "Here." He said gruffly and held the joint so that Mikkel could take a drag. "Are you relaxed? Inside, I mean," he asked when Mikkel had finished letting out smoke.

"I don't know – I think so, but I don't know – oh, that's good."

"Just a finger." Palle patted one of the buttocks in front of him. "You're tense."

Mikkel closed his eyes while the smoke slowly seeped from his nose. "Try now." He frowned, and winced. "Ouch."

"Here, Mikkel, take another." Martin held the joint, and was touched by soft lips; his balls tingled. The exhaled smoke snaked around his fingers. "You've got to push – like when you shit."

"Hey." Palle pointed to the joint. Martin took a drag and passed it to him.

Mikkel was frowning with concentration. "Mm. Mm?"

Martin kept an alert eye on that face while signaling Palle with his free hand. They had helped each other getting trucks in and out of narrow driveways enough times for Palle to understand what Martin meant. Forward, slowly.

Palle sighed in appreciation, sinking in.

Mikkel's eyes flew open.


If Palle had had stoplights mounted on his ass, they would have lit up immediately.

Mikkel blinked.

Back up a little.

Mikkel frowned, took a couple of deep breaths. This time Palle didn't need a sign to know when to move forwards.

Slowly, idiot!

Mikkel's grunt was not entirely pain driven. A grin flitted over his face. "Hey, Palle, you're a big boy."

Martin couldn't help laughing. He took the joint back from a grinning Palle. "Actually, Palle's pretty average," he informed Mikkel.

"Believe me – he has grown since you last saw him. Oh."

Stop, you idiot! Back up.

Flushed, eyes closed, Mikkel was breathing quickly. "God."

"Okay?" Martin asked. That flushed face, the swollen lips, the wave of heat that Mikkel had suddenly given off – Martin was inclined to push Palle away, and take his place.

"Yes. Yes. More." Mikkel's gaze clung to Martin's lips.


"I know," muttered Palle. "God, you're tight. Good. So good. Burning hot, man."

A flicker of a frown.


"I'm almost all the way in. Just a finger's width or two." Which probably meant three; Palle was shit at measuring by eye.

Stay where you are!

"Give it to me," Mikkel whispered, hardly audible above the roar of the van. "Please!" Blissfully unaware that he was lucky that Palle couldn't hear him, the sincere plea would have made a ram out of Palle. Or not. It certainly would have made a ram out of Martin.

Martin held the joint out. "Here. You want some of this first."

Mikkel whimpered, and licked his lips; this time the lips that touched Martin's fingers weren't just soft, they were also wet. And the darkened, red-rimmed gaze that clung to his face was full of animal lust. And Martin's hand forgot about promises, running light fingers over a sleek temple covered by sweat drenched short hair, down a cheek continuing down a smooth neck and chest. Mikkel shivered. Pulled by invisible strings Martin leaned closer, nibbling at a hot mouth that opened willingly. Mikkel was breathing smoke like a tame little dragon, welcoming his tongue.

Without looking, Martin crushed the joint on the metal floor; he had to have his hands on that sleek skin, needed to drink deeply from that eager mouth.

Mikkel groaned into the kiss and arched. And tensed.

"Man!" Palle had figured it out on his own, and had plunged the rest of the way in.

Wait! Don't move!

"I know, man."

Mikkel rested his forehead on Martin's shoulder, panting. Martin stroked his shoulder, eliciting shivers in response; the skin was drinking the touches hungrily.

"Are you okay?"

Mikkel answered with a nod and a shiver. He took another deep breath; Martin could feel him relaxing. Palle made a small throaty sound.

"You sure he's average?" gasped Mikkel.


"Oh, god." He wriggled a little. "Oh." Another wriggle and a gasp.


"It's kind of odd. But - I think… I think I may take extreme likening to having an average guy inside my bottom."

Martin couldn't help the little laugh that escaped him. Inside my bottom!

"Hey, I hope you're just talking about my dick size here." Palle grinned, and gave a small thrust, hitting the spot.

Definitely hitting the spot: Mikkel groaned and arched, spreading his legs even further like a bitch in heat. "I want…."

This time Palle heard him. Mikkel's breath hitched, and he blazed another wave of heat when Palle tightened his grip on the slim hips.

"You want what?" Palle asked, holding himself still while rubbing the sensitive hips with his fingers.

Mikkel shivered and pushed back. "I want your dick! Give it to me. Pleeease! Palle! Push it in."


Mikkel groaned, seeking to spear himself on Palle. Who just moved with him, grinning while milking the sensitive hips for responses with his hands, denying Mikkel the friction he most wanted. Palle could be one hell of a frustrating tease. Mikkel's "Palle!" came with an unexpected authority.

Palle smiled. "You like this?"

"Yes. No! You. I'm going crazy, you oaf! I want dick!" In pure Gentofte; the words set off small electric charges in Martin's balls.

"You wouldn't happen to mean – an average dick?"

"Yesss! Move!" Mikkel wriggled impatiently at Palle.

Who once again followed the moves, avoiding friction, and laughed the pearly laughter of Palle on top of the world. He leaned back, looking down where his dick disappeared into Mikkel.

Martin moved to see too, but it was too dark. He fumbled for the lighter, flicked it on and – yes! His balls jumped when he saw a sliver of the root of Palle's dick through the mated dark bush. What he could see of the dick did not look ordinary, never had, not when the thick length of it was nested inside a distended hole glistening with lube – and an oddly naked hole at that, being almost without any hairs.

In fact it was quite extraordinary.

"Watch," mumbled Palle, as if Martin stood a chance of tearing his gaze away.

Slowly Palle pulled out; glistening, rubber-clad dick seemed to go on forever, like a space ship, even though it was just average Palle. The darkness of its angry color was quite visible through the thin rubber. Mikkel tensed and emitted an abrupt, protesting growl when Palle held still again, the head of his dick anchored just inside. "See?"

Martin swallowed, and nodded. He had begun sweating, and something was fucking with his breathing pattern. Oh so slowly, Palle pulled all the way out.

"You're so dead," muttered Mikkel, wriggling that naked ass, greedily searching for what he was so hungry for. "So, so dead. You just got in."

"Ouch!" Martin suddenly discovered that the lighter had become burning hot.

Palle chuckled. After the light was gone, the room was close to pitch black. Martin didn't need light to know that Palle was mucking around with the lube. Mikkel's groan told aplenty. Palle was squeezing the stuff into him directly from the tube. Martin, fumbling around, managed to find the torch; he turned it on. Mikkel's skin was shockingly pale in the clear light. Martin had been right about the lube – a large dollop of clear jell clung to the incredibly small, red, wrinkled, and very wet ring of muscle; slowly the dollop began sliding, it left a snail trail down Mikkel's ball sack before it fell.

Palle hummed in satisfaction, and put his hands on Mikkel's hips, rubbing the smooth skin with his thumbs. Mikkel whimpered. With shaking fingers Martin pushed Palle's lube-dripping dick down, lining it up. Palle leaned in enough to barely touch Mikkel who shivered and pushed back, searching.

"He'll fall asleep before you finish, man." Martin grinned.

Mikkel, catching on, snored loudly. He couldn't see the dark grin on Palle's face. Martin moved quickly, "Stay open, stay open," he whispered before he covered Mikkel's mouth with his own.

Palle slid in. Mikkel groaned loudly, the sound fitting Martin's mental image of a fat dick smoothly, and unstoppable, sliding into that tender, struggling hole dripping with lube. Martin cupped Mikkel's neck, drinking the grunts, and the whimpered protests that followed: Palle was enjoying himself, watching his dick sliding oh so slowly in and out the tight heat – and Mikkel wanted more.

"This is the best part," Martin muttered into that mouth. "Enjoy it, kid. Don't push him."


"It's better when you don't wish for more, like, don't wish so hard that you forget what is going on now. Feel the dick, the shape of it when it stretches you wide open. Suck at it with your ass; don't you just want to swallow it up?"

"Louder. I can't hear you," muttered Palle, who liked dirty talk a lot, to Martin, who was not good at dirty talk and, at best, inadequate at giving instructions. "Holy cow! Do that again, Mikkel."

Surprisingly rewarding results like those were encouraging indeed, and a little scary. "Move your hips, look for the best angle, you want him to rub that spot just right when he goes in."

Hazy attention turned inward, mouth half open, Mikkel shifted his hips. His eyes widened. "Oh. This is good."

"Yep," Palle panted. "It looks real good, too, Mikkel. I'm watching your little asshole stretching around my dick, it's so tight but my dick is just going in, and in, disappearing into you. Feel that? Man, you, you're hot like a volcano, and you're all soft and so full of lube, my dick really likes it in there. When you suck me in like that, man, I don't want to leave."

It was obvious that Mikkel didn't want him to leave either. He was gasping and whimpering into Martin's mouth, letting himself be tongue fucked, sucking greedily. He flung an arm around Martin, maybe to make sure the tongue fuck didn't stop any time soon.

The move also left Mikkel's hard nipples open for a teasing touch. With a satisfying rush of pleasant evil, Martin pulled back enough to whisper, "Don't wish, man." And with light fingers started tickling the inner side of a hip; the skin shivered and Mikkel's sounds reverberated in Martin's mouth.

A light touch to the balls provoked a rush of hot air from Mikkel's nostrils and a deep throated groan.

Again Martin pulled away enough to speak. "No, no. Don't wish. Just take it." He felt like a hypocrite, because he really wanted to wrap his hand around the dick, to feel the hardness, the heat and the slide of skin.

"You're evil," muttered Mikkel, forcing their mouths back in contact, but he was trying, trying so hard that Martin ached for him. And those sweaty balls were almost hairless and very vulnerable in his hand, and Martin fought an impulse to squeeze hard. Mikkel's trust was scary.

Palle changed his movement, going in deep with faster, shallow thrusts. The rhythmic shocks went through Mikkel and into Martin whose own ass clenched in empathy.

Searching with a finger, Martin found the distended dick, locating it with a light touch to the wet head. Mikkel jumped, flashing heat. He merely whimpered his protests at Martin's teasingly light fingers mapping out the shape of the drooling dick.

Palle started coming in with more force. The kid struggled valiantly to absorb the thrusts with his butt. The slaps of their sweaty bodies were loud above the hum of the motor. The shocks travelling into Martin sent electric currents running up his spine.

Martin continued teasing Mikkel with his fingers, and drinking the undiluted sounds of sex, enjoying the shivers rushing through the distended dick while slicking it up with the small drops that seeped from the head. The taste of their kiss had turned salty – the sweat was running off Mikkel's face in rivulets, and his belly was slick and cool against Martin's arm.

He howled into Martin's mouth when Martin's hand closed loosely around his dick. Palle changed speed, back to the short, deep thrusts. Martin squeezed the dick, feeling it swell and swell even more, and then it pulsed. Martin swallowed Mikkel's scream while the kid shook through a violent release.

When Mikkel fell quiet, Palle grinned at the devastation in front of him. Martin let the very limp and heavy Mikkel slide down on the mattress. Palle adjusted to the new position. Hands on the mattress on each side of Mikkel, he continued the shallow thrusts.

Martin felt inclined to point out that good stuff like that was wasted on Mikkel who seemed, except for the odd twitch, quite unconscious – it was much better spent on Martin, whose pants were really uncomfortable. But he knew it was useless. Palle liked it like this, liked a pliant warm body wide open to him; obviously he had settled in for as long a ride as he could possibly manage.

Dick thrumming, Martin got out the makings for another joint. It would be a while. He knew how to suffer, and he could wait for a blowjob when he had to. He would have to live with another case of severe beard burn – and he was going to make damned sure that Palle was shaving as soon as they got home.

By the time Martin finished rolling the joint, Palle was flushed, and dripping with sweat; the thrusts were slower, and he was going deep, deep – yes, there it came, the gasp. The last pushes were more convulsions than thrusts. Palle collapsed on top of Mikkel whose reaction was a rather pleased, "mmm". So - not entirely unconscious.

Martin put the joint away, and poked Palle's shoulder. "Hey – my turn." He really wanted that blowjob.

Palle, who knew what Martin was asking for, grinned and his eyes flew open. "Joint first."

There was a mutter from Mikkel.

"What was that?" asked Palle, and hoisted himself up on his arms.

Mikkel twisted until he lay half on his side. "I said: can I lay on my back?"

With a burning feeling pooling in his groin, Martin realized that it was meant as a technical question about possible male-male mating positions.

Palle, a bit slow after having come, said, "Sure," and moved his legs so that Mikkel could turn all the way around and get more comfortable.

Mikkel rolled onto his back. "Thank you."

"Yes, you can," Martin said, letting all caution go – his balls and dick were on fucking fire.

Mikkel smiled, then shifted to accommodate Palle who lay down half on top of him.

Palle settled in under the hand that was stroking his back, and blinked when Mikkel pulled his head up by the horsetail and kissed him.

"I like kissing," Mikkel declared afterwards.

Palle laughed, and kissed him again.

Martin lit the joint. Mikkel watched them smoke in quiet; when he got the joint he asked, "Can I see you two kiss, please?"

Whatever got him going. Martin wrestled a grinning Palle in for a sound one. "You are shaving when we get home," he told him afterwards, cheeks burning and itching.

Mikkel touched Martin's cheek. "He does prickle. I kind of like that."

"My thighs are in shreds."

Smiling Mikkel handed him the joint, smoke seeping form his nostrils. "Mine are burning, too."

Martin took a deep drag, and nearly fell into coughing when a callused hand slipped under his T-shirt, and curious, light fingers traced his skin. They found a nipple. It was difficult to smoke when he had electricity running between a nipple and his balls. But he managed.

"He likes it," Palle told Mikkel. "Can you feel that?"

"Yes. Like, he shivers."

"He can't cheat me either."

Martin stuck his tongue out at Palle.

"He likes a bit of nail-"

Palle, the idiot, just wanted the joint, Martin was sure: the joint was plucked from his fingers, while the electricity was running high voltage, and the touch slipped right under his skin. Mikkel pulled Martin forward by a nipple, and raised his head. He liked kisses, he had said. It felt more like he craved them. Or maybe it was Martin's, this sudden hunger for a generous mouth that just kept giving, and a tongue that wouldn't run out of curiosity.

Hands were pulling at his T-shirt, and he let them. Mikkel let go of him so that he could get rid of the shirt. And the mouth was back, lips soft, tongue seeking and snaking. And those exploring fingers kept finding inflammable spots, were setting him on fire.

He had to touch, just had to; the smooth skin, cool from the drying sweat, rippled under his hand.

Mikkel gasped. Martin's exploration met with a hard hairy surface – Palle was doing things to Mikkel's dick with his mouth, intermittently smoking the joint.

"Don't hog it," muttered Martin, and got the joint.

Mikkel had one hand on Martin's back, and one in Palle's hair, leaving none free to smoke. Martin took a good pull and blew his lungs' contents into Mikkel who apparently liked that kind of kissing too, and, honestly, Martin found it hot, kind of magic, with the smoke seeping from those soft lips. He filled his lungs again, and blew gently into Mikkel's mouth, making sure that Mikkel got it all.

Palle poked him, and he handed the glowing stick over. Mikkel's eyes crossed briefly, so maybe he had gone a bit over board with the smoke. Mikkel gasped, and shivered: he liked having his hip tickled. He was breaking out in sweat again.

"I want to fuck you." It was out of Martin's mouth before he could censor it.

Mikkel nodded, eyes glowing. Martin opened his jeans, tore the zipper down as far as it would go; it was a relief to get rid of the confinement. Martin twisted about to sit on his butt to push his pants the rest of the way of.

Mikkel muttered something to Palle who had moved to lie next to Mikkel.

Palle giggled. "Yeah, maybe a bit more average than me. Think you can take him?"

"I haven't the faintest idea. Can you?"

"Yeah, easily. He's average." and then both of them were laughing like a couple of girls.

Mikkel fell silent when Martin moved between his legs. "Average, huh?" he said when Martin slicked up a couple of fingers. They were running out of lube fast. Palle were muttering instructions in Mikkel's ear; Mikkel pulled his legs up.

So warm, soft, and welcoming: Martin's fingers slid in easily. Mikkel hissed at the invasion, closing his eyes for a moment. Where was it? Ah. There? Yes: Mikkel moaned. Palle sent Martin a grin and a nod. Martin pulled his fingers out. He fumbled clumsily with the condom; he would rather have gone without, but Niller would have no hesitation stopping the car, and hauling Martin out, leaving him naked by the road side. A good glob or two of lube, and he was ready.

His dick insisted on taking over the thinking process, directing him to keep going like a torpedo out of its launch tube. If Mikkel's body hadn't stopped him, he would have kept going until he ran out of launch tube. But, alas, the rest of Mikkel was where it was supposed to be, and the launch came to a natural halt when their bodies collided.

Slightly surprised by the stop, Martin opened his eyes, and it took him a dizzy moment to figure out who and where he was.

He was not a torpedo.

Mikkel was spread out under him, eyes closed, and chest working in quick gasps; his hands had a firm grip on Martin's shoulders. Did I hurt him? For a nauseating second he thought that Niller was braking and that he, Martin, was doomed to hitch hike home in the buff – a very blue balled buff. Then Mikkel opened his eyes; if there was pain there then it was hiding behind the blazing fire of rut. Well and good.

And perhaps it was all right to let his dick do the thinking, it damned better be, because that hungry gaze set his balls on fire, and he just had to make sure he couldn't go any deeper. Mikkel, in obvious agreement with that sentiment, locked his ankles behind Martin; his ass sucked the alien presence of hard dick in as if it belonged there.

With hands and body Mikkel was urging him on, intense gaze clinging to Martin; if he hadn't been so horny and stoned, Martin might have felt like he was trapped in a headlight.

Mikkel laid everything open for plunder, offering it willingly and shamelessly. He raised his upper body, flushed face intent. What? Right, he liked kisses; and maybe he, like Martin, really liked when the kisses, like now, were spiced with the salty taste of sweat.

There was nothing left of the world but the rush of penetration. Their hard, slick bodies met, slid apart to meet again, and again, urgently.

Martin's dick was in the seventh heaven, intent on making sure it wasn't missing an eighth up ahead, reveling in the hot welcome it received when skewering the narrow entrance, pounding that spot inside forcefully enough to make Mikkel writhe and groan.

Suddenly it was a torpedo launch, and the tube was long, and they were both going, going through the tube, bursting out at the end: two streaks racing through warm water, exploding in showers of light, and then, finally, falling through the soft darkness towards the bottom.

"Shit," somebody said. Probably it was Palle – it certainly was Palle's voice, and Palle's hand was gripping Martin's shoulder. "What the hell was all that nonsense to make me go slow? Man, after what you did, he won't be able to shit without screaming for a week."

Martin hefted himself up on an elbow, and looked down; Mikkel lay with eyes closed, a peaceful expression on his face.

Palle stroked a cheek, Mikkel merely mumbled incomprehensibly. "He's out, man."

Martin rolled off, and got rid of the condom, throwing it in the corner. His body was slack and sated, not made for moving at all, but the floor was cold enough to send him quickly back on the crowded mattress.

Mikkel sighed and moved his legs; he flinched but stayed submerged.

"Look at him! He's totally out of commission; you used him up, you fuck. And I wanted more. I should kick your ass, you."

"Mhm." Martin couldn't feel bad – he was sure that Palle wouldn't be capable until some time tomorrow. Palle was just in the mood for a complaint.

"First you're all high and mighty on your white horse – no, no don't touch, naughty Palle, bad boy, it's a kid, gotta be nice to the kid. Then you, like, take it all, you frigging meathead. Drag him right through the grinder, crushing him like …. You owe me. You owe me big."

"Launch tube."


"Launch tube." Which, after a slow processing, still was true but also kind of funny, mostly funny, really.

"It's not funny." Irritated, Palle slapped him, but Martin couldn't stop laughing, and Palle, being who he was, began laughing too.

When the van took the turn off the road by their mail box, and rumbled down the dirt road, they were a giggling mess tangled across a peacefully sleeping kid.

End of story

© Morgenfryd 2004