(The Michael Tapes 03)

by Marc Tremaine

    WARNING:  This story is a product of imagination; it is not a depiction of real life.  It involves sexual acts between two or more males of the human species.  If you are offended by that idea or its explicit description, regardless of whether it's the act that offends you, or the age or relationship of the participants, don't read this story.  If writing about any type of sex between males is illegal in your nation, or in your particular municipality, county, state, province, or other political subdivision, don't read this story.  If your age makes it illegal to read this story, don't read this story.

    Copyright (c) 1998 by Marc Tremaine.  All rights reserved.  You have the right to download this story to keep on your computer, and to print a hard copy if you preserve the title, warning and copyright notice.  You do not have the right to otherwise reproduce or repost this story.  You do not have the right to rewrite this story.  You do not have the right to use this story to make any amount of money for yourself or anyone else.  If you do not understand these rights as I have listed them for you, my address is above:  ask before acting.


    To this day, I can't remember how I wound up in my aunt's kitchen with my jeans and underwear down around my ankles, my legs spread and kinda shaking, getting jacked off by my aunt's boyfriend.

    I know, I know, they say memory is the second thing to go when you get old.  But hell, 53 isn't....

    Aw, shit.

    Where the fuck is the fucking eraser thing on...oh, fuck it anyway.  Okay, so I lied.  Well, you wouldn't know about it unless you read the transcriptions of the other tapes...but somewhere out there's gotta be a couple of you who read the earlier ones and are smart enough to pick up on the fact that I said I was 45.  So sue me.  Or get your hand away from your crotch and stop reading.  Yeah, that'll show me.

    The sound you just didn't hear was a big sigh.  I will personally beat the shit outa the guy doing the transcribing if he fools around with words and fonts to try to put the "sound" on paper (okay, okay, or maybe on your computer screen, I know this is going out on the Net, all right?).

    See, in real life I have no trouble telling anyone my age. Or height.  Or weight.  (Well, I might have shaved some pounds off, but I'm not ready yet to be poster boy for the save the whale foundation.)  And of course, being gay with a reasonable-sized cock I have no trouble telling anyone how long it is...right down to that last silly millimeter of difference.  (If you're too young to remember the commercial, go ask your grandfather.)

    I guess the reason I said 45're not really interested in all this philosophical shit, are you?  Just the sex, man, just the sex.  (Ask your grandfather again.)

    Okay, so back to me bein' fourteen.  And Al, my aunt's boyfriend, bein' mid-thirties.  Actually, I think maybe he was thirty-seven, thirty-eight at the time.  And the kitchen.

    Over the years I've jacked off to these memories, but it's kind of like coming into a movie theatre after the film has been going for a while, and then you never get to see the first part that led up to what was on the screen when you got there.  That's kinda the way this memory is.

    Al was good with words...real good.  He was a writer, and actually made money at it, so he had to have some talent.  I can remember going over to my aunt's house when they lived in the same city as the rest of the family, special visits on Saturdays when I was eleven and twelve.  She was kind of the black sheep of the family because she was living in sin with a younger man, and back know, shortly after the Dark Ages...that wasn't something people were supposed to do.  Nothing happened on those visits.  I got to listen to great music I'd never hear at home...mostly classical, some satirical records...and read science fiction and fantasy magazines that she had collected from the thirties and forties...and more recent ones, too.  She was a really good cook, and she always made a special dinner for me when I got to stay the whole day.  Al was there, of course, and I don't remember anything happening then.

    Well, I have a vague know...the kind where you aren't sure if the memory is of something that really happened, or if it's just fantasy on your part (wishful thinking, perhaps?)...of Al having his big hand on my bottom, one finger in the crack of my ass.  And of me enjoyin' the hell out of it.  I wasn't naked or anything, and neither was he.  And I have no idea how we got in that position.  There's just this "sense," I guess, of a hallway with panels of dark wood, and an ornate staircase.

    See, I didn't admit to myself, or anyone else, that I was gay until I was in my early twenties, but that hadn't kept me from having a reasonable amount of sex before then...okay, more minimal than reasonable in terms of quantity.  And looking back on it, there was a hell of a lot I missed out on by being too stupid (too shy?  too afraid?) to pick up on the signals and follow through.  It was kind of like these events were isolated incidents, each one walled off from the other, and not that I couldn't figure out that, hey, dumb shit, there is a connection...there's not only a connection there's a fucking pattern, as in guess who's queer but doesn't know it.

    But deep down inside, before Al had his hand on my ass...or later, his dick up there...long before that, when I was five, I knew I was gay.  Okay, so I didn't know the word.  Back then, no really one did.  Except Cary Grant in "Bringing up Baby."  But I knew I liked boys...boys my age, and teenagers, and men.  Sure, I played doctor or whatever we called it, and I can still remember the feel of my fingers between the legs of the seven-year-old girl up the street, and the six-year-old who lived behind us...playing with her hairless slit, and how it got kind of wet, and what it looked like up close.  And I can remember the feel of their hands on me, when I dropped my pants for their turn.

    They didn't get me breathless, though, with this kind of churning in my stomach.  It was the other boys that did that.  There were two, I think.  More brain cells chewed up, because I remember that fact, and I remember my reactions to playing with their cocks and balls, and them playing with mine...even though I can't remember the details.  You'd think a faggot would remember what a little boy's prick felt like, instead of a little girl's pussy, wouldn't you?  Well, I guess I've never been an exactly typical faggot.

    Holy shit.

    Holy fucking, fucking shit.

    I just realized something.  I was four when I first found out I liked boys.  Y'see, I remember...well, I still know his name after getting close to fifty years, and he was a young teenager then, so maybe he's alive, maybe not, so I'm not going to tell you.  But up to now, I've always thought that what he and I did happened when I was five or six.  But it couldn't have been.  Because that stuff with the girls was after my family moved into a different part of the city, and the stuff with the teenager...shit, I have to call him something...okay...Bobby...and if you think that's really his name but I'm pretending otherwise you have to be really dumb.  Anyway, what was goin' on between Bobby and me was before we moved, and I was in first grade at my new school.

    Another one of those start-after-the-beginning memories.  I have no idea how Bobby got me naked the first time.  Hmmm.  Do you all see a pattern here? But there weren't any objections from me.  I liked the idea.  Really, really, really liked the idea.  Odd how your memory is.  Assuming the buildings were still there, I could go back to the apartment building where we lived then, go out the front door, and walk the block and a half to where Bobby lived.  But we never did anything at his place.  Just in the bushes...or sometimes in the basement of my apartment building, back by the big old furnace.

    I can remember Bobby playing with my tiny cock and balls.  I can remember licking a cock that seemed huge to me, and not being able to take it all the way in my mouth.  I can remember the hair around his prick, and the way he jacked off with one hand while he was playing my ass, or my prick or my tits, until he spewed a load.  I think I licked up some of it, once.  I'm pretty sure he never fucked me, although I probably would have said yes if he'd wanted to.  I loved every second I was with him, loved the feel of his hands on my body, loved the sight and taste and feel of his cock and balls.  I loved it in the summer when we crawled in behind the huge bushes at the stadium, hiding in the green smells of the leaves, and getting naked.  I loved it in the fall when the colors were brown and crisp and the leaves and branches were still enough to hide us when he put his cock between my legs, with me laying on top of him, and kind of jacked himself off that way.  I loved it that one time in the winter when we were all bundled up, and it was cold, and how it felt sucking his dick head and smelling the warm boy odors drifting out of his  open fly, while the air was almost hard, like my dick, and making my face stiff, and that contrast between that cold layer of skin on my cheeks and the splashing drops of hot cum when he finished jacking off and sprayed my face.  And then licked every drop off.

    Oh, yeah, if any of you out there get all indignant about this teenager (he could have been fourteen or even fifteen, I guess) "taking advantage" of a little boy...all that politically correct bullshit...well, take your indignation and shove it.  No matter what you want to think, I know myself...and I wanted what was happening between the two of us.  Forget the crap from the eggheads who think they know everything and who think that kids only have sex with an adult because they're afraid, or forced into it, or seduced into it because their will is overpowered by the adult.  Sure, that's probably true a lot of times.  Hell, maybe even most of the time.  But there are kids out there who know what they want, and don't have to be forced or overpowered into anything.  And I was one of them.

    I guess, though, that I wasn't the only boy Bobby was having sex with.  Maybe the youngest, maybe the most willing, I don't know.  But I do remember that one day he wasn't living in the neighborhood any more.  And everyone was real cagey and kinda funny about why.  I have no idea how I know, but I do know that somehow I found out that he left...maybe his whole family, which I think is what happened, or maybe they just took him away to some long ago version of juvenile jail...because of the boy-sex.  I don't know about the other boys in the neighborhood, but I for one was really sorry he was gone.

    Oops.  Sorry.  Sorta got sidetracked there.  We were talking about me and my aunt's boyfriend, weren't we?

    Okay, so there I was.  Naked from the waist down.  Stiff as I'd ever been.  Sitting on this white, straight-backed kitchen chair.  The whole kitchen was white, with splashes of a few bright colors here and there.  And Al was sitting in front of me...for some reason, I think it was on a bench, yeah, it was a bench against the wall, and I had pulled the chair out from the table and twisted it around to face him.

    My hands were down at my sides, kind of gripping the edges of the chair.  Al was leaning forward.  He was over six feet tall.  Black hair.  Black eyes.  Round-faced, with kind of big lips, no beard or mustache.  Stocky build. Very pale skin.  Definitely no Adonis, just your average late thirties guy who got hard for teenaged boys.  His left hand was on my right leg, right at the knee, caressing and squeezing, his elbow resting on his own knee to support his weight.  His right hand was jacking me off in a way I'd never thought about, never experienced before.

    He wasn't stroking me at all.  He had his right hand wrapped around my cock...a big hand, his fingers curved around the shaft, just barely touching the head, his skin kind of rough from the outdoor work he did around the place, but hot.  His thumb was right under the head of my dick and all he was doing was rubbing that spot.  Small circular motions.  And then up and down.  And bigger circular motions.  And then he'd start it again.

    I started moaning.  Not loud, just soft like the soft motions of his thumb.  He'd build me up, and then stop for a second or two, just holding my dick, his left hand roaming around my thigh, feeling my cock pulse in his hand while he spread my legs a little wider with his left hand and played with my balls.  He whispered how beautiful my slim cock was, and my balls, and the curly fine hair around the base of my prick and on my nuts.  He reached up under my shirt and tee-shirt and rubbed my hairless chest.  And then he'd start all over again, his left hand squeezing my thigh and his left thumb massaging, caressing me, almost in sync with the rhythm of his other thumb.

    Christ but he was good.  He had me begging for release in no time at all.  Incoherent whimpers of, "Please, Al, oh dear God, Al, please, c'mon, please," while the pressure from his thumb below by cock head increased, until I started thrusting my hips up at him, thrashing my head from side to side and begging and moaning and he gripped my dick really firm, and cupped my balls with his other hand and all of a sudden I was shooting and shooting and shooting, quivering and shaking on that kitchen chair and finally collapsing back against it.

    When I finally managed to get control of my breathing and open my eyes, he was still gently holding my prick and balls.  I looked him in the eyes and blushed all over my damned body.  He just smiled at me, lifted his hand and licked my cum off of it.  He told me to stay where I was and he got up, went to the sink, and after the sound of water running for a little bit, he came back with a warm dishrag and cleaned the other spatters off of me.

    "I take it you liked that?" he asked.

    Still embarrassed and uncertain, but knowing that by God I'd loved every stroke, every second, I just nodded.  Embarrassed and uncertain because I knew what my folks would say if they found out; knew what my aunt would say.  I wasn't some dumb kid...I had a lot more than average "smarts"...a lot more.  Embarrassed and uncertain because I knew everyone would say that what we had just done was wrong and that he could get in a hell of a lot of trouble for it (although with my upbringing, at that time of my life "hell" wasn't part of my vocabulary).  But at the same time I knew how much I'd enjoyed it.  How much I wanted it to happen again.  How much I wanted to find out if there were other things we could do.

    Y' wasn't as though I'd forgotten about Bobby and me when that day came with Al.  It was that wall thing...Bobby was a separate event that didn't have any relationship to the here-and-now (then-and-now?) of what was going on with Al, so I didn't make any connections between the two...didn't remember the things that I did to Bobby besides his jacking himself off...and the couple of times Bobby put his mouth over my prick and balls and licked and tongued me into a frenzy that had me tossing around like I was having some sort of fit, but it sure felt wonderful.

    He sat on the bench again.  Fully dressed and staring quietly at the half-naked teenager across from him.  His legs were spread a little; his left knee touched mine.  He looked down at the bulge in his pants, and said, "You want to?"

    I nodded.

    He unzipped his pants, reached inside and pulled out his cock and balls.  Damn but they were big.  Not the biggest dick I'd ever see in my life...nor the biggest to ever fuck me...but it was, I think, the first hard man-dick I'd ever seen.  Well, the first almost-hard man's prick.  His balls were covered with thick black hair, not really curly, but long, and I could see more crotch hair peeking about of his fly.  I reached out and wrapped my hand around his cock like he had done to me...well, not quite the same, my fingers couldn't quite get all the way around his shaft.  Nope, not some fucking soda-can type dick, just a fairly thick rod, and my hands weren't all that big anyway.  His dick was so fucking hot.

    I started playing with the base of his cock-head just like he'd done to me and he finished getting hard pretty quick.  What a sight.  A fat white prick standing up stiff and tall out of his dark slacks, a little precum leaking down on the head, and under my thumb.  I tried to do it to him, just like he'd done to me.  He kind of slumped back against the wall, watching me do him.  I could almost feel his eyes roaming over my body, fondling my again-hard prick.  Now that was unusual.  I know all the shit about horny teens and perpetually hard meat, and instant hardons two seconds after you've cum...but that was never me.  Well, virtually never me.  Once I came that was it for at least a day.  But not that day...and not the couple of other times we had together before I went home.

    I could feel my hard dick demanding attention, but I was concentrating on Al, on playing with his thick, muscular thigh, rubbing and squeezing like he'd done, moving my thumb in circles on the bottom of his dick, and up and down, and varying it, and playing with his balls.  I never quite stopped because I couldn't tell if he was getting close or not, so I just kept on working his meat kind of steady.  Like me, he sat there with his hands out at his sides.  I kept stroking and playing and slowly Al began to breathe harder, too, not like me, no thrashing about, but his chest heaved, and he was inhaling deeper.  Then he made me stop, panting just a little, while he fumbled with his belt and the top button, and then raised his hips and shoved his pants and boxer shorts down to his knees, his cock bending sharply as the boxer opening went by and then popping up again.  "Go for it," he said.

    I did, and in a few seconds I could feel his dick turn to steel underneath my hand, and see his balls start to pull up, heard him whisper, "Faster, Michael, c'mon kid, faster," and I did that, too.  My thumb was moving around and around under his dick head, my fingers were clamped down tight, and all of a sudden I could feel his cum rushing up the tube on the bottom side of his dick and spurt up in a fountain from where I was holding his dick straight up.  He shot again and again, big hot splashes of gism dropping down on my hand, on his cock, in his crotch hair, and I just kept on rubbing his cock head with my thumb, slower and slower until the last little dribble of cum came out of his slit and slid down to my hand.

    I was breathing almost as heavy as he was, and even though I'd just cum, my dick was really stiff.  I wanted to jack off, but didn't know whether I should.  But at least I could do what he did.  I raised my hand to my lips and started to lick off his cum.  It was thick and salty, and already starting to cool down, but it tasted good.  Only he stopped me with a gentle hand on my wrist.  "You want to jack off?" he asked quietly...the same warm, quiet, deep voice that had wrapped around me the whole time we were in the kitchen, holding me, protecting me, making me feel special and attractive and sexy.

    He told me to just sit still for a second, and then he pushed his pants down all the way, and peeled them off over his shoes.  His legs were white and hairy, and his balls flopped down onto the bench.  His belly was hairy, too, not a thick mat, but plenty of it...a kind of big belly, but not fat.  I couldn't tell what his chest and tits were like because he still had his shirt on, but he tucked the bottoms up so that he was naked from just below his tits down to his shoes and socks.  He sort of pulled me up by my dick and I hobbled over between his wide-spread legs.

    "Use my cum, Michael."

    I never claimed to be bright when it comes to sex...especially not for being a near-virgin when it came to male sex.  My puzzlement obviously showed on my face...I've been told most of my life never to play poker...and he told me to use his cum to lube up my dick.  Wow.  I'd never used any lubricant on my dick while jacking off (still don't, for that matter), but the idea was a real turnon.  I smeared what I hadn't licked off my hand onto my dick, and scooped up some more blobs from his softened meat.  He had me drop a couple of big globs of spit on my cock, too, after the first couple of strokes.  It was a good feeling, my dick all slick with spit and cum.

    He slid forward so his butt was almost off the bench, and moved his legs in close to mine.  God, the touch of his hot skin on my bare legs got me even hornier.  I started stroking faster, going off into a haze.  That hot, smoky voice started telling me what to do.  Telling me to lean forward, support my weight with my left hand on the bench.  Telling me to squat a little.  To rub the back of my hand over Al's prick while I was stroking.  To rub my prick against his.  To look into his eyes while he sucked on his middle finger, getting it wet with his spit. To stroke faster while his strong right arm reached between my legs so my balls were resting on the inside of his forearm.  To squat just a little bit more as his wet finger began playing with my virgin hole.  A real virgin hole.  I'd never thought of putting anything up there.

    I knew I'd think of it, though, and often, as he slid the tip of his wide finger past my ass ring.  And then he just held it there while I whimpered and continued stroking my meat.  And then he slid it in, deeper and deeper until his whole finger was inside me and I really moaned.  He started finger fucking me, slow for a couple of strokes, and then fast and hard and deep, rubbing over my prostate and whispering to me with a voice that sent me into a mindless fog of lust how hot I was, to beat my meat hard, to cum for him, to shoot another hot load of cum, and then he took his finger all the way out of my hole and rammed it in again, really hard, really fast, and pressed down on my prostate and massaged it and I began trembling and moaning "Oh my god, oh my godohmygod," as I shot another big load of cum all over his arm.

    I wanted to just collapse, but he supported me with his left arm while he slowly withdrew his finger.  A finger I wanted to stay right where it was despite just blasting off a new load.  I straightened up, and he used his left hand on my butt to pull me in closer.  Smiling at me, he squeezed my ass, brought his hand around, scooped up my cum off his arm, licked it off his fingers, and then lifted my right hand to his mouth and one-by-one sucked my fingers and thumb into his mouth and licked them clean.

    More than slightly wobbly, I finally sat down.  Al got up, walked over to the sink, warmed up the dishrag again and brought it back.  I cleaned myself off, handed it to him, and he did the same.  My dick wouldn't have stood for it, but as he stood in front of me, his sport shirt hanging down now, his still-large cock and balls so close to my face, the sight of his naked hairy legs and dark shoes and socks, and the musky scent of sweat and man and cum, at least had my thinking head horny again, even if my dick head wasn't going along.

    Al kind of hefted his balls and I licked my lips.  He looked at his watch.  "We better get dressed, Michael.  They'll be back in a little while."  He didn't have to ask me not to tell.  I wasn't anywhere near stupid enough to do so, and risk the chance of nothing more happening.  All I had to do was pull my underwear and jeans up, pausing with them just below my butt so Al could take the hint and play with me just a little, first.  Al pulled off his shoes, got his pants and boxers right-side-out again, got them on, and was just finishing retying his shoes when we heard the car pull up.

    Al looked at his watch again, and his eyebrows lifted in surprise.  He got up, moved quickly over to the sink and ran some hot water onto the dishrag, and told me to pull the chair around.  I'd just done so, and Al was opening the refrigerator door to get out the pitcher of lemonade when my aunt and younger brother came in the back door.

    I guess when you're thinking with your dick...and your dick is thinking about what's going to happen don't have a guilty conscience, so nothing shows on your face.  Maybe I should have been playing poker right then; I probably would have won big.  Although as far as I was concerned, I'd already won big.

    And I was going to win big again...or so Al's little smile assured me just before he went out with my aunt to get the other bags of groceries.