Used -- 3

Stan was starting to sweat.

We had arranged an afternoon trip to Brighton in Stan's tiny souped-up VW Beetle. Ma had been reluctant to let me go and had even spoken to Stan on the subject. But Stan was all concern and politeness and Ma was swayed. Where women were concerned ole Stan could certainly turn on the charm.

The warm weather held and I wore a tee shirt and shorts. Stan looked rather lovely, also in shorts (so tight the fabric stretched acround his heroic thighs and his lovely bum) and a bright yellow sleeveless top which showed off his manly physique in an exciting way.

Every time he changed gear the muscles rippled in his left arm. His feet on and off the pedals meant that his legs were in constant motion, better than any ballet. I was entranced.

Going through Croydon I said how much I admired his manly thighs and I even reached out my hand and squeezed the nearest one, the back of my hand brushing against his enclosed and straining packet. That was when he began to sweat.

He asked me to light a fag for him. How incredibly sexy, like one of those old black and white films where everyone is smoking like a chimney. I took the fags out of the glove compartment. But where was the lighter?

"Errrr..." he stammered. "It must be in the back pocket of my shorts. I thought I was sitting on something hard." And he gave an embarrassed laugh.

Sitting on something hard! "What, like your cock Stan?" I shrieked in a schoolboyish way.

"Hehe, I hope to have a bit of minge perched on that before the day's out, Miles my boy."

Oh fuck it! I just reached over and gave his cock a squeeze. Mmmmm, it felt so good. Then I fished around in his back pocket while he sat forward on the seat. My hand `accidentally' went down the back of his shorts a couple of times. His arse crack was warm and slightly damp and I began to fantasise about how it would feel for my boy cock to be fucking his hole.

I found the lighter and lit the cigarette, feeling rather butch as I did so. But the taste was foul. I took the fag, still wet from my mouth, and put it against his deliciously curvaceous and pouting lips.

Had he deliberately arranged that interlude with the lighter? Well, if he had, it was probably quite unconsciously. I couldn't imagine him thinking the whole thing through. He was Stan the man, and nothing would make him think otherwise. But perhaps I could provide him with a few pointers.

Meanwhile, sitting half slewed toward him in the seat, my knee touching his whenever possible (damn that gear stick for getting in the way! -- but it gave him an excuse for some occasional thigh touching) I kept glancing across at him.

He was a handsome guy, I didn't doubt it, even though he was dumb. The sexy way his hair was brushed back from that nice straight forehead, the small cute ears, straight nose with flared nostrils, kissable mouth -- mmmm, yes. And really adorable brown eyes, animalistic, sexy! And the thin mustache to accentuate the delicious curve of his upper lip and the pencil thin sideburns to accentuate the delicious curve of his cheeks and bring out the square jawline.

I rested my arm along the back of his seat as he drove. It was a mite uncomfortable but I liked the feel of his back muscles as he changed the gears.

The sky was blue, the air was fresh despite Stan's smelly fag, and I felt free and was a little bit in love with my pally hunk.

Stan was a most erratic driver, but that was what made it extra exciting. He would suddenly shoot off with a whoosh into the wide blue yonder whenever he had the chance, overtaking madly and yelling abuse. Each renewed lunge seemed to make him more and more excited. He had a permanent semi hardon, and there was even a bit of a damp patch on his stretched silky shorts.

I sat back in my seat, extended my legs, and slowly scratched and fingered my crotch, as if absent-mindedly. The sweat broke out afresh on Stan's manly brow and he whooped and screamed down the motorway.

We came to one of those expensive motorway restaurants and Stan fancied a coffee and a bite to eat. He said it would be on him, which was nice. I wasn't to worry about the expense -- which was just as well because all I had was a two pound coin and some loose change. He adjusted his undercarriage before he got out of the car, but even so when he alighted he was sporting a visible juicy packet.

I told myself to stop thinking about sex all the time, it couldn't be healthy, but just to see Stan-the-man walking a few steps in front of you, with his swagger and his big muscled thighs and arms and that fantastic tight arse, was almost more than a girl could bear. I followed hotly in his wake with itching palms.

It was as if he were my dad, or more nearly older brother. In the restaurant we were very butch among the families and couples and screaming kids, but it didn't stop us sitting thigh to thigh and as close as we could get. He was eyeing up the girls and half-groping me at the same time, which I liked.

There was a busty young lass sitting a few tables away, facing us. She seemed to take a shine to Stan (who wouldn't?) and started laughing loudly with her girlfriend and showing a magnificent set of teeth and adjusting her straining bra as if it were two sizes too small -- which it probably was, or she two sizes too big.

"But never big enough for me," leered Stan as he elbowed me. "Fucking gorgeous bazookas man! I'd love to tit fuck her."

"Wassat Stan?" I asked, being unfamiliar with the term.

He put his mouth against my ear and whispered echoingly and slightly painfully into my shell-like "Get your hard cock between her big fucking mammaries and let it rip Miles." His breath was hot and close and we were half kissing, there in public, and our hands were on each others thighs.

The two girls were giggling away over their coffee and croissants and preening and smirking in our direction. `Dogs!' was what I thought, jealously. Lucky fucking tarts to be able to eye up any man they liked! Lucky fucking tarts to have big Stan coming down between their legs or tit-fucking em till they screamed with pleasure and made Stan cum his load all over their faces. It made me sick.

But nothing much happened. Stan was either too forward or not forward enough and the busty maidens escaped with a giggle and a wiggle and left Stan panting in his seat and groping me. "Oh Miles..." he sighed, whether in regret over the girls or because he desired me was difficult to tell.

We hit Brighton around midday and Stan's first thought was to find a bar. This struck me as ominous. While I am very adventurous where sex is concerned, I am timid around transport. My driving skills were negligible and if Stan got plastered we were stumped, or might end up dead on the road.

"Do you think you should drink this early Stan?"

A hug to my shoulders, thin against his beef. "You'll be all right with me mate. I can take my drink. Besides, if I have a couple now I shall be OK for later."

The next trick was to find a bar from which I would not be ejected for being under-aged. This was a little more tricky, but we were in gay Brighton. We found an old place in a backstreet and I could tell at once (gaydar or what?) that the barman was one of us. He wasn't effeminate, but it was obvious from the way he eyed up me and Stan that his radar was properly functioning too.

He looked me in the eye (wow!) and said, "You've started young dear."

Stan bumbled, "He's not under age you know."

"Did I say he was?"

I winked at the barman and he winked back. Now I was beginning to sweat.

Stan and me sat on an upholstered bench, thigh to thigh. He started smoking again. It seemed a pity to be stuck here in the twilight of this poky smoky room where the lamps were switched on when all outside was sunshine and sea breezes. But then it was nice to be with Stan. And nice to have the sweet barman ogling us both.

"What's he looking at?" asked Stan.

Now it was my turn to whisper in Stan's ear. "I think he's gay and I think he fancies you. Or perhaps he fancies us both." I rubbed Stan's cock under the table and it rose in my hand. "Remember that time in the toilet?" I asked archly.

Stan harrumphed and smoked his fag and gulped his pint and tried to avoid the barman's eyes. I sipped my half of lager as delicately as I knew how. I knew it would give me wind, it always does.

There weren't many people in the bar. As soon as Stan had got up and gone into the loo for a pee, the barman sidled over to me. He was a great-looking guy (but then I was in one of those moods, and Quasimodo might have appeared quite cute).

He scooped up the empty glasses and gave me the once over. "You have excellent taste kid," he smirked. "And so has your friend."

I took this for a compliment and blushed a bit. He was standing close to the table, his packet bunched up against the edge of the circular top, within easy reach of my hand.

"Are you two an item?" he asked.

I was flattered to be treated in this way by an older man, as if I shared his savvy. And it made me feel just a little nervous but I gulped and said, "Well, not exactly, not yet at least."

His eyes lingered over me almost lovingly and now I really was embarrassed and blushed a deeper red. At that moment Stan came out of the loo and lurched towards the table.

"Good luck," whispered my new friend in a sexy low voice that made me shiver -- and was gone.

"What'd he want?" demanded Stan.

"Just collecting glasses," I soothed.

Stan reseated himself, almost sitting in my lap. It seemed as if he regarded me as his own exclusive chicken. I wasn't complaining, no way.

And the barman kept on looking and I started to wonder what was in his mind.


(The view from the bar)

Fuck what a horny couple, and that kid is really something, bleached black hair, black underneath and the bleached highlights of cornfield gold. Smooth as a worm with smouldering blue eyes, hardly out of school I should guess. Real live chicken meat on the hoof (or claw). Scratch scratch, scratch off those skimpy shorts to see what's underneath, nice uncut boycock, hairless white silk thighs to wrap around me, wrap around my waist.

Squatting on my double bed, his legs tucked under him, staring, open, waiting for what comes, wet and willing, leaning back on his hands against my pillow, sleek thighs open, ready to be licked and kissed and loved.

And as I pour the golden and the amber liquids and the brown, sparkling in the bar-lights, frothing with gas and splendour, I see him kneeling facing the wall, lasciviously lowering his white pants and staring me into extinction from those deep and ever deeper dark blue eyes. And smiling, as he smiles now at his friend, his lucky and enamoured friend. And the twin pear globes of his pink curved arse cheeks and the inviting darker crack between.

And look at his friend, a little cracker too, but slightly older, meaty and matey. Talking and drinking and smoking, under the spell of that bar-Eros, that sultry wet and willing boy. Slightly older, and much meatier, look at those wonderful thighs and wonderful arms. And the way he stares at the boy and stares at me, as if I were a rival for his lovechild's amorous carresses.

And now the boy has winked at me again, while his friend has turned to look at some girls. Winked and blushed with what delightful pink rising from throat to cheeks and back again like a signal of love, a call for sex.

Oh siren-lad I long to make you mine, to make and take you, to engulf you in my love.

Would they be ready, the lad and his lover, would they allow a third to join them both? Would they enjoy a romp on my old soiled bed, witness to a hundred nights of love? While the lamp is lit with a soft warm glow and the curtains drawn and a whole night waiting for our fingers, lips and eyes and blushing limbs upon and then beneath the counterpane? Under and over the counterpane of flesh, love's eiderdown?

Oh lovely boy I straddle you with limbs of love and long and licking kisses.

Oh solid flesh-built guy I should give way to all your lust and urgency.

Love before and love behind, lust's feast and jubilation.


"What's he smiling at now?" demanded Stan, his hackles rising.

"Who's that?" I asked.

"That effing geezer behind the bar. Oh come on Miles, finish your drink, I've had enough of this."

I barely had time to swallow down my lager before Stan more or less dragged me away. I waved to the barman just before I left through the heavy swing doors and just had time to see his answering wave. Pity, he was a pretty horny guy.

The sun seemed extra bright and the sea breezes doubly fresh. I was feeling really rather squiffy, not being much used to the drink. Stan was staggering a bit and ogling all the girls and women. But he was mine for the day, I was confident of that, and it was a good feeling. Five foot six of bulging muscle and randiness, and, for today, all mine. Because I had no doubt that one day soon Stan would find some lady who would say yes to his advances, and then he would be lost to me. Sufficient unto the day, as the Bible says. Live for the day say others, and I agree.

We lounged around the Marina. We had some lunch. Then another pub. Then more to eat. More booze and as the sun began to sink it was clear that Stan was totally incapable of driving. I wondered if he had even given it a thought, or whether it was all part of a cunning plan.

"What if we stay in a hotel, nothing too swish, single room and telly and a shower?"

I considered this. "Sounds good to me. But I don't think it will go down too well with Ma. But then again, she wouldn't like you to be driving while you're pissed."

"Give her a ring. Let me speak to her. I get on well with your mum."

Stan the man, the ladies' man again. I rang and Ma was furious. The air was blue. But good ole Stan takes the mobile from me and starts chirping sweet nothings down the airwaves and suddenly it's all OK.

He handed me back the mobile with a smile. "All arranged. I think your mum fancies me."

I thought so too, but didn't wish to encourage that line of thought. That Stan would one day go off with some woman was bad enough. That it should be my own mother would be a disaster.

We found an hotel and got a double room. More funny looks, but I didn't care and Stan was too pissed to notice. No luggage of course, and that went against us. But they weren't full and glad of the trade. I told Stan I couldn't afford to go halves. He just hugged me and said "My treat."

I was suitably grateful and wondered if he was expecting anything in return. He hadn't moved in on any girls yet, so it looked to be just me and him. My night of romance by the sea with Stan. Who could ask for anything more?

We booked in and went out for a few more drinks. Stan tried it on with some girl and got abused -- the mouths on some of these women are unbelievable. I think that even Stan was taken aback and we left there double quick.

"Oh I'm feeling fucked. Let's go to bed Miles."

"Yeah me too Stan. It's been a busy day."


(And so to bed)

The room is rather tacky. Wallpaper frayed at the edges and coming away in several places. There's an awful spotlight above the double bed -- obviously DIY. On the bed sits a boy in white underpants, kneeling on the duvet, resting his back against the black suede headboard. His bleached highlights shimmer in the light from the lamp and his smooth skin reflects the light on shoulder and creamy thigh. His dark blue eyes are focused on the mirror opposite and he tries to arrange his somewhat pouting lips in their best expression. His thighs are semi open and he arranges his cock and balls in the undies so that they show to advantage through the white cotton. He slowly rubs his hairless pecs to bring himself on. The cock slowly rises until it makes a peak. Satisfied, he sighs and leans back and watches himself.

Stan is in the bathroom, titivating, thinking of the boy and trying not to think. He has combed his hair half a dozen times. He has washed his intimate and private parts as if in preparation, as though he were going to bed with a lovely girl. His cock is semi-hard thinking of her lovely furry pussy. But it isn't her, it's him. It's young Miles. Why does the thought of Miles and the thought of bed excite him so? It must be the drink. It's just the drink

He looks at himself in the mirror and admires.

The door opens and Miles comes in. His eyes are like blue fires. His pouting upper lip is full of love, his lower lip of promise. Stan the man just sighs and combs his hair. He tells himself he will remember none of this in the morning, will want to remember nothing. But this is not tomorrow, but here and now, and in this cabinet world he can do as he likes because all will be forgiven and forgotten on the morrow.

"All right if I have a piss?" asks Miles.

Stan smiles -- a rather tender parting of the lips. "Course Miles, anything you like."

Miles straddles the pan and lets down his undies and aims at the china bowl. Stan is looking and enjoying what he sees as he combs his sleeked back hair again. Stan can't help himself and comes to the bowl and gets out his half hard cock and pisses too. They stand side by side, pissing, forearms touching.

Miles finishes and shakes the drops, slowly wanking himself, his forearm rubbing against Stan's. Now Stan finishes and watches what Miles is doing. Miles takes Stan's dick and shakes the drips from it then suddenly drops to his knees to lick it clean. Stan puts out a hand to push the boy away but the hand has a mind of its own and instead of repulsing it starts to stroke and fondle Miles' soft and highlighted hair.

The boy looks up, the cockhead in his mouth, and his eyes are like the sea on a summer's day.

Stan is still drunk. He has that excuse and works it for all he's worth. He reaches down and lifts the boy by his forearms until they are face to face. The upper and lower lip look so delicious, inviting kisses. Stan leans forward and pulls the boy into his arms.

Stan's meaty frame encloses the slim boy form, one arm upon the boy's back, one on his delicious buns.

`In for a penny, in for a pound,' thinks Stan.

Miles feels the sudden breaking of the barrier and clambers over it as quick as he can, not to miss the moment. His arms are around Stan's muscular shoulders, his lips are nibbling at Stan's closed mouth (closed in a sardonic grin) his cock and balls are rubbing against Stan-meat.

"This is not happening," murmurs Stan. "It's really not happening."

"No," purrs Miles against Stan's cheek. "And your arms are not holding me tight. And your hand is not upon my boy-bum. And your cock and mine..."

"Don't!" groans Stan and silences Miles with an open mouthed kiss as if he wanted to eat him. Then, drawing back, he gazes into boy-blue eyes and wonders how he is going to explain this to Miles' mum if Miles should blab.

"You wouldn't..." he says, but Miles' cutest of cute lips are nibbling wetly at his nipples like a baby nursing, nibbling their way down to his waist via the belly-button where they stop and feed, Stan's cock pushing under Miles' moving chin. Stan senses what the next port of call will be and thrusts his pelvis forward in anticipation. He looks down and watches, electrified with excitement, as that upper lip brushes against his cock, as Miles' pink tongue with long long licks washes his tool with silver glistening saliva, anointing the spear.

Upper and lower lip in a pouting kiss and then opening to take the spearhead into the warm wet orifice.

Stan glances at himself in the mirror in disbelief at the ecstactic look on his own face.

Oh my God! With open hand and the skin between his thumb and forefinger nestling between Stan's balls, the thumb pressing against the base of the cock to make his foreskin peel slowly back and the forefinger pushed against his crack (it feels so fucking good!), Miles takes the pink head deeper into his throat.

Stan looks down in pleasure and disbelief. Stan is very frightened at all this, but the fear increases his pleasure to a level never known before. Stan is very uncool and has let go of all his moorings but the sense of freedom is exhilarating. He feels like he could scream.

Now and then the blue eyes flick upward, over Stan's belly and torso to his face, checking on the state of the sacrificial victim.

The finger presses against Stan's floret, harder and harder, pressing too against his balls. The sense of pressure in that region just makes Stan's cock harder and harder. Stan's tits are hard nuts of bunched pleasure and he strokes them for himself as the boy sucks him. Stan looks at himself in the mirror and finds his own body incredibly sexy.

Again Stan pulls Miles to his feet, requiring that sense of all-over pleasure the boy's slim body so wonderfully achieves, pulling Miles close to him, embracing and pressing. Endless long-held kisses and lickings and strokings.

A sudden loud banging from one of the surrounding rooms makes them both start and freeze in mid-clench, as if someone were about to come in. Then they laugh and squeeze even closer.

"I'm so glad we're doing this Stan."

Stan smiles, "Hehe Miles, just man to man stuff, you know. Just a bit of drunken relief from the old sexual need."

"But I'm glad we're doing it together Stan."

"Me too Miles..."

More deep throat kissing and now Stan is staring Miles into extinction and Miles finds his sparkling brown eyes mesmerising. The magic is working, the incarnation of the living inner archetype.

"What else do men do together Stan?" asks Miles mischievously.

"What you mean son?" (Warmly rubbing his shoulders).

"Shagging, Stan."

"Shagging?" Stan's eyes are wide with surprise. His voice is suddenly hoarse.

"Don't men sometimes fuck each other Stan?"

"Only poofters Miles."

"Well, we ain't poofters," says Miles, kissing his friend.

"No way," says Stan, returning the kiss and rubbing his friend's soft smooth arse-buns with both hands.


The feel of Stan's slightly rough palms sliding across my arse was rather delicious, as was the intuition that he was now ready for almost anything, so long as we kept up the pretence of being just two guys having a bit of fun with each other, nothing too serious.

"But don't you wonder sometimes how it would feel to have a mate's cock inside you Stan? Just like two mates having a bit of an experiment? Like when my finger was against your crack just now -- did you like the sensation?"

I was pushing my luck now, but I sensed that Stan would somehow adjust himself to go along with the charade.

He gripped my buns more tightly and I was thrust hard against him. He was searching his memory banks for some adequate response, something that in no way gave an inch in the direction of poofter-hood. I flexed myself whole body against him, just to help him on.

"Well Milesy-boy, you know it gave me a nice tight sensation in my cock and balls."

Then he went quiet, pondering, so I slyly reached round my hand and pressed against his floret again. Surprise, surprise, he opened his legs so that I could get more inside and his cock stiffened and throbbed.

"Of course," I stated, scientifically, "the finger would not feel so good as a cock, not such a nice shape, and nail and bone. A cock is all gristle and meat and muscle." I licked his hard-budded tits as my finger pressed more urgently against his untouched rose.

Us straight guys began kissing and stroking again and, his mouth in my hair, he agreed. "You have a point Milesy-boy. And I do wonder how it would feel. Women seem to like it."

That last remark was cryptic and I did not pursue the thought, just stroked my friend's great arse and fingered his hole. He was staring at me again, and his brown eyes were so hot. I made a point of slipping my cock between his thighs and under his balls and he seemed to like the sensation. His cock was wet and slippery and shiny against my belly, like a warm fish. He opened his thighs some more and I was able to tease his crack with my throbbing dick. By now I knew I wanted to have him, and he seemed to be agreeable.

"Soap," I whispered.

"What?" he croaked. And then coughed and cleared his throat.

"Soap up my cock and your arse. Just to see if you like it Stan. See if I like it too. This is a new experience for me. I never had a great mate like you before. You are teaching me so many interesting things."

He turned to the bowl and ran some water into it. I stood behind him with my cock between his crack and reached round him to soap my hands. I lathered his tits and began to squeeze them both together. He pulled his shoulders back for my easier access to his love buds and I soaped and squeezed some more. Looking in the mirror I saw his eyes close and his head came back against my face and he half turned so that I could kiss his lips.

I soaped his cock as I had his tits, keeping it nice and moist and slidy and began to wank him slowly. I could tell he was getting near so then I soaped his arse with exploring fingers, leaving his quivering cock untouched. He leant forward against the unit with his arse sticking out and I gave him a thorough rectal examination and a good long soapy fingering.

He was trembling now and I guessed he was ready for some nice boycock in his sexy bum.

Slowly, but ever so firmly, I entered him. The sensation was unbelievable. He was breathing heavily, almost panting. My cock was deep inside the body of my friend (and how I loved him at that moment) and my hands were spread on his thick and meaty thighs to draw him closer.

I began to slowly fuck him and he groaned. The air was buzzing in my ears. Every time I pushed deeper the feel of his flesh against my lower belly and thighs was delicious and these sensations were relayed to my cock where they reached an exquisite peak of pleasurableness.

Stan the man was mine. I possessed him now as never before. Stan the man: my meat. And as I pushed deeper and harder between the twin moons of his wonderful arse I felt as if his manhood was entering into me just as I was entering him.

We were becoming one creature in the most holy alliance in the world.

I was touched and moved by Stan's acceptance and what had started out as a game was becoming more serious as the seconds flashed past. There he stood bowed before me, the light from the overhead lamp shining off his slightly sweaty back, his arse and legs forming an inverted V at the apex of which he and I were joined.

What I felt was love. And love's essence, desire.

We were growing dry from the continued friction and I resoaped us with slow wipes of my fingers. And the feel of my own fingers against the base of my cock, and the sight of my cock shunting in and out of Stan's crack, made me reach my peak of excitement.

I lay myself along his back and fucked him faster and faster. I could smell his sweaty body and feel the heat coming off him. We were both mumbling and moaning.

Now my hands were on his shoulders, pushing him right against my cock and his torso was rigid with excitement.

The power building in my balls was tangible, tingling like small electric shocks along my spine.

"I'm gonna cum Stan. I'm gonna cum."

"Cum for me Miles, cum for me!"

The pressure was now so intense I could hardly stand it. Nature had taken me over completely and I had no control. Thousands of years of evolution here reached their peak. For this we came. This was our task. I was mindless, a shagging automoton. But I felt like a powerful god.

The first wave shuddered through me, all through my body, and then out of my cock and into Stan as I came in quick urgent breathless jerks. Jacking jacking jacking, spasm after spasm, then more slowly, then automatically bucking as if my leg and thigh muscles were controlled by someone else.

Then more slowly, then more slowly, and finally still, slumped over the bent body of my dearest love.

"Oh Stan..." was all I could find to say.

"Oh Miles..." he murmured into the soapy bowl.


Any comments welcome, as ever, at

Other stories by me on Nifty are `The Ring' and `The Prince' on Gay/Sciencefiction and `Uncle Jules' on Gay/Incest. Also see `Cinema Sex' under Gay/Encounters.

Or you can view my rather ancient home page at