. . . and, the thick veil of the night is splintered by the lonesome wails of

a Coyote's Howl

© 2013


Jonathan Longhorn

Disclaimer: Copyright 2013 by Jonathan Longhorn.  All rights reserved.  This story contains gay sex between high school students.  If you are offended by gay sex, you are in the wrong place.  Leave now.  If you are under the age of 18 (or the legal age to read such stories in your community), please leave now.

This story is for adults only and is a total fantasy.  The author does NOT condone or promote any of the activities depicted in this story.

As with all my stories, I take the time to make the settings and characters live and breathe.  So you will not find sex in the first few chapters.  But hold onto your, um, you know, hats.  8-)  If you wait . . . it will come.  If that's not for you, I understand; however, I hope that you will take the time to read the story as it progresses and give it a chance.  I think you won't be disappointed.

This is a work of fiction and is not based on any real school, any real persons living or deceased, or any real place.  Any similarity to people, places, or schools is entirely coincidental.

This work is copyrighted by the author and may not be reproduced in any form without the specific written permission of the author.  Please DO NOT repost this work without my permission.  This work is posted to the Nifty Erotic Stories Archive under the terms of their submission agreement and may not be copied, reposted, or archived on any other site without the written permission of the author.

Condoms are not used in this story but please remember it is fiction.  In the real world having sex without using a condom can be very dangerous to your health.  You (or your partner) can be exposed to not only AIDS, but other nasty STDs that are starting to become more and more drug resistant.  Bisexual guys can get herpes and pass it along to gay partners.  While it's not usually deadly, it's for life.  There is no cure and it's a total buzzkill.  Don't ruin your life or your future.  Slip it on before you slip it in.

All of the characters in this story are totally fictitious and are assumed to be at least 18 years of age.


Crystal fangs twinkled in the full moon as it cast an ice-laden veil across the countryside.  An unusually balmy January was about to fall to an invading mid-Winter frost that lurked just beyond its fringes.  It was primed and ready to spill down into the shadows of the valley—a beast—poised and ready to pounce—waiting for its prey to come just a little closer. . . .

This was what some of the Ancient One's had referred to as the Wolf's Moon.  Others, had called it the Panther Moon.  Others, still—the Moon of the Awakening.

It seemed a perfect fit for a formal Ball carrying the name of its Earth bound cousin. . . .

Chapter One

The Winter Howl had been everything that most had dreamed of, and for a select number—what they had attended with dread.  For many, the formal promised the ultimate fantasy, soon to be fulfilled.  For others, it was more like facing their worst nightmares.  It held all the glitter, sparkles, and bangles one would imagine, and yet—there were some in the crowd that were haunted by sprinkles or even heaping spoonsful of their innermost fears, and—the pressures of their peers. . . .

And for a few others still, or—perhaps tonight, just in a single soul—there lay a quaking terror that was hidden behind a perfectly tailored, classic-design tux and a devastatingly handsome face atop a body honed to perfection.  A body that many would give anything—or—would `do' anything for. . . .  Did anyone know or have any hint of what fears lurked within his strong, beautifully sculpted, perfectly proportioned chest?  Deep inside?  Thundering in his heart?

The conservatory was aglow with chandeliers and twinkling drop lights.  Streamers in gold, silver, and bronze shimmered as they swayed gently under the breath of the A/C and ceiling fans.  Tables had been immersed in a sea of bronzes and champagne hues—the school's colors.  The buffet was breathtaking—a gastronomic marvel of shrimp cocktail, lobster, sirloin, grilled chicken steaks, prime rib, and a twenty foot salad bar.

And then there was the dessert.

Holy mother of sweetness, the desserts.

Five cascading fountains offered up rivers of flowing chocolate.  Plump, juicy strawberries were piled in small mountains awaiting their turn to take the plunge.  Red Velvet cakes, Devil's Food creations dripping in chocolate and powdered sugar.  Vanilla, chocolate swirl, caramel, and cherry cheesecake slices the size of a cow lay in waiting to be devoured by the hordes.  Mounds of vanilla, chocolate, strawberry, butter pecan, rocky road, and mint-double chocolate chip ice cream were cradled in carved canyons of glittering ice the size of wheelbarrows.

The music matched the banquet to a `T' with a live performance by the school's very own highly acclaimed student rockers, The Coyote Dream, as well as a nationally renowned, highly sought after DJ, his equipment, CDs and two laptops—one to run the lightshow and one for his DJ equipment and MP3s.

Whispering Bluffs High School's student body, not to be outdone by the decorations, the food, or the music was in high fashion as well—the girls glittered in diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and gold atop their satins and silks, chiffons, and taffetas while their dates stood handsome and gallant in tuxedos and vested-suits; although some, as befit their rebellious nature, not unlike their counterparts in any other school, arrived tuxless, sockless, in jeans and leather, with gothic spikes and rings and one or more piercings; the latter—not necessarily always in public view.


A mind boggling success, this year's Formal would rank in the upper echelon of events at the school for years to come; the after party at Allyson and Jamie Masters-Morgan's hilltop estate, however, would go down as hitting the stratosphere.  Seemingly impossible to do, they managed to put together an after party beyond comparison.  The décor, the food, and the music were unparalleled.  And, who knew that the Masters-Morgans could pull off a coup like this and bring in an international singing superstar like `him' for this gig?  It all served to completely outshine even the jaw dropping offerings at the elegant formal dance.

Logan Bartholomew stepped through etched glass French doors and paused; he felt evidence of an impending change in the weather slap at his face.  As if heeding the ominous edge in the air, a shiver crept down his spine.  He steeled himself and made a valiant attempt to shrug it off before he made his way across the upper terrace.  Another pause at the top of the stone steps, and—he inhaled a refreshing crispness that was all too welcome after the gyrating bodily and bottled scents mixing into a choking cloud inside the mansion.

What was that?  A sweetly tangy aroma rose up to meet him in small swirls and licks.  Ah—rosemary shrubs and basil in containers lined the pool's edge.  That was it.  Rosemary and basil.

Logan made his way down the stone steps that led to the next terrace and the Olympic size infinity pool.  As he strolled past the water with its surface shimmering under the soft caress of tiki torches, he snatched a sprig off one of those bushes.  He breathed in as he held it to his nose and gazed forward.  Infinity—just an outstretched hand away—reached into the inky blackness.  Into the cavernous darkness that was Whispering Bluffs Valley down below.

The school's resident stud muffin—some even declared him to be their `crowned prince'—tugged at his breath-choking silk tie, pulled it from his neck and absently stuffed it into one of the side pockets of his Armani jacket which was draped over his left arm.  He crunched along the gravel pathway that bordered the pool and its granite surround—and strolled toward the 900 foot-long granite platform that marked the end of land and the beginning of—nothing.

Logan gazed upward; a wall of cloud was roiling in the distance.  It hadn't been there when they all left the conservatory and pavilion and headed for the after party here at the Masters-Morgans' mansion.  No question about it, a change was in the air.  A change was coming.  The breeze was already noticeably cooler than when they had arrived; and, yet—he was sweating like a sacrificial lamb being slowly spit roasted over an open flame.  He glanced back to the house for a brief moment; was that it?  Had he just been skewered and spit roasted by some of his friends?

Becoming more relentless now, the breeze ballooned up the cliffs from the valley below; it kissed its way inside the ruffles of his tuxedo shirt as he unbuttoned it from chest to deeply inset navel.  He felt his nipples immediately harden in response to those feathery air strokes and kisses.


There was that word again. . . .


That . . . fucking . . . kiss.

His bronze bangs fluttered and flipped across his handsome face as he stepped out onto the 20-foot-wide ledge and into another of the swirls.  He inhaled deeply once again and stared out into the velvety darkness.  He knew what was there.  A hundred feet below lay a sharp, jagged outcropping of granite and crumbled stone before another drop—plunging hundreds more feet downward to the floor of the valley and the river that snaked through its soul.

And here he was at the precipice.  He knew what was straight ahead.



And, black as the night.

Shrieks of laughter, hoots, howls, and cheers erupted from the house even as the music rose up in another crescendo of grinding and thumping accompanied by lasers and undulating lights that made even the stars shudder and shake.

Logan felt no motivation to turn and survey; he'd had enough of the revelry for one night, or—maybe for a lifetime?  Another shiver tremored down his spine and he felt goose prickles begin dancing to the thump, thump, thumping behind him.  His dripping blue eyes rolled as he shook his head and sighed.

What was going on?

Why was he so. . . ?

He wasn't sure what he was `so. . . .'

Whatever it was, it had enveloped him like a glove.  A glove that was very near to choking the breath out of him.

He was unsure how long he had been standing there, a lone figure gazing into the ink when a hand landed on his shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.  His heart performed gymnastics flips upward until it lodged in the sudden vice-grip of his throat.  Logan spun on his heel, his Italian leather dress shoes spewing a wake of gravel like a racing boat making its final turn for the flag.

"What the fu. . . ." he yelped as his fists clenched in readiness to strike out at his unannounced assailant.

"Whoa, dude!" a startled voice shrieked.  "It's me—Channing.  Call off your dawgs!  It's Chans," the team's all-state pitching sensation announced quickly—his voice more hoarse than usual after he had led the dance in several of the cheer squads' more lively, and in some cases—outright sexual routines.  "Geez Logan, chillax."

"Sorry, I. . . ."  Logan stammered as his fists unclenched and he stared at the GQ face of Channing McAllister; he noted that the baseball player had shucked his own Dolce & Gabbana jacket and tie.  Likewise—his shirt was open and billowing in the rising breeze.  His perfectly muscled chest glowed in a creamy mixture of moonlight and the flicker of nearby torches.  "Sorry, man."

Channing studied his classmate's stunning features for several long moments—from Logan Bartholomew's slightly disheveled bronze locks, to that drop dead gorgeous face . . . downward . . .  over rippling shoulders that tapered into a perfect `V' and then dipped into a trim waist.

And, that butt.

Holy fuck that butt!

That . . . beautiful . . . butt.

His eyes slowly caressed Logan's bubbled, mouthwatering twin globes of muscle—like two perfect halves of a granite basketball.  The dictionary definition of "bubble butt" if there ever was one.

God—that's a butt for the ages.  My tongue could have a banquet between those two moons before I spread them wide and. . . .

Channing stirred himself from his reverie and stepped up behind his lifelong friend, inhaling the mix of shampoo and cologne, and—Logan.  He stepped closer, nearly burying his nose in his friend's hair and breathed in again—locking the savory mixture in the vault in his mind, and—in his lungs.  If only you could bottle that scent and keep it forever.

"I saw you leave the house," he offered softly so as not to startle his friend again and bring on a second fist-threat.  "I came out to check on you, to . . . see if you're all right."

Logan heard but he didn't comprehend.  His mind was elsewhere.  Back inside the house.  Down in the basement—in the media room—where their immediate circle had all gathered to play that game.  Why did his thoughts keep going back there?  Back to that game?

That . . . stupid . . . fucking . . . game.

He roused from those thoughts and started to look over his shoulder; he jumped as an arm reached around him and offered up a bottle of Evian.  God—could he be any more jumpy?

"Huh—what did you say?"

"I was worried about you," Channing said again, just as softly, almost tenderly; he released the bottle after an all too brief moment of an electrifying touch of their fingers and then he stepped up closer behind the athlete.  His hand gently stroked a bulging bicep as it withdrew from the `Logan Zone' and moved back into his own—for now.  "After what happened, you know," he blushed.  "In the game."

Geez, why was he suddenly embarrassed?  It wasn't like he was `straight' and didn't want it to happen.  If only Logan had `wanted' it rather than simply yielding to everyone pushing and taunting.  Perfect gentleman that he was, he went with it rather than facing additional teasing about not being man enough or secure enough in his masculinity . . . wuss came to mind.  Too bad finally getting to go there with a guy like Logan was a result of a stupid game and peer pressure.

Hell—how many times had he dreamed of something like that `actually' happening?  Talk about dreams come true.  Well, he grudgingly admitted to himself—at least `part' of the dream, anyway; the full-length dream had a lot more layers, if truth be told.  Layers.  And, sweat.  And, gasps for breath.  And, heart racing, mind swirling, toe curling sex.  Tangled and mangled sheets.  And. . . .

Whoa—reel it in Chans!  Reel it back in.

"I was, um. . . .  I wanted to be sure you're okay after what just happened."

As Logan uncapped the bottle, he nodded his understanding.  He took a long gulp and followed it with two more before he stopped to breathe.  Yeah, he was unsure if he was okay, too.  His head was spinning.  His heart was still racing.  His stomach was on a roller coaster ride to Hell.  He felt like he'd been gut punched.  His toes still hadn't completely uncurled.  He looked over his shoulder into the inquiring gaze coming at him from those emerald green eyes.

"It was just a game, Channing," he said as he tried to shrug it off.  Fat chance.  The monkey on his back had a grip on his shoulders that was going to take explosives to loosen.  He shrugged again and turned back to the darkness.  "Just a stupid game that the girls put together.  You and me?  We just ended up on the dare end of the spinning bottle.  That's all."  He gulped at the water once again.  "It didn't mean anything."

Yeah right.  That's why my toes still haven't uncurled.  Why my dick is still harder than it's ever been in my life. . . .

Channing risked reaching out and clamping both hands on those beautiful, powerful shoulders and gave them several tender kneads.  Logan Bartholomew—every girl's wet dream.  Every guy's hero.  A lot of guys' stroke fantasy as well; Channing knew he was not the only one.  He swallowed a chuckle.  If Logan only knew how many guys wanted. . . .  How many guys would have paid large bills to be in his place back there during the game?  To be the one that got to taste those lips. . . .  His jaw would hit the ground hard if he knew the names of some of those guys, he thought with rolling eyes.

"I know it didn't mean anything to you. . . ."

That was a lead-in if ever Logan had heard one.  He allowed a soft snort to escape his clenched teeth and join a brief flaring of his nostrils.

"But. . . ?"

"It was a dream come true for me," Channing answered.  His words came so softly that he barely heard the comment himself.  He lost a brief battle with a grin that erupted to allow his gleaming teeth to beacon into the heavens.  "Hell—I just made out with Logan . . . friggin . . . Bartholomew—the single hottest guy on the planet."

That had been the dare; the gauntlet had been thrown before the school's crowned prince and one of his closest friends.  Kiss.  Open-mouthed.  With tongue.  The girls that had placed the dare had insisted on a full five minute liplock.  While he took a moment to try to remind his lungs of their duty, Channing discreetly glanced at one of the game participants in particular.  An eyebrow barely rose.  The head tilted fractionally.  The nod was barely more than a movement as a result of normal breathing patterns and, yet—it was all the affirmation that Channing needed.

He looked to Logan in that moment and waited.  Would the hottest guy in school take the dare?  Would he humph and bristle and walk off shaking his head?  His anxiousness was joined by a rising panic to the point that he didn't even register the murmurs and giggles amongst the others there in the circle.  Murmurs . . . whispers . . . giggles; he never noted a few cellphones slipping out of tuxedo jackets and clutch purses.  The murmurs gradually moved into a soft chant of kiss . . . kiss . . . kiss . . . kiss . . . kiss. . . .

The only sound more deafening at that moment than the thump, thump, thump of the music mixed with the chant was . . . the silence from several of the others.  Like Channing, they weren't breathing.  Their lungs were frozen along with their vocal cords.  They were waiting to see how Logan Bartholomew would react to the dare that had just been tossed in his direction.  A kiss.  A guy.  Open mouth.  With tongue.  Five minutes.

This was a moment that would go down in history if Logan accepted the dare.  Logan Bartholomew.  The crown prince of the school.  Kissing Channing McAllister?  Another guy?  Another stud muffin?  A `gay' stud muffin?  Would Logan do it?  `Could' Logan do it?

Several of them followed Logan's gaze into the center of the crowd.  They all knew where his attention was focused.  Thorn Piedmont—Logan's best friend.

Thorn stood there in the middle of the circle of friends . . . seemingly not breathing as well . . . gazing back in Logan's direction.  Or, some of them later wondered—was that Channing that he was staring at?  Channing stood right there, next to Logan—alternating his gaze between the recipient of the dare of the moment and Thorn—the third member of the triumvirate.

Or . . . maybe they were checking out Braden Christiansen—the new guy who had just transferred in.  Maybe they were hesitating . . . wondering . . . how would he react?  `If' he would react.  And if so, in which direction?  So far he seemed perfectly fine with what was taking place and what might be about to take place.  He seemed almost as anxious as everyone else to see how this dare played out before them all.  Then again—maybe that was just wishful thinking on the part of several of the group's members; Braden Christiansen was sizzling hot—smoldering looks, intense eyes that could lock onto you with an intensity that seared your soul.  There might even be a few gathered there who wished that it was Logan and Braden who were about to lock lips and make out.

After what seemed like centuries, Channing turned and his eyes locked with Logan's.  The stares that they exchanged in the next few moments grew in intensity; responding to the increasingly rabid chant of those around them.

And there it was—the signal they were all waiting for. . . .

Logan Bartholomew shrugged as if bestowing a silent blessing . . . what the hell.  He nodded his acceptance of the challenge with an ever so slight bow of his head as he stood there in the center of the crowd and looked into Channing's nervous, anxious eyes.

"Go for it, dude."

And `go for it' he did.  They locked lips.  They tongue danced.  They swapped spit recipes.  Five minutes in heaven for Channing.  It was arguably the best five minutes of his life, if he was honest about it.  If he did nothing else with Logan for the rest of his life, he would remember that kiss for an eternity and then some.

"You taste wonderful, by the way," Channing said with a tinge of triumph in his voice; he grinned as he watched the color rise up Logan's neck and ears.  Logan was so adorable when he blushed.

"Don't be a dork, Chans," Logan said as he silently wondered if he did taste good.  He'd heard it forever from a line of girls who obviously wanted to go a lot farther than they ever got; but geez—here was Chans saying the same thing?  What was that about?

"Hey, I'm just saying. . . ."  Channing reached up to gently fist the side of his friend's jaw.  "You got it going on, buddy," he said with another grin.  "All of it."

Logan's eyes rolled.  Don't even go there, Logan.  Do . . . not . . . even . . . ask.

Even as he leaned slightly back into those kneading hands working his neck and shoulders, Logan felt his face going crimson.  He was glad they were standing in the dark and that the torches were so far away.  Fuck—those hands.  Those hands felt . . . so . . . good.  Like Channing's lips during the game.

What the hell happened in there?  Why?  Why did another guy feel so good?  Why did it feel so fucking good?  And with all those kids watching?  His teammates.  Guys he had grown up with since they were in the diaper brigade.  Thorn.  Thorn was there.  His best friend.  His best friend of his entire life.  Standing there.  Watching.  Smirking?  Was he smirking?  Yeah—that was a Thorn smirk if ever there was one.  Watching him.  Watching him make out with another guy.  Putting his arms around Channing.  Pressing his lips to Channing's.  Opening his mouth to Channing's insistent desire to go deep.  Channing's lips.  Channing's fucking lips.

Another guy's lips.  Another guy's lips . . . on . . . his.  That was so foreign to him, and yet—he could not get past it.  He could not get that kiss out of his mind.  The feel of those lips pressed against his.  That tongue—diving in, dancing with his, exploring every centimeter of his mouth . . . sucking on that tongue.  Giving into it.  Yielding to it.  Wanting it.  Wanting . . . more. . . .

That kiss.

Those lips.

That tongue.

Channing's hands touching, caressing, stroking, pinching, tweaking, kneading. . . .

That kiss.

That . . . fucking . . . kiss!

That kiss was so . . . perfect.

Yeah—that was it.  It was perfect.  It was the most perfect kiss he had ever had in his life.  And it came from another guy.  Another guy's lips.  Another guy's tongue in his mouth.  Another guy touching him and. . . .

What if it had been another guy besides Channing?  What if it had been Braden?  Tinker?  Bales?  What if it had been Thorn?

What the fuck?

What the fuck!

What . . . the . . . fuck!


Hit the brakes!

Brake hard!

"I am so not the hottest guy on the planet, Chans.  Trust me."

Channing let out a soft chuckle as he gripped those massive shoulders more intently; he eased the athlete around to face him—they were so close that their breaths collided, mixed—became one.  Logan's lips looked so good.  God—he wanted to lean forward and taste him again.  Here.  Now.  Alone.  Just the two of them.  No one egging them on.  No hoots.  No hollers.  No cellphones recording their kiss for all time.  As if he needed a cell to record that kiss.  It would be engraved in his brain to his last breath on this earth.

Damn, I hope somebody recorded that kiss.  Damn—I hope I'm in his or her contact list. . . .

"Yes, Logan—you are.  Trust me," he said with a wink.  Was that another blush?  He was unsure but he thought so.  God—blushes on a stud muffin like Logan?  Just . . . too . . . cute!

Channing's eyes drifted downward and took in the view of that sculptor's masterpiece of a chest and dime-sized nipples that were perfect for licks and nibbles and sucks to make him moan for more, and those rippling abs, all—presented to him by that open shirt.

His eyes lingered for several moments on the trail of fine hairs that erupted in a crescent around Logan's navel and then nosedived into his pants.  He zeroed in on the massive bulge in his friend's form fitting tux pants.  Form fitting, and—wet.  A sizeable wet spot encompassed the uncut mushroom at the tip of that thick pole.  Could it be?  Holy fuck!  Could it?  Maybe it was more than Logan was admitting.  Maybe it was more than Logan was admitting to himself?

Well. . . .  Well. . . .  Well. . . .  Logan Bartholomew had a boner that could choke a hippopotamus.  Channing wondered if it was because of him.  Was it the kiss?  Could it be something else?  Is that what was going on here?  Had this `stupid game' opened the cage and let out a beast no one knew existed?

Wait—did his eyes just go to my lips?  Did he lean in toward me . . . just a little?  God—I need a shrink!

He probably shouldn't go there, he figured.  Talk about wishful thinking.  Yeah, that went from wishful to erotic fantasy mode in .08 seconds.  Beat that, race car drivers of the world.

Channing's eyes floated up until they met Logan's mid-summer day ocean blues.  Gazing into those eyes that he had known his entire life, he saw everything he had always seen—confidence . . . self-assurance . . . a born leader . . . a tender, loving, gentle soul, and—so much more.

However, here . . . now, he could not help but feel as though he was possibly seeing something that no one—not even Logan, himself—had ever seen.  What was it?  Uncertainty?  Fear?  A wavering between confident strut and a stutter step in Logan's soul?  Maybe. . . .

Maybe Logan Bartholomew needed someone to lead him for a change?

Maybe he `should' go there after all?  If so, maybe he should tread very lightly.  Egg shells tend to be pretty delicate.  Something deep inside was telling him this was an egg shell moment.

"So, seriously," he said through the frog croaking in his throat.  "You okay?"

How the hell should I know?

Nothing like that has ever. . . .

I've never even. . . .

That was the first time I ever. . . .


Am I okay?

Fuck no!

I'm not okay!

Logan offered another shrug and forced a plastic smile.

"Like I said, it was just a stupid game.  It didn't mean anything."

A sudden echo resounded around them as it ricocheted against granite walls somewhere in the canyon below—

yip, yip, yipaarroooooo, aarrooooooooo. . . .

or, more befitting the moment, was it in the canyon below, or—in the sudden canyon of his stomach?

yip, yip, yipaarroooooo, aarrooooooooo. . . .

That kiss.

yip, yip, yipaarroooooo, aarrooooooooo. . . .

That . . . fucking . . . kiss.

yip, yip, yipaarroooooo, aarrooooooooo. . . .

Channing's hands sliding over his shoulders.

yip, yip, yipaarroooooo, aarrooooooooo. . . .

Channing's lips edging closer and closer.

yip, yip, yipaarroooooo, aarrooooooooo. . . .

Leaning in to those lips.

yip, yip, yipaarroooooo, aarrooooooooo. . . .

Channing's hands sliding into his unbuttoned shirt, one—stroking his chest.  Thumb and forefinger nails gnawing at his hardened nipples.  The fingers of his other hand edged downward; they skied over his abs, skirted his navel and then they followed that trail of glory and headed for the monster trapped in those tight slacks.



Closer, still. . . .


A slight gasp escaping Logan's lips.

yip, yip, yipaarroooooo, aarrooooooooo. . . .

His hand rising to Channing's chest.  The moment his palm landed and his fingers spread, Channing's warmth spread through Logan's body.  Like a subtle and, yet—electrifying—jolt of so many things.  Instead of obeying his head and putting this moment to a stop, he found himself allowing his fingers to explore on their own.

yip, yip, yipaarroooooo, aarrooooooooo. . . .

Channing's skin felt so good under his fingertips.

Fucking . . . kiss.

That . . . fucking . . . kiss.

Oh fuck he was hard.  So . . . throbbing . . . hard.

He wondered—was Channing hard?  Did he dare look?  Touch it?  Fuck—why did he want to touch it?

yip, yip, yipaarroooooo, aarrooooooooo. . . .

aarrooooooooo. . . .

As the icy fingers stretched out from their master and enveloped the two athletes, there—on the ledge—Logan yielded and sank into Channing's embrace . . . into his lips . . . into that kiss.

That . . . fucking . . . kiss. . . .

"Just relax and let go," Channing whispered hoarsely.  "No one will know.  It's just the two of us out here; we're alone."

Logan Bartholomew closed his eyes as their lips brushed hesitantly.  Feathering over one another in the most tender way.  He felt Channing's hand take a firm, guiding hold of his own—the one that had somehow found and had started caressing his abs; Channing's more experienced hand guided it, led it—commanded—his hand downward.  Down.  Down. . . .

"No one will know," Channing moaned softly before their lips brushed once more.  "It's just you and me.  We're alone."

Alone.  Just the two of them.  Under only the watchful eye of the icy invader whose fingers prickled at their skin and tousled their hair . . . their lips came in contact once again.  They met.  They locked.  And, they threw away the key.

yip, yip, yipaarroooooo, aarrooooooooo. . . .

As his mouth opened once more for Channing's tongue, Logan whimpered and his walls began to cave in completely. . . .

. . . . and his hand submitted to the other's commanding presence; it sank into Channing's pants and underwear and groped.  Channing curled his hand into his, making a fist that closed around the throbbing cock waiting inside.

yip, yip, yip—aarroooooo, aarrooooooooo. . . .

yip, yip, yipaarroooooo, aarrooooooooo. . . .

yip, yip, yipaarroooooo, aarrooooooooo. . . .

aarrooooooooo. . . .

aarrooooooooo. . . .

aarrooooooooo. . . .

No one will know.

All alone.

aarrooooooooo. . . .

Just the two of them.


aarrooooooooo. . . .

Steel gray eyes squinted through the darkness . . . watching. . . .

aarrooooooooo. . . .

Watching. . . .

aarrooooooooo. . . .

Watching. . . .

aarrooooooooo. . . .

aarrooooooooo. . . .

aarrooooooooo. . . .

Author's Note: We would not have access to stories like this and others, without the efforts of the Nifty Erotic Stories Archive website.  Paying to have the server hosted and for bandwidth is pretty expensive.  Please show your appreciation for this wonderful service and help Nifty continue to exist by sending a donation using the Nifty donations page at http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html.  I've made several donations and I hope you will as well.  Please give what you can.  Even a few dollars helps.

This is just the start of a story which may or may not be continued.  Whether it continues or not partly depends on the comments and responses I get, to gauge the level of interest in taking the story further.  It also depends in part on work I'm doing for an erotic gay murder mystery series.  Time spent on that novel takes precedence over my short story fiction.  If there is enough positive response, there MAY be additional chapters but they will be at irregular intervals because of other time commitments and work on the novel.

In the future, I may also be posting starting chapters for other stories, to see if there is any interest in them.  Most Nifty posts will be to the High School and College sections, some in the Authoritarian section, and a possible K-9 story if there is interest.  Please let me know.

Please send your comments, thoughts, and ideas to Jonathan Longhorn at Yahoo email using jonathan (underscore) longhorn.  Your valid, objective criticism will be accepted but flames will be ignored.  Since I don't get paid for doing these stories, your thanks, thoughts, comments, and ideas are always appreciated.

The volume of positive responses will be a determining factor in continuing the story.

When emailing me, please start the "Subject" line with the name of the story so I don't toss your email as spam.

Thank you to those of you who have taken the time out of your day to write me about my stories.  The thoughts, comments, and feedback are VERY much appreciated and let me know there really are a few fans out there who like my writing.

My other stories on Nifty: