This story concerns teenage gay males who are involved in sexual situations. If it is illegal for you to read such stories, or if you do not like to read such stories, please leave now.

This story is copyright 2006 by the author who retains all rights.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

This is my second submission to Nifty. This is a continuation of “Kiel’s Story” which was last posted on 7/24/06. It is not necessary to read “Kiel’s Story” to enjoy this, but it may help you understand where the character relationships started. Any comments or questions are welcome at:

A warm thank you goes out to all who’ve written. I appreciate knowing someone is actually reading this stuff. I try to respond to all, including flames, but time is precious in my life, so if I didn’t answer yours, please accept my apology.

Tim and the Corsair

by Carl Holiday

Chapter 4 – Wanted, A Friend . . .

Tim had been gone a week and the Fairy Table was a lonely place to eat lunch. One table, six chairs, two occupants who didn’t talk to each other. It had always been a place for outcasts and now it was plain to see who were the most unpopular sophomores at North Park High.

Naturally, a suspected queer had to sit at the table. Where else were the fairies supposed to sit? The other occupant was a victim. People hate victims, especially those who are popular one moment and not the next. Mark always sat across from me, even when the table had been full of friends. And, we continued to sit in the last two seats next to the window. The three of us, the bronze fairy in the atrium, the suspected fairy, and the victim ate lunch quietly, not saying a word, not acknowledging another’s presence, trying to appear inconspicuous in a hell hole of innuendo.

I thought I was pathetic, but Mark Patterson was much worse than me. He’d been a football hero Friday night standing in the glow of admiration from practically the whole school and by Monday morning was suspected of being the worse kind of person in the world, a homosexual. And, why? Because, according to his ex-girlfriend, he had sex with another boy.

But, Mark hadn’t had sex with one boy, no his case was much worse. He’d had sex with a man and five other boys. Sounds pretty damning when you look at it like that. In reality, Mark had been brutalized by his football coach, the quarterback, three running backs, and a wide receiver for his association with me. Can’t be a football hero and friends with the school’s suspected gay boy. Didn’t matter to them that we weren’t friends. We sat at the same table, when to movies, and generally hung out together. Didn’t matter that we were together because Monica, Mark’s now ex-girlfriend, was also my closest friend in school. Mark and I hung out together because both of us were with Monica.

So, Mark sat at the Fairy Table accused of being a homosexual. He was no longer a football hero. Quite the contrary, he was accused of destroying the career of a popular football coach and the futures of five popular teammates. Didn’t matter that they almost killed him. He didn’t have a friend in the world, or at least at North Park High School.

I wasn’t his friend. I tolerated Mark because he was Monica’s boyfriend. Now, we sat at the table simply out of habit and due to the fact neither of us were welcome at any of the other tables. Kids can be cruel and our classmates were no exception.

It was the Monday before Thanksgiving and the school’s rumor mill was going crazy from an article in the morning paper. It seems Tim’s parents had been found dead in their home on Lake Mallard. According to the paper both had been killed by a single gunshot wound in the head. “Execution style” was the description used by paper. Nothing was missing from the house. The paper also identified them as the local porn king and queen, purveyors of illicit sexual products, including movies, books, magazines and sexual aids. The police were not ruling out involvement by some sort of organized criminal group.

But, that wasn’t the subject of Mark’s conversation with me. Since we never just talked, I was somewhat started when he said, “I’m letting you off the hook. I’ve decided forcing you to have sex with me makes me no different than what those bastards did to me.”

“Okay,” I said. I wasn’t going to do it anyway, so he just gave me an easier out.

“But, I need your help. I know you’ve attempted suicide a couple times and I was wondering what’s the best way to do it.”

I might have crapped my pants if he had asked me that before his attacked, but I knew he wasn’t doing well in Coventry, it takes a strong personality to be forced to be alone. He had me, but who wants a queer for a friend when you’ve been accused of being the same thing. No use in having everyone in school saying, “I told you so. He’s buddy-buddy with Geoff now.”

I looked at him, something I didn’t normally do at all during lunch. Heck, the bronze fairy out in the atrium was friendlier than Mark. It had this smile that reminded me of a little kid who’d just filled its diaper, or the smile you get when you’ve had one heck of an orgasm. Mark was chewing his lower lip, definitely the sign of someone contemplating some sort of exit strategy. So, I said, “Depends on how much pain you’re willing to put up with until you lose consciousness. But, you know, Mark, killing yourself isn’t going to make the bastards like you. What you need is a friend, one friend. That’s all you need.”

“Who’s going to be my friend? The whole school hates me.”

“I don’t hate you,” I said. He was right, though. I think nearly everyone at North Park hated him, even if they didn’t know him. He could walk up to twenty random students of each of the four grades and probably get the same answer the question, “Hi, I’m Mark Patterson and I want to be your friend.” It wouldn’t be, “Hey that’s great, I’d like to be your friend, too.” Probably more along the lines of, “Get away from me fucker,” if the person was trying to be nice.

“Yeah, but you’re sitting at this table, too.”

“Well, how about a friend that had a different lunch period? He, or she, wouldn’t have to be in your presence at school. No use in ruining another student’s fragile ego.”

“Where am I going to find someone like that?”

How indeed? How do you go about finding a friend when probably most of the people who associate with hate your guts because you got the football coach suspended, or worse, hate you because someone sad you might be a ho-mo-sex-u-al. I could’ve let this slide by, but I needed something to do to keep my mind off Tim and, now, who killed his parents.

“How about if I found you a friend?” I asked. I didn’t have the foggiest idea how I was going to do this, but it sounded like a challenge.

“What another faggot?” Mark asked. I sighed and he noticed, but didn’t seem to catch on. “I rather kill myself than be a friend of someone you found. And, what about that? How should I go about killing myself?”

“How about I get you someone to talk to?”

“About what? I’m not going to have a faggot for a friend.”

“No, I want you to talk to someone about suicide,” I said. Why was I saying this? I’m often trying to do the same thing, but at least I talk to someone, someone who is coming quite close to being my new daddy. God, I hated that thought, almost enough to kill myself; almost, but not quite.

“Look, just tell me how to do it, okay?”

“Well, did you ever read For Whom the Bell Tolls? There’s a really interesting method in there. Not supposed to be too painful and there’s no turning back once you’ve started. Kind of messy, though.”

“You know English Lit isn’t my best subject. And, I’m definitely not going to read Hemingway.”

“How do you know Hemingway wrote that?”

“My brother had to read it last year. He says all the seniors at North Park have to read it.”

I felt kind of strange trying to talk him out of killing himself; and, I wasn’t about to tell him how to do it. I definitely didn’t need to be mentioned in his suicide note, “p.s. Geoff Johnson told me how to do it.” No, I needed to figure a way of stalling him long enough to find him a friend, how ever I was going to do that.

“Look, Mark, I want to help you, okay? And, not by telling you how to off yourself. You can figure that out, yourself. You’re bright, you’ll figure a good way, a good show for the bastards, too. I tell you what. If I can’t find you a friend, I’ll help you kill yourself.”

“Well, okay, but I can’t take much more of this silent treatment.”

“How about if I convince Monica to talk to you?”

“After what that bitch did to me, why would I want to talk to her?”

“Because she was your girlfriend and knows more about you than I do.”

“Yeah, well, she’s still a bitch and I don’t know if I want to talk to her. Find me someone else to talk to. I’ll give you a month, but no more. If I don’t have a friend by Christmas, I want you to tell me how to kill myself.”

“Now, that’ll be a wonderful gift for your parents. Maybe they’ll drape your coffin with boughs and holly.”

“Oh, shut up!”

First it was the threat of sex and now Mark was threatening me with assisting in his suicide; and, some people think I’m crazy. What I couldn’t figure out was how to find Mark a friend because the last thing I wanted was this lonely boy hanging around my house threatening me with some stupid idea. I thought of myself as nice and likeable, but being around someone who only recently lived solely for football was stretching my ability to like him.

I was in fifth period English at the time. Lazily trying to pay attention to the class discussion of some rainy, dreary boring novel by Hardy when I saw two men get out of a big black car, it must have been a Cadillac, and walk into the front door of the school. Both were wearing dark suits and there was something about the way they walked that made me feel uncomfortable, kind of like the feeling I got when the two toughs first approached me on the bridge, before they knifed me. That queasy feeling you get about some people who you know are not nice and you probably should get away from them.

“Geoff, would you like to join the discussion?” Mrs. Sanderson asked. She was okay for an English teacher, but wasn’t smart enough for someone who’d already read all of Hardy and still didn’t like him.

“Oh, sure, where are we?” I said. I didn’t care, but I played the good student for awhile, until the two men walked back to their car. One was taller and bigger than the other, like a lineman, like a tight end like Mark. He was clenching one of his fists like he was about ready to strangle someone with only one hand. The other one was stiff like he hadn’t been told the information he needed.

“Geoff, the bell’s rung and your classmates have gone,” Mrs. Sanderson said. “I want fifty pages on Thomas Hardy. I’m sure you’ll be able to come up with something before tomorrow’s class.”

Let your mind wander for a few minutes and WHAM! get slammed with a fifty page essay. Who said being in honors English was easy?

“Okay, I’ll come up with something,” I said, grabbing my books and heading for the door. “I certainly need the typing practice.”

“Make that one hundred pages.”

“Okay, okay.”

Definitely not the brightest bulb in the teachers’ lounge, but Mrs. Sanderson certainly could come up with good punishment. Nothing like a one hundred page essay on an author you don’t like to get one in the mood for something. Only, I didn’t know what something I was in the mood for.

After seven period study hall, I walked to my locker wondering how I was going to get the essay done and talk to Monica about getting friendly with Mark. Girls were so complicated. One minute you think you’ve got them figured out, then they change course and you’re more confused than before. Monica was a nice friend, I’d known her since fourth grade when she decided I was going to be her boyfriend and we were going to grow up and get married, after college and I became a famous New York lawyer or something. That lasted until halfway through sixth grade when she decided there was no future in a boy who wasn’t into sports, at all. She was definitely going for muscles over brains, even back then.

The back of my mind kept busy with figuring out what I was going to say about Hardy, while the rest of it was figuring out what I was going to say to Monica. Unfortunately, that didn’t leave a whole lot left to help me pay attention to the world around me. I don’t know how I got out of the school and down to the bus stop. I didn’t even notice there weren’t any other students waiting with me. I certainly didn’t notice the big black car pull up.

“Hey, kid, are you Geoff Johnson?” A voice broke my overly active concentration.

“Uh, yeah,” I said. Well, of course I was.

“Get in the backseat,” the voice said. Thomas Hardy was working his way to the front, pushing Monica out of the way and I wasn’t paying attention to anything.

“I said, get in the backseat,” the voice said. It was a .45 caliber pistol. My father owned one. Mother sold it after dad died. It killed. It didn’t wound. It was pointed at me.

I stared at the barrel. Then my eyes went to the hand holding the pistol. They were adult hands, the nails were short and clean. There was the cuff of a white shirt, the cufflink was diamond studded gold, it sparkled in the late afternoon sun. My eyes followed the arm up along the dark suit to a face that sent chills down my spine. That was definitely the face of a criminal. I’d met enough of them in the county psych ward to know that face. That was the face of a man who could kill a sixteen year old boy and then have a beer in some tavern with a buddy as if killing a boy was an everyday kind of thing.

“Get in the car,” the voice said.

To die or not to die, that was my option; or, I think that was my option. I knew what crazy was and this man was definitely psycho material. I got in the car.

I suppose they might have been policemen, except I knew policemen didn’t drive big black Cadillacs. It was a nice car, probably rented. It smelled new. The Thomas Hardy part of my brain was still working out the possibilities of the essay, so I wasn’t paying too much attention to where we were going. I was definitely not being a good kidnap victim. Then, again, I wasn’t tied, gagged, or blindfolded, either. These men had too much confidence for that. A picture came to my mind of Tim’s father on his knees with the barrel of a .45 caliber automatic pressed against the back of his head. The car came to a stop before the gun went off.

“Get out of the car,” the man with the gun said.

I was still too interested in Thomas Hardy to pay much attention. Suddenly, I was being pulled out of the car by the other man, the big man I’d seen walking out of the school. It was as if he’d practiced this maneuver. I was sitting in the car, then POOF! I was standing on the sidewalk. My arm and shoulder were sore.

I still wasn’t being a good kidnap victim, but did notice we were out near the foundry, somewhere down past the springs near where the old sawmill had been. I was being half pulled, half forced to walk into a building that might have been a garage or something, cinderblock, with steel doors, no windows. Inside it was dark. The floor was concrete. It was surprisingly clean, but looked like there were blood stains. I hoped they weren’t blood stains, but they looked like blood stains.

“Okay, this is the deal,” the man with the gun said. “We’re looking for Tim Chambers and we know you know where he is. Or, if you don’t, you know who we can talk to to find Tim Chambers.”

I swallowed, air mostly. I needed to pee. Why is it you always have to pee when something important is happening?

“For the record and so you can tell us apart, I’m Mr. Smith and this is my associate Mr. Jones. Now, Geoff Johnson, where is Tim Chambers?”

I looked at them, one then the other. They weren’t the Smith and Jones type, something more European, East European.

“Okay, kid, I guess we’re going to have to do it the hard way,” Mr. Smith said, unbuttoning his suit coat and taking out the pistol. He placed it on a small table and hung his coat on a wooden chair. “Take off your clothes.”


“Mr. Jones, assist our young friend with removing his garments.”

Mr. Jones took out a switchblade knife. I’d never actually seen such a knife, but when the long, very sharp appearing blade snapped out, I guessed it was a switchblade knife. He said, “Do I cut them off, trying very hard not to nick you, or are you gong to do it yourself?”

I started unbuttoning my shirt. It took me a while, but I was soon naked. The concrete floor felt cold to my feet. I was definitely embarrassed, but these men didn’t seem to care. I didn’t think it would help my case, but I said, “I don’t know where Tim is.”

The pain was sharp and instantaneous, but not terribly severe. It was near my left kidney. I cringed and almost stumbled to the floor.

“Didn’t your mother ever teach you children are not to speak unless spoken to?” Mr. Smith asked. His face never showed any emotion. It was the face of someone who laughed at the wrong jokes. “You have noticed Mr. Jones is very good at inflicting pain. That is his job in this little venture of ours. Pain is a wonderful tool for getting information. Used correctly, pain can reveal a lot of things. Used incorrectly the victim dies or gets too brave and then goes nuts. My job is to ask questions, gather information. You will also notice I have the gun. I shoot people for a living, but we’re not going to shoot you, Geoff. No, we need information and you’re going to give it to us.”

I shivered from the cold. I still needed to pee. I might have needed to shit, too, but not right then. I was scared. I was very scared. I didn’t want to be in so much pain, but I didn’t think I was lucky not to have to worry about being shot. They weren’t going to put me out of my misery. I, also, didn’t know where Tim was.

“Where’s Tim?”

“I don’t know.”

Pain, more pain than the first time, but not as bad as I expected. Mr. Jones was definitely good at this. He was smiling. His instrument of pain looked like a pool cue. It was a pool cue. Not only could he hit me, a poke from the pointy end in the right place could be excruciating.

The questions continued. The pain increased. I don’t exactly remember when I peed, but I remember my bladder emptying and hearing one of them chuckle as if he expected me to pee. I can’t remember when I collapsed to my knees, but I remember being down there, the cold concrete hard against my skin. I know I told them all about what Tim told me, I remember that. I don’t know when my bowels gave way. I think it was sometime after I told them about Jerry and Jerry calling me, but it might have been before.

I lost track of time. My world was being measured with a question, an answer, and a brief moment of pain. Question, answer, pain. Question, answer, pain. I know I was bleeding, I felt it trickling down my body, but Mr. Jones was very good at keeping me just aware enough to answer each of the questions, eventually to their liking. Somewhere in all of that agony, I stopped thinking of what I was going to write about Thomas Hardy.

Then I wasn’t aware of anything.


I wasn’t in County General when I woke up. That much I was certain. It was definitely a hospital, but not County General. I was alone. As awareness slowly took its time I saw the IV bottles and the tube coming down towards me. I looked at my hand and arm, but didn’t see where they put the needle. Then I felt something on my neck. There was an IV in my neck. You have to be pretty bad to have an IV in your neck. My mind slowly started taking inventory. Two hands, two arms, chest, abdomen, catheter, two feet. The legs must have been there because I could wiggle my toes, but they seemed apart as if there was a gap between the catheter and my toes. You, also, have to be pretty bad to have a catheter. I’ve been there, I know.

What I didn’t know was where I was. I knew I was alive; or, I suspected I was alive. I didn’t want this to be my own personal Hell. Forever plumbed to a catheter. Spending eternity with wiggling toes somewhere past the end of my body.

I went back to sleep.

When I woke again someone was cleaning me, I think. I felt a warm wash cloth rubbing against my body. I opened my eyes and saw the hand and its arm, then the body it was attached to. The covers had been pulled back and I was naked. I saw the tube in the end of my dick. My legs were bruised and bandaged. I thought I saw a stitch or two.

“Good morning, Geoff,” a voice said, probably the nurse ministering to my body. “It’s the morning after Thanksgiving. If you’re a good boy, I think the doctor will take out the catheter. I know you’ll want to get up.”

“Where am I?”

“West Ward, Room 509, North Park Memorial.”


“You were transferred here from County General three days ago. I heard there was some concern about your safety down there.”

“I know some of the staff. They don’t like me.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll find us to be very likeable.”

I still hadn’t seen the nurse’s face, just the arm and the uniform, which was more of a jacket than a blouse or dress. Then he turned to me. He smiled. The nametag said, “John Allen, RN.”

“Don’t look so shocked, guys can be nurses, too.”

I went back to sleep.

Doctor Randall allowed Sam to come in and stay with me while I spent the weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas, at home. Another month away from school, my sophomore year wasn’t going very well. Of course, that didn’t stop the teachers from sending work home and it gave Monica a chance to be with me more often as she shuttled the schoolwork back and forth.

The police weren’t all that helpful, but then North Park’s finest weren’t that helpful to anyone, ever. If you were going to be the victim of a crime, most people in North Park knew it was best to be in Seattle or out in the county somewhere. The police were working on the theory I was beaten up because I was gay. It was easier because the whole world was suspect. They took my descriptions of the two men, the place where I was tortured, and the big black Cadillac, but they seemed too perfunctory in their questions and the notes they were taking. I was just another gay boy who got beat up, an everyday event, something expected, something normal.

Only, my injuries weren’t what someone would expect from a regular beating. Mine were very specific. Someone with a trained eye could have seen that. Doctor Randall brought in a private investigator, who took one look at me and called the State Police. They seemed particularly interested in my description of Mr. Jones. Seems there was a body in the morgue in Olympia that fit that description. The man was wanted on a number of warrants from back East. He was known to various public servants as someone good at inflicting pain. He’d been shot with a .45 caliber bullet, execution style. Maybe, Mr. Smith no longer needed Mr. Jones’ assistance in their little venture. I hoped they hadn’t found Tim, or Jerry.

A cracked kneecap, a couple broken ribs, a broken collar bone, many bruises, and a lot of interesting knife wounds, that was the extent of my injuries. My doctor seemed particularly interested in the knife wounds. He said they were targeted at specific sensitive areas of the body where the right kind of wound would produce a lot of pain. He said, “Most of these aren’t that deep, they stay right at the surface where most of the nerve endings are. Whoever did this to you, knew what they were doing.”

I’m certain Mr. Jones and Mr. Smith would have agreed with him.

Three days before Christmas, Mark showed up at our front door. He certainly looked better than he did before Thanksgiving. Sam brought him up to my room where I was camped out on my bed. With my right arm braced up so my collar bone could heal and my left leg in a cast so my kneecap could heal, I did not move about well; usually, staying put most of the time in one location, either upstairs or down. Maybe if I’d been more athletic I could get around better, but I wasn’t, so I didn’t.

“Hey, is that Tim’s Corsair?” Mark asked, almost as soon as he came into the room.

“Yeah, he gave it to me before he left, sort of something to remind me of him. How do you know about the Corsair?”

“I helped him build it when we were in seventh grade.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No, me and Tim go way back. Kindergarten, I think. At least to first grade. I’m sorry about your beating.”

“I wasn’t beaten up,” I said. He was still standing by my bookshelf where the Corsair took up space formerly occupied by my collection of Hardy Boys books. “Are you going to sit down, or is this a short visit?”

“I came to thank you for getting Monica to talk to me, again,” Mark said as he sat down on the end of my bed, turning to face me. “And, I want to say that I’m not thinking about killing myself.”

“That’s good,” Sam said. He looked at me, but I shrugged. I figured Mark would get around to explaining if he wanted to.

“Yeah, I told Geoff to find me a friend before Christmas or he had to help me commit suicide. Kind of crazy, if you think about it, but with Monica talking to me again, I guess it’s okay I don’t have a friend.”

“I’ll be your friend,” Sam said.

“You’re a faggot and Geoff’s friend.”

“Guilty on both counts, but I can still be your friend.”

“I don’t want no faggots for friends.”

“Scared of me?”

“I’m not scared of nobody.”

“You know me, Mark, you’ve been to my house with Tim.”

“Yeah, well, Tim’s a faggot, too.”

“He’s your friend.”

“Was my friend.”

“Was? What happened?”

“I found out his was a faggot and I stopped being his friend.”

“Just like that.”

“Yeah, just like that.”

I watched these two go at it. Sam trying to wheedle his way into Mark’s heart and Mark doing his damnedest to keep away. He certainly had a bad attitude to gay boys and I was certain Sam was going to get Mark mad enough to do something really stupid like try to hit one of us. He wouldn’t have trouble with me, but I wasn’t certain how much of this hate Sam could take. It got so bad I was positive one of them was going to hit the other, but then Mark suddenly changed tactics and I didn’t know where he was going.

“Look, Sam, I don’t like boys who like boys.”

“You like boys.”

“Not the way you like them.”

“I like you and I want to be your friend. I’m not asking you to kiss me and I’m certainly not going to touch you in anyway you don’t want. What kind of movies do you like?”

“He likes brainless, screwball, comedies, Three Stooges,” I said.

“What a coincidence, I do too,” Sam said.

“You do?” I asked.

“Yeah, the funnier the better. You know, Mark, there’s a Three Stooges movie at the Crest this weekend. We could go. It would give us a chance to get to know one another.”

Mark looked stunned, that deer in the headlights look. He was definitely wavering.

“How about it, Mark?”

“Just you?”

“Just me. You have a car?”

“No, I haven’t taken Driver’s Ed yet, but my brother can take us.”


“Yeah, Saturday is okay. You have a phone number?”

“I’m staying here with Geoff. He needs my help.”

And, that was it, Mark had a friend, or at least someone to go to stupid movies with him.

After Mark left, Sam came back upstairs. He was shaking his head.

“First thing I going to do is get him to stop calling us faggots,” Sam said, sitting down on my bed and his hand on my thigh. It felt warm, especially when he started to lightly rub my leg.

“Good luck, he probably picked that up at home.”

“No, that’s the strange thing about it. I know his family. None of them are close to acting anything like him. I even think he’s got an uncle who might be queer, he’s certainly swishy enough to be.”

“I know men like that who have families. Swishy doesn’t mean gay.”

“Yeah, well, Uncle Norbert is so much like a fairy they have to keep the windows closed when he comes over.”


“They’re afraid he’ll fly away.”

“Ha ha, very funny, ha ha. That’s about as bad as Mark calling us faggots.”

Sam’s hand was in my crotch. It had never been that high before. We’d kissed some, but hadn’t come close to anything sexual, what with me being laid up with plaster all over my body. I felt my zipper being pulled down. The button at the top of my jeans was released. I didn’t want to say anything, afraid to break the spell.

“You don’t mind, do you?” Sam asked as he pulled my pants and briefs down to my ankles.

“No,” I whispered.

“Good, because I’m in a faggoty mood.”

He lowered his mouth and sucked in one of my balls. I spread my legs a little more and he began to lick the tender area behind my ball sack. I closed my eyes not wanting the magic to go away. My cock felt warm and wet as Sam’s mouth enveloped it. His lips firm against my hardness, his tongue swirling, teasing, exciting me, I wanted to hold his head, run my fingers through his hair, but I kept my eyes closed, not wanting to watch.

I couldn’t take much more, but Sam was insatiable. His fingers massaged my balls, squeezing, prodding, sending me places I hadn’t seen in weeks. His mouth, lips, and tongue worked up and down the length of my cock and his head bobbed up and down drawing me deeper into his throat. I didn’t want to come, I didn’t want these feelings to stop, but I couldn’t hold it back. The tingling between my legs, the burning sensation at the tip of my cock, my whole body shuddering as the orgasm overwhelmed me. He took the first shot on the down stroke and pulled me back into his throat as more come spewed out of me. He was swallowing me. I wanted him.

“Fuck me,” I whispered. “I want your faggot dick up my ass. I want it now.”

With my leg and arm covered in plaster it wasn’t practical to do it on the bed, so I stood up and bent over as much as I could while Sam lubed his dick. He came up behind me and placed his dick head at my opening. I waited as warm hands massaged my back. I opened myself and Sam entered me, not stopping until he was all the way in. He held me against him, pulling me up slightly. Then pulled out a few inches and slowly thrust in.

Fingers were pinching my nipples as the tempo increased. He was pounding my ass with short, rapid thrusts. I looked down and I was hard, again. There was nothing to do except shut my eyes and keep the magic going. I imagined his lips pressed against mine, his tongue playfully exciting me. I imagined seeing his face as his orgasm overpowered him. I imagined reaching up and pinching his nipples. My dick throbbed as another orgasm suddenly overtook my awareness. I hadn’t touched it, yet long ropes of come shot out splattering onto the linoleum.

Sam was holding me tight as he shoved his engorged cock deep inside me. I could feel it jerking as volleys of come flowed into me. I wanted his lips on mine, but accepted two fingers that inadvertently passed my mouth as his hands began to caress my face. I drew in the fingers sucking on them, softly biting, not knowing what I was doing. Sam stayed inside me as our bodies slowly came down from heights of pleasure. This was more than I ever expected when Sam said he wanted to be my lover. This was everything I wanted from Kiel, but never got.

I felt his come begin to dribble down my thigh and said, “Hey, lover, you’ve got a mess to clean up.”

“Anything for my lover,” he said taking some tissues and squatting down behind me. His hand gently held my leg to steady him as the other hand went about wiping up his come. He took a few more tissues and knelt down on the floor to wipe up my come.

“You’ve got a nice looking ass,” I said, hobbling over to my bed. “I wish I could come down their and kiss it.”

I thought of Tim’s ass and felt sad. I didn’t know if he was dead or hiding out somewhere with Jerry’s friends. I wanted him now, even though I’d had the most wonderful time with Sam. I looked at the Corsair on the bookshelf and began to cry.