Marshall and Me: The Next Day

by Jackson James

© 8 November 2000 by Jackson James []

I dedicate this story to some online friends who've helped me learn more about what love is in nine months than I'd learned in all my life before. They also helped me learn more about myself, who I am and what I want, than I ever imagined was possible. Thanks, guys, to all of you, for the good and the bad, the easy and the hard. I am a better person, a better man, for your friendships

"Do not trade future promise for present happiness!" -- JGS

NOTE:  If male-male sex, gay relationships, or teen sex offends you, or if you disapprove of this, or if you are not of the right age to read about it, please -- to protect your rights and the rights of others, stop reading now, and go elsewhere. 

The continuing true story of Marshall and me. The names are changed and a story-teller's license has been used to fill in the memory gaps.

From Part One --

Thanks," he whispered in his sexy, raspy, voice, "That was fucking fantastic, Sam."

I smiled at him and said, "My pleasure, Marshall." He got all practical all of a sudden.

"We gotta get cleaned up, come to the bathroom." He kicked the covers out of the way.

I got up and he followed. We tiptoed naked down the hallway to the bathroom. It was a bit of a rush to walk around naked when his parents were less than 20 feet away in their bed just behind their bedroom door past which we had to walk to get to the bathroom. We used a washcloth to clean up, smiling both from ear to ear.

No after-sex embarrassment. I may not have been what he really wanted, a girl, but I was his friend and we'd just shared a wonderful thing. We both wanted it and we both liked what we got.

Part Two - The Next Day

After we got cleaned up following our first time in bed, we tiptoed to Marshall's bedroom and got back into our own beds. We went right to sleep. I suppose it was around 2 am. We slept in the next morning. Marshall woke me up.

"Wake lazy ass, it's 10:00 already." He laughed as he jumped on me.

I wake up slowly in the morning, though once up I'm up. Marshall may have been only 5'6" tall and 130 pounds, but that's two bales of hay landing on my chest. My groaned "ungh" when he landed on me sent him into a giggle fit. We roughhoused for a minute or two and then I threw him off of me and got out of bed.

"You better watch your skinny butt," I growled at him.

"Oooo," he giggled again, "I'm soo scared."

Laughing some more, we pulled on some clothes and went to the other end of the house for breakfast to find his parents gone, a note on the kitchen table telling us that they were off to one of his relatives for the day. The note said that they planned on returning home that evening around 9:00. His mom left instructions for cooking a couple of Swanson's frozen Chicken Pot Pies for our supper, the only food she trusted him to cook.

Marshall got a tremendous smile on his face, and pumped his fist with a shouted, "Yes!" Without so much as a by-your-leave he turned immediately and walked back into the den to the stereo, powered it on, and put in a tape of Peter Frampton. Next thing I knew we were broadcasting Frampton to the entire county and he was bouncing back into the kitchen smiling, eys twinkling, and singing at the top of his lungs.

'Just wonderful,' I groaned to myself, 'Frampton! Ugh!' But he was enjoying himself too much for me to spoil his obvious fun by complaining, so I just smiled at him. I won't comment on his singing ability so he won't be hurt should he ever read this.

Marshall bounced around the kitchen grabbing a couple of bowls out of the cupboard, a couple of spoons from a drawer, a gallon of milk from the fridge, and a box of Frosted Flakes from the pantry. All the while he watched me watch him. We sat down at the table and ate our cereal as he outlined all the things we could do for the day between mouthfuls of Frosted Flakes.

I suppose our nighttime activities had made us quite ravenous, because we both ate three bowls each. I've never seen a box of cereal vanish so quickly.

Marshall liked motocross racing and had a Kawasaki 125cc bike he was constantly tinkering with. He taught me enough about bikes and shit that later we'd argue the merits of the various manufacturers (Yamaha, Honda, Kawasaki, Husquvarna, etc.) and the new innovations manufacturers were introducing. Rear monoshocks were just coming out then--now you won't find a motorcycle built which doesn't have a monoshock. We weren't so sure of them at the time. I mean, who wants to trust their ride to a single shock? What if it broke? We had fun talking about that kind of stuff.

Marshall did more than just tinker and talk though, he also raced motocross when he had the opportunity. He practiced on a race course he'd started building in the two wooded acres of his dad's land. We decided to take shovel, hoe, and saw and work it some more. He also had a bmx bike he rode, and we used that to test out the jumps and the berms we built for the turns.

It was hot and we worked hard, but being outside on a summer's day is always good. You might think that living in Florida is tough cause it's so hot, but when you grow up there, you just don't think that about it. I grew up wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and a ball cap--which remain my favorite clothes--to do most everything. And for some things, like working hay fields, you have to have long pants. That's just life in the south in a farming town.

This is not to say that Marshall was a farmer's son. Not true. His dad worked for the Florida National Guard at Camp Broward and his mom worked for the Bradley County School Board. But they did live out in the country, and Marshall had done his share of farm work to make spending money just like I had. Neither of us every did the morning chore thing, like kids who grew up on farms had to do (milking cows, gathering eggs, etc.), but we both knew what hard work was and digging berms and cutting limbs was no big deal.

About 3:00 we took a break and went inside to get some coke and chips. In case you're not from the south, "coke" means any carbonated drink, much like "soda" or "pop" means the same in other parts of the country. We sat and cooled off in the kitchen, not talking too much because the stereo was still blasting away, only now the band was Boston. We were both singing at the top of our lungs, rather than talking. I still love Boston. Funny, but the only way I can listen to Boston today is if it's really loud!

Marshall and I went back outside and spent hours digging dirt in one spot and piling it up in another (work, of course, we would have *hated* if his Dad had wanted us to do it). We took occasional coke and chip breaks as the afternoon moved to evening, talking about this or that. Have you ever met someone and within minutes found yourself so easy in their company you felt like you'd known them for years? I have and it's the coolest thing, that ease of rapport, like you can talk about anything. Marshall and I had that.

Marshall was cute as hell in a sweaty T-shirt, his hair plastered to his head all damp from sweating. I guess I'd have to say that he was cute as hell no matter what, wet or dry, clothed or unclothed, in bed or not. I did not tell him this. In fact, I never did tell Marshall what I thought about him other than as a friend. I just enjoyed his company and his friendship. The sex stuff was icing on the cake, but the cake was damned good without it.

We'd been talking as we worked about what to do that night.

"What do you think about sleeping outside tonight?" Marshall asked me. "I feel like sleeping under the stars."

"Stars are good," I answered. "But what about the mosquitos? I don't wanna itch all next week."

"Depends on when we go outside. If we wait until it's dark, it should be fine. I do it all the time. We can turn on Dad's bug zapper for a while, too."

"If you swear the bugs won't eat us alive, I'm game!" I said.

"The sun'll be down by 8:00 and the mosquitos will have settled to the ground by then. I'll go out and clear them out a little bit and turn on the zapper before we take our stuff out there."

"Deal!" I said. "Camp out!"

He laughed and said, "Campfire!!" with a grin.

When he said "campfire" with such glee, I looked at him hard. He had this look in his eyes--not mischievious, but something else I couldn't decipher.

'Uh oh,' I thought. 'What does that mean?' I found out.

Marshall's folks got home at 7:00, a lot earlier than their note said they would.

"Oh, shit!" Marshall hollered, when he saw their car coming up the road, "the stereo--they'll tan my hide!."

He took off towards the house and made it inside in time to turn the stereo down before they heard it, which perplexed me all to hell cause I couldn't imagine that they hadn't heard it a mile down the road it was so loud.

We were still glad to see his parents--meant we got to eat real food and not a frozen chicken pot pie. They brought KFC with them from town cause his mom didn't want to cook after the long drive. KFC was fine with me, and the way Marshall scarfed his down, I don't think he minded either. As we ate, Marshall asked if we could camp out that night.

His mom looked at him, funny like, and asked, "Wait, wasn't Sam supposed to go home sometime today?"

We both stopped eating, food in our mouths, looked at each other, and at the same time said, "Oh, shit!"

And then Marshall coughed and sputtered food out of his mouth in embarrassment cause he'd just cussed in front of his mom. She immediately said sternly, "Marshall," and then I saw her turn her head away towards me so he couldn't see her smile at his food spewing prowess.

"You might want to call Mrs. Jacobson, Marshall, to let her know what's going on and see if it's okay if Sam stays another night," she said smiling.

"Yes, ma'am," Marshall replied.

"It is okay if he stays, right?" Marshall asked. "We've had a great time working on the course out in the woods. He deserves a reward. I thought a night under the stars would be terrific."

"I don't mind, Marshall," she said. "But he'll need church clothes for tomorrow and, anyway, you have to call her. She expected him home hours ago."

"Will you talk to her so she doesn't get too mad at us?" he asked.

"Oh, no you don't," she laughed. "You do your own dirty work. I'm not getting into this except to confirm that it's okay that he stay the night again. He'll have to accept the responsibility for failing to call."

I admit I was a little nervous, but not terribly so. My mom was pretty cool about things. She always said that no new was good news. She was fine as long as she knew where we were and how she could get a hold of us if she had to. The only big fight she and I ever had was when I was supposed to be spending the night at Marshall's and he and I had gone to his folk's lake house. She called to talk to me and blew a gasket when I wasn't there.

Marshall didn't wait to finish eating, but jumped up and ran to the phone. He called my house and asked to talk to my mom. I could only hear his end of the conversation.

"Uh, hi Mrs. Jacobson. Yeah, I know, I'm really, really sorry. We were out working on my race course all afternoon and lost track of the time. And when my folks got home they'd brought KFC and we just sat down and started eating and didn't even think about calling until my mom just mentioned it. I jumped up right away to call you. Yeah, we had a great time."

I could hear the smile on his face.

"Mrs. Jacobson, uh, can Sam stay the night again? We want to camp out in the back yard. Well, not really camp, we just throw a blanket on the ground and sleeping bags on the blanket. Can he, please?"

There was silence for a bit, and then he looked at me and motioned for me to come over.

"She wants to talk to you," he said with his hand over the phone receiver.

'Oh no,' I thought, 'here it comes.' I took the receiver from him.

"Hi mom," I said.

"Did you have a good day, Sam?" she asked me.

"The best, Mom. We're a little weary from the work and camping out would be the perfect way to end the day."

"What about church tomorrow?" she replied.

"Marshall's mom said she'd drive me in to get clothes since she would have come in anyway to bring me home. I can ride home after church tomorrow."

A bit of silence, and then she said, "I suppose it's all right. Just remember to call me in the future You may think you're all grown up, but I still worry about you."

"Yes, ma'am," I said smiling, and I turned to Marshall and punched him on his shoulder to let him know. He smiled his sexy smile this time, and I knew that the camp out would be more than just staring at the stars in the sky.

"We'll be in in a bit. I love you."

"I love you too, son," she said as she hung up.

We finished up the KFC, helped his mom clean up (which amused her no end), and then she drove us into town so I could get my Sunday clothes.

Less than 30 minutes later we were laying on sleeping bags under the night sky, a breeze thankfully keeping the mosquitos at bay.

And then I learned something new about Marshall. He was a pyromaniac.

No kidding.

"Want a fire?" he asked, smiling.

"Sure," I said. "I love the smell of a campfire."

Marshall, however, didn't care a thing about the smell of a campfire. Marshall loved fire itself. His dad had a pile of creosote fence posts, and Marshall began to raid the pile, chopping fence posts into campfire-sized logs on which he then poured gasoline. In case you don't know, creosote is a petroleum-based substance used to make fence posts more impervious to weathering, kind of like a black, sticky tar. You understand then, gasoline + creosote = FIRE!

One match later, we had a fire with flames leaping several dozen feet into the night sky. How in the world his dad ever managed to NOT see what was happening in his back yard I'll never know, but he never came outside and to my knowledge ever said a word to either of us.

Marshall kept chopping up fence posts, and we had a fire for several hours. When I said that Marshall was mischievous, I perhaps should have elaborated and said that he was a bundle of energy that never stopped. Mischievous meant that he got into trouble, the energy meant that he got into lots of trouble. We were lucky this night.

We talked, and he kept jumping up to piddle in his shop. His shop radio was tuned to Y103, so we still had music in the night, but thankfully it wasn't as loud as the stereo had been that afterno

When Marshall finally started to get run down enough to actually think about laying down, I can remember it clearly, as if it were yesterday. He stood beside me on the blanket, looking down at me, smiling sexily, the Milky Way in the night sky above his head. He unfastened his belt, unsnapped the button on the waist of his jeans, and unzipped them (I love the sound of a zipper sliding slowly down). Seductively, he wiggled his hips in that familiar humping motion to get his jeans to slid down his slender hips to his feet. He kept his glittering eyes on mine, smiling, as he put his fingers into the waistband of his white briefs. Then he turned around, his back to me, and put his hands in the back of his briefs and cupped the cheeks of his butt rubbing sensuously, thrusting his hips back towards me and wiggling them in my face.

I got hard in a second, maybe less. Goddam he was beautiful, sexy, and seductive. His skin was unblemished-- a pale gold much like the color of his hair only darker. He had thin yet muscled legs covered with a soft, brown coat of hair, unlike his chest which was hairless, but he did have a treasure trail that descended from his inney belly button down to his pubes. His pecs were slightly defined, as were his ribs and he had just a hint of a six-pack, which was really only seen when he was straining or contracting them. He was no athelete and he didn't have that kind of a body. He was a small, lean, energetic, beautiful young man.

Humping his hips back and forth, Marshall used his hands to push his briefs slowly over his hips and down his legs. Of course, he had to bend over to get them off of his feet, and when he did, his beautiful, unblemished, white-gold ass was right in my face. I could see his pucker and I wanted nothing more than to reach up, grab his hips, and pull his ass to my face and lick that inviting hole until he begged for mercy.

He got his briefs off, turned around, saw the look on my face, and started laughing.

"Jesus, Sam," he said, "like what you see?"

"Fuck, yeah!" I whispered. He was hot. But I really couldn't tell him how much I wanted to make total love to him. He's have freaked.

"You are one horny-ass dude," I said louder. "I can't wait." I smiled my crooked smile at him, cocking my head to the right as I often do, and waited to see what he would do.

"Let me turn off the shop light and ... uh ... well, you know," he grinned at me.

Marshall walked over the the shop, half naked, just his T-shirt on. I was captivated by him and watched his every move. I remember what he looked like as he reached up to turn off the light; the image perfectly framed and undimmed by time.

He stands in the door of the shop, the light highlighting his body. He wears a red short-cut T-shirt. He is reaching up to unscrew the lightbulb with his right hand and his left hand holds the door frame. The stretch pulls his T-shirt up almost to his nipples--pulls his tummy taut like a trampolene. The light shadows his ribs and tummy muscles, defined in their leanness. His tiptoe stance causes his leg muscles to contract, thigh and calf distinct on his slight frame. The twist of his body hints at the curve of his left ass cheek in the gloom behind him. His cock juts slightly from his brown pubes. His skin is a golden velvet in the mix of shoplight and firelight. He looks at me smiling his sexy smile.

Snap, like a flash camera, I have the image I've carried with me all these years. I remember many things about Marshall, this is one I cherish, for it embodies all that was special about his physical self. I don't think I've ever seen a more beautiful thing in my life.

The light went out and we were left with the flickering glow of the campfire, which was slowly burning itself out.

Marshall walked back to me.

He pulled his T-shirt over his head slowly, smiling, giggling. The beautiful 6-inch cock nestled in him pubes rose until it was jutting fully from his crotch at a 90-degree angle, pulsing, bouncing with his heartbeat.

"Am I the only one who's going to get naked tonight?" he laughed softly.

His striptease had so mesmerizd me, I was still dressed, my hard cock laying across my left hip. I'd been watching him, absorbed in his naked beauty.

"Why don't you undress me," I smiled at him.

Laughing, he knelt down, undid my belt, unsnapped my jeans, and pulled jeans and briefs off in one, swift, vigorous motion.

"I'm horny," he said by way of explanation, laughing. "Sit up."

I sat up and before I could take a breath my T-shirt was off and tossed to the side. I still got goosebumps though, cause I was naked with Marshall again.

We were not shaking this time, for some reason.

He lay down on top of me and started to hump my hard cock, sliding his cock back and forth through my crotch. His face was turned away from me, lying on my left shoulder, and I could feel his breaths on my skin as he picked up the pace. My hands were on his back, rubbing from his neck, down across his shoulders, down his spine, feeling the cords of muscle to either side of his spine, down to the base of his spine and the rise of the globes of his ass.

I wanted this to last, though, so I put my hands on his hips and stopped his almost frantic humping.

"What?" he asked.

"It'll be better if you go slower," I explained.

"But I don't want better, Sam, I want now!"

"Now is good," I said, "but ..."

Putting his hands on my shoulders he lifted himself up off my chest. He looked into my eyes with his blue eyes, though I couldn't see their blueness, and smiled, which I could see in the fading firelight.

"All right, all right. What do you want me to do?"

"You are doing just fine, Marshall. Just go slower is all. Enjoy the feelings, think about your body and where it's touching mine, how it feels, how your cock feels, how my cock feels, how your asshole feels when the night air touches it when you thrust your ass up into the air before you hump back down. Enjoy it all, Marshall," I said while I rubbed his chest with my hands looking at his face.

He looked at me like I was crazy. Perhaps I was, but I'd been jacking since I was 12 and I'd long since learned that touching myself all over was a great way to get a great cum. I'd once got myself to cum without ever touching my dick, just by feeling myself, my legs, my balls, my ass, my chest, my sides, my tummy, my neck. Marshall was one of those guys who just grabs and goes, jacking furiously until he came. I put a stop to that.

"Trust me," I smiled.

Marshall rolled his eyes, which I was able to see because of the whites of his eyes.

"Okay, okay. I'll go slow, then."

He laid his head back down on my shoulder. His dick didn't even go soft while I spoke with him and I could feel it pulsing against mine our heartbeats nearly synchronized.

I put my hands on his head, my fingers entwined in his hair. I brought my lips to the side of his neck and I started to nibble his skin. No sucking. God, the last thing we needed was a hickey.

He jerked when he felt my teeth on his neck, and then, with a soft sigh, he settled even farther onto me, a warm, vibrant, young man fully alive. I could actually feel his heart beating, his chest against my chest, his breaths pushing in and out demanding that my breathing match his, that I yield to his desire, to his body, to his need.

It's really hard to describe the texture of his skin. If you've ever held a peach, freshly picked from a peach tree on a hot Georgia afternoon, then you have a idea what his skin felt like, warm and soft and pliant to the touch. He was quit delicious, too!

He started to hump again, the globes of his ass lifting slightly in the warm Florida night air, before dropping to thrust his hips forward. Slowly, with each long stroke, his cock head pushed against my balls, then alongside my cock until his soft, furry balls were draped over the head of my dick. The sensation of his soft, pliant cockhead poking my balls was like a gentle electric current, throbbing and insistent, but not painful in the least. Each hump lifted his tummy off of me exposing our bellies to the cooling night breeze, which only added to the erotic feel, sweat evaporating with each slow stroke.

Marshall tried go slow as I wanted, but his heart really wasn't in it. Before long his thrusts grew more insistent, more forceful and rough, as his need to cum mounted.

I put my hands on his ass and held him motionless, lifting my head to whisper in his right ear, "Slowly, slowly, you can do it ... feel my pubes against your dick, the air on your balls, enjoy this as long as you can."

He sighed, pulled his butt back against my hands, and started humping again. His ass muscles, so soft yet so hard when flexed, moved in my fingers. Have I said how beautiful his ass was?

I think I was a good teacher, because Marshall kept going slow and steady, the friction doing it's erotic work, the heat from our bodies penetrating from one to the other into our insides, the sweat we worked up adding lubrication to the motion.

I scratched the fingers of my left hand across his muscled back, his ticklish sides, and with my right hand I kneaded his ass. I kept squeezing his cheeks, rubbing and petting them. I slipped a finger to his pucker, circling around it. He arched his back with a groan when I pushed a fintertip into his throbbing hole.

"Unnhh, aaahh," Marshall gasped, as I wiggled my fingertip just inside of him.

"What the hell?" he said, still humping slowly. "What'd you just do? That feels ... aaahh, I don't know how that feels."

"A feeling you like?" I asked.

"Shit, yeah! I do know it feels good"

"Good! I won't stop."

"Didn't ask you to, did I?"

Marshall settled his head back down and continued with his lesson--slowly lifting and lowering his ass, getting us both more and more aroused.

The gentle rubbing of cock against cock, balls exquisitely poked, nipples brushing each other's chest, bellies sliding together sensously, slowly added sensation on sensation. The cooler air blowing over our skin, my hands on him, his back and ass, all started to add up to orgasm. Holding the urge to cum in check only increased the erotic pressure with each of his forward thrusts.

We both felt the need building, the tension between prolongation of sensation and desire for full release in precarious balance.

Marshall's breathing started to get ragged and rapid, incredibly arousing as he gasped and shuddered. I heard and felt him twitching, his sweaty chest against mine, his nipples pushed hard into me. Beneath my hands I felt the muscles of his back, the cords along either side of his spine contract when he thrust his ass forward, trying to push his cock through me--into me.

I think the urge to poke--to push into--is a basic male response to sex. Marshall certainly had the urge, perhaps need, and the closer he got to cumming the harder he tried.

I buried my face in his neck.

"Marshall," I whispered to his hot flesh, "Oh, fuck, Marshall!"

Marshall began gasping with each of his out-breaths, "ah ... ah ... ah," as he fucked my cock with his cock, his left hand tightly clenching my right shoulder, his other hand on the blanket supporting him.

Beads of sweat covered his face and shoulders from his exertion. The salty drops rolled down his cheeks and dripped off his chin onto my shoulders. Sweat from his back ran down his sides onto my chest. The squish of our skin was a soundtrack of desire. His beautiful, lean legs neste inside mine and my inner thighs were soaked with his salty fluid.

I caressed Marshall's furry balls, brushing them with my fingertips, pinching them, rolling them in my hands, and he started to whimper.

Marshall sucked in each breath with a shudder, releasing it out with a whimpered "ah" as he got closer and closer. His cock was a fiery poker touching me, stoking the erotic, orgasmic fire in my gut.

Putting each of his hands on the blanket outside my shoulders, Marshall looked me in my eyes with a feral gaze, and he really started to thrust with intensity, almost mad with the need to cum. Sweat dripped off of his nose onto my face and I licked it up, smiling with the thrill of his desire to cum.

His sound changed from whimper to grunt. We were outside now and no parents to be careful of, "uh ... uh ... uh ... uh" he grunted with each forward thrust, his almost animal lust clearly visible on his face in the firelight.

I was mesmerized at this Marshall on top of me, changed from lithe sexy youth to something else entirely.

I felt my own orgasm approaching and I reached up and put my hands on his shoulders, feeling them flex with his motion, my breathing getting as ragged as his, nearly hyperventilating with the rush of it.

He found his voice.

"Sam ... oh, fuck ... Sam ... oh, God, oh, God," he cried out.

And he went rigid.

His toes dug into the sleeping bag, his pelvis stabbed down into mine one final time, he scrunched his face up, his mouth working, "ogod ogod ogod ogod" and he blasted between us, his cock spasming next to mine.

When I felt the first jerk, my brain when white and I exploded myself, as rigid as he was, my legs rock hard, straight out, toes pointed, so tight I nearly cramped from the tension of the orgasm's embrace.

I cried out, "ofuck ofuck ofuck ofuck" as my cum mixed with his on my chest.

If I thought he'd had an orgasm the night before, I'd seen nothing compared to this. He came in five shots, cum landing on my collarbone for the first two. His body shook with the after affects and he suddenly dropped onto me, his chest heaving in giant gasps that slowly became normal as mine, too, slowed.

Then he started to laugh.

"What?" I asked.

He tried to talk through his giggles, "Jesus, Sam! Warn me next time you tell me to trust you that it might kill me."

I laughed with him for a minute as he lay laughing on my chest, his head again resting on my shoulder.

"You okay, Marshall? Anything broke? I can't believe how rigid you got."

"Me neither. That's what I meant. Almost scared me. Where'd you learn this shit?"

"About going slow?"


"It works for me when I jack, I just assumed it'd work for this kind of stuff, too."

"Fucking a, it worked!" he laughed again. "Let's get cleaned up!"

He took his T-shirt and wiped us both down. I hadn't been off my back since we started God knows how many minutes earlier. I didn't care, either.

He got up to make sure that the fire was out and crawled back onto the sleeping bag.

"Thanks, again, Sam," he smiled.

"Anytime, bud, anytime," I said.

And we drifted off to sleep, two exhausted but very contented guys.