Date: Sun, 25 Feb 2001 17:45:57 EST
From: MikeBranson@aol.com
Subject: Happiest Place On Earth - Part 3

DISCLAIMER: This is where I tell you that the
following is just a fantasy and that all of the
characters in the story are fictional.  (Whatever!)
Oh, and please do not go further if you are under 21
and/or you are not looking for stories that explicitly
describe man-to-man sex.  (Which only makes me wonder
why you're here in the first place.)  Call me jaded,
but if this is how I have to introduce my story in
order to stay within the confines of some archaic
law(s), it seems to me that we haven't made the
progress that some individuals would have us believe.
That said, I'll get off my soap box and present you
with the third installment of my series.  Enjoy!

HAPPIEST PLACE ON EARTH - Part 3
Mike Branson c 2001

Why is it you never see shit like this on Dawson's
Creek?  I mean, what the fuck would Jack McPhee do in
a situation like this?  I have been expelled for three
days, and for what?  I looked up the word `infraction'
in the dictionary and there was no mention of
masturbation--or the consequences of getting caught in
the act.  I don't recall reading in any of the
brochures at Freshman Orientation that churning the
baby-batter is a no-no.  Furthermore, this is Mr.
Stratton's fault.  That load was meant for him.

Rick Stratton.  What an asshole!  Fourth period,
Creative Writing, and I'm waiting to see what
repercussions there will be from my first journal
entry.  Stratton has chosen this hour to have the
class freewrite.  One by one he calls each student up
to his desk to intimately critique our initial
efforts.  My heart is racing like the fuckin'
Energizer Bunny on speed.  What will he say to me?
Did I "keep it real" enough for him?  With fluorescent
chalk he has scrawled on the blackboard, We are only
confined by our own imaginations.  So maybe I called
his bluff?  So what?

When it is my turn, I take a seat with my back to the
other kids, facing Stratton at his desk.  Look him in
the eye, I think.  So I do.  And he returns my stare
with equal intensity.  He hands me my journal.  I hope
to find the pages stained.  Instead, my eyes are drawn
to the one and only circled word in the last
paragraph.  Eluding.

"The correct word is `alluding'," he says.  "`Eluding'
means avoiding, escaping."  I look back into his eyes,
soft, green, inviting.  And with no trace of whatever
it was I had anticipated.

"That's it?" I ask.  I shoot him my "fuck me" grin (as
Uncle Brad calls it), hoping for even the slightest
reaction.  Give me something, Rick.  Anything.

"Oh, I hope not."  He lowers his right hand to his lap
where I can't see it.  Is he touching himself?
Rubbing that scholastic cock through those tight-assed
faded 501s?  "I'm looking forward to the next
installment."  A pause, barely perceptible.  "Give me
more, Ben.  I want more."

Well, what the fuck was I supposed to do?  It took all
the effort I had just to stand up straight.  And then
that fuckin' cocktease had the nerve to zero right in
on my aching boyhood as I picked up the journal and
turned to go back to my seat.  You want more, Rick?
I'll give you more, you cocksucker.  Thanks to you, I
now have three goddamned days to devote entirely to
this keepsake of last summer.  Shall I begin where I
left off?  Or do you want me to fast forward to the
part where Uncle Brad goes down on me in the Haunted
Mansion?  You'd like that, wouldn't you?  Well, fuck
you.  It's my life and I'll recount every goddamned
detail if I feel like it.  Why don't you strip out of
those Tommy Hilfigers and grab some lube while I
reminisce?  Here goes:

I had showered, brushed my teeth and dressed by eight.
In my Calvin Klein jeans and white ribbed tank top
(one of Uncle Brad's hand-me-downs), I looked like a
poster boy for milk-good, clean, wholesome.  As I
studied my reflection in the full-length mirror behind
my bedroom door, I looked for a sign, a clue, any
indication at all that I was actually a fourteen-year-
old boy on the brink of manhood with an insatiable
cock and a virgin asshole that begged for attention.
How could I let Uncle Brad know that he was--had
always been--a fixture in every wet dream, every
marathon wank-session, every fuckin' fantasy I'd ever
entertained?  Short of confession, what could I do to
convey my desire?  Was there a way?  I'd made up my
mind that today would be the day.  An opportunity like
this would more than likely never present itself again
and I had to make my move.  But how?

When I heard the car pull up outside I suddenly felt
nauseous.  This was it, my moment of truth.  Do or
die, Benjamin.  What have you got to lose?  (My
virginity, if I'm lucky!)

I peeked out the curtains in the living room in time
to see Uncle Brad step out of his new Camry (a gift
from my grandparents).  Wearing a pair of khaki
shorts, the first thing I noticed were his legs.  Once
Brad got the burr up his ass to join the LAPD after
USC, the amount of time he spent on his already-
defined build doubled.  An unhealthy obsession, Julie
would lament.  (That bitch.  I'd almost forgotten
about her.  How I wished Uncle Brad would, too.)
Obsession or not, the results of Brad's workout
regimen were heart-stopping.  The muscles in his legs
and calves were pronounced.  That the khaki shorts
clung to him, pale in contrast to the natural tan and
tone of that hairy body, only helped to accentuate his
definition.

And that ass!  So hard and tight.  So inviting.  What
I wouldn't give to bury my face in between those
perfect mounds of flesh.  I imagined a tight pink hole
hiding somewhere deep in between those furry globes.
My mission, should I choose to accept it-and I always
did-was to find the entrance using only my tongue.
Not until I'd located the treasure with my saliva-
drenched mouth could I then use my hands to spread
wider those magnificent bronzed-cheeks for the real
invasion.  Just the thought of it made me ache.

Uncle Brad was wearing a solid black t-shirt that
could just as easily have been painted on from where I
stood.  With that hairy chest and those perfect pecs,
why the fuck wear a shirt at all?  To hide that
washboard stomach?  Was Uncle Brad always this hot or
was I in overdrive?  Both, probably.  I wanted to
stroke my cock so bad but I knew better.  There'd be
time for that later and, besides, I'd already shot one
load this morning.  Something told me to wait and let
the next load build.  But how long could I stand it?
I willed my dick to behave but it wasn't easy.  (Pun
intended.)

"Hey, Brat," Uncle Brad greeted as I met him at the
door.  "Nice shirt."  His smile made my knees weak.
"It looks much better on you."

To which my immediate thought was:

I love you, Uncle Brad.  I've always loved you.  Kiss
me.  Make me hard.  Take my boydick in your mouth and
slowly, gently suck on it until you taste the oozing
precum at the back of your throat.  Then kiss me
again.  Softly, passionately.  Play with my asshole,
finger it, tease it.  And then, bend me over your lap
and knead my boybutt.  Take my virgin ass with your
strong hands and spread me open.  Produce a mouthful
of spit and let it fall from your lips, down into the
warmth of my crevice.  Take your finger and stir that
saliva all around.  Get it in there, lube my tunnel.
Use more spit, drown my hole with it.  Now, place the
tip of your dick at my quivering rosebud and push.
More.  More.  MORE DAMMIT.  GET THAT FUCKING TOOL IN
THERE!  Make me scream.  How long have I waited for
this moment?  OHMYGOD!  I can't breathe.  It hurts so
much.  Don't move.  Please don't move.  Not yet.  Give
it a minute.  Ok, now.  Put it in reverse, Brad.  Try
to take it out while I clench my ass tightly.  Don't
take it all the way out.  When you're almost there,
glide back in.  Harder.  Faster.  I'm ready now.  OH
FUCK!!!  YOU'RE KILLING ME!!!  I CAN'T STAND IT!!!
FUCK ME, UNCLE BRAD!!!  PLEASE FUCK ME!!!  OH
BRAD!!!!!!!!!!

Of course, what I said was, "Hey, Dude.  C'mon in."

Uncle Brad had to piss before we left so I ran
upstairs to pocket the money Mom had left me.  I
returned just in time to see Uncle Brad coming out of
the bathroom, tucking his shirt back into his shorts
and zipping up.  I watched as his hand slid down into
the khakis, readjusting himself for comfort.  I could
tell he was freeballing, and the impression of his
dick came to rest against his upper left leg.  Limp,
it must have been three times the size of mine!  It
was all I could do to look away, but I managed before
he noticed.  This is a moment I must always remember,
I thought.  I am creating a memory.  Cut and paste.
And save.  Definitely save.

On the drive to Anaheim, Uncle Brad went on at length
about his new car.  Yada, yada, yada, whatever.  I
feigned interest but I couldn't have cared less.  I
was still mentally kicking myself for wearing my new
CK briefs this morning.  What the fuck had I been
thinking?  Freeballing, that was the only way to go.
I knew I'd ditch them in the first bathroom we hit,
but I wasn't looking forward to the gymnastics
involved.  Maybe Uncle Brad would help me out in one
of the stalls?  Stop thinking like that, Ben!  I
should have beat off once more before leaving the
house.  My nuts were in high gear and I had no way to
relieve myself.  What's a boy to do?  FUCK!

"You haven't heard a word I've said, have you?" Uncle
Brad asked.  "Am I boring you?"  He looked my way and
grinned.

"Not at all," I lied.  Was he still going about the
car?  Shit.  Say something, Ben.  "Have you let Jules
drive it yet?"  (This is where you, the reader, shakes
your head and asks, Why did he have to bring HER up?)

Well, you'd have thought I'd tossed grin-be-gone in
his face.  Uncle Brad's smile vanished abruptly and he
turned his attention to the traffic we were
approaching.  (What the fuck nerve had I hit?)

The quiet was unsettling.  The cars had momentarily
come to a standstill when Uncle Brad looked back at me
and said, "There are only two rules for today.  One,
we do not mention THAT name at all.  Period.  End of
story."  He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.
"And, two, none of that `Uncle' stuff.  It isn't good
for my image."  His eyes searched for a reaction from
me but I didn't know what to do.  I was like a
goddamned deer caught in the headlights.  "Benji?  Is
it a deal?"

"Sure, Brad," I managed.  (What in the fuck was THAT
all about?!)  I offered a smile and turned to look for
the cause of the holdup.  It wasn't too long before
the congestion dissipated.

Confession #3: A memory suppressed, recently
resurfaced.  Or, a fantasy I've revisited so often
that I've convinced myself it really happened.  It is
my thirteenth birthday and we are gathered at the home
of my grandparents.  Uncle Brad and I are alone in the
backyard swimming pool while my mother and the others
are inside playing cards.  Night has fallen and I know
that at any minute my mother will call me in to say
that it's time to go.  Uncle Brad is somewhere
underwater and I can't see him from the shallow end of
the pool.  Suddenly, I am overcome with a fear that
something terrible has happened.  I cannot move or
call out for help.  I am immobilized by sheer terror.
And then, without warning, Uncle Brad shoots up in
front of me and spits water in my face.  I am still in
a trance.  When he realizes that I'm weirding out, he
places his hands on my shoulders and settles me.  I'm
crying now, for reasons I cannot explain, and Uncle
Brad panics.  How to calm me?  What to do?  What to
say?  And now, the blurry part: He lifts my face with
his right hand until I am looking into his eyes
through these fuckin' tears.  He lowers his mouth and
places his lips gently to mine.  I can feel his tongue
parting my lips and exploring my mouth.  Without a
word, he kisses me with a passion that both frightens
and thrills me.  His arms are around me now, one hand
pressing at the back of my head, bringing my mouth as
close to his as is possible.  I cannot breathe.  I
hear him whimper faintly and he gently releases me.
Our eyes meet again, but the tears are no longer mine.
"It's okay, Benji," he whispers.  "I'm here."

Mom and I didn't see Uncle Brad for three months after
that.  The next time we got together as a family, that
bitch was with him.  He'd met her at USC and my
grandparents instantly fell in love with her.  I was
totally devastated, but nobody seemed to notice.
Uncle Brad never once went out into the backyard that
day.  I knew he was avoiding the pool, and the memory
of what had happened there.  In time, the pain of his
denial faded.  I blocked out the hurt and I tried to
put the memory of that kiss somewhere in a locked box
where I could return to it one day.  When I met Tony,
it got easier to forget where I'd placed that box.
But today, as we make our exit off of Harbor
Boulevard, the promise of Tomorrowland just miles
away, that box sits in my lap with a broken lock.
"It's okay, Brad," I want to tell him.  "I'm here."

Disneyland was not unusually crowded for a Saturday
and I took that as a good omen.  I waited for just the
right moment before I excused myself and headed into
the first restroom we hit on Main Street.  While Brad
flipped through the map of the park we had been given
at the entrance, I pulled a Houdini and got those
briefs off without drawing attention to myself.  I
hated to leave my brand new underwear behind, but I
told myself it was all a part of the master plan.  I
found Uncle Brad where I'd left him and we made our
way down Main Street, passing shops and dodging
tourists like two little kids on the loose.  We headed
in the direction of the Matterhorn (Brad's suggestion)
and estimated the line to be about a thirty minute
wait.  We stood in line and awkwardly avoided
conversation for as long as we could.  Was it going to
be this way all day?  Fuck that.

It was an hour before we reached the end of the line.
In that time we had seen the ride stall twice.  Some
people had gotten out of line, others hoped that the
ride wouldn't be shut down completely before their
turn came.  At long last, Brad and I were seated in
the back seat of the rear bobsled.  He got in first
and I sat down between his legs.  We buckled up and
the ride took off, turning the first bend that leads
into the heart of the Matterhorn and straight up the
initial incline.  It was a steep climb and I leaned
back into Brad.  Do or die, Benjamin.  I placed my
hands on Brad's bare knees and nuzzled my head against
his chest.  It was much easier to be daring with him
sitting behind me.  I waited for a reaction.  Give me
a sign, Brad.  Please.  And then, as if on cue, I
began to feel him blowing on the back of my neck.
BINGO!  WE HAVE A WINNER!  SURVEY SAYS: DING, DING,
DING, DING, DING!  OHMYGOD!  Was this really
happening?  I had to be certain.  I shifted my ass
further back into his crotch and he brought his legs
together, locking mine in his.  There was no mistaking
the hardness pressed up against me and I took Brad's
right hand in mine and brought it to my own bulge. It
was all I could do to keep the flood of emotions in
check.  Whatever you do, do not fucking cry, I told
myself.  Do not ruin this moment.  I felt Brad licking
my neck and I brought his hand from my crotch to my
mouth.  I began to suck on his fingers when-WHAMMO-
everything came to a sudden halt.  Our bobsled stopped
at the top of the incline.  My immediate thought was,
FUCK!  WE'VE BEEN CAUGHT!  But my fear subsided when a
recorded message in various languages advised us to
remain seated until the attraction resumed, with
apologies for the interruption.

Uncle Brad lowered his mouth to my left ear.  "Did you
plan this?" he asked softly.  The warmth of his breath
made me shudder.  He brought his arms around me and
squeezed tightly.

"How long have you known?" I asked.

But before he could respond, that goddamned ride
started up again and we lunged forward.  I raised my
hands high above my head as we made our descent
through twists and turns and ups and downs at a speed
that rivaled my heartrate.  Brad never let go of me
and at one point I felt his mouth against my ear.  "I
love you, Brat," I heard him shout above the roar of
the other passenger's screams.  I wanted more than
anything to tell him that I loved him, too, but we
were coming to the end of the ride and I had to regain
my composure.  When it came time to exit the bobsled,
my legs almost buckled underneath me.  Once I'd
managed to get out, however, I turned around to lend
Brad a hand.  Our eyes met and in that instant I knew
my life was about to change forever.  Brad had a
sheepish grin on his face and it took me a second
before I noticed the massive boner drawing attention
to itself.  HOLY FUCK!  WAS THAT THING FOR REAL?!  I
was mesmerized, unable to take my eyes away from his
tool.  Brad stood and exited the bobsled, placed his
hands on my shoulders like a dad would do to his
misbehaving son, and guided me out of the turnstile.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"You'll see."  Brad steered me through the throngs of
people who had gathered around some chick decked out
as Snow White.  Two of the seven dwarves were having
their picture taken with some Japanese businessmen.  I
got the giggles.  This was too fucking surreal.

Before I knew it, Brad and I were in line for the
Monorail.  People were already boarding as we made our
way to the top of the escalator.

"Hurry up," he demanded.

"What's the rush?  I hate this fuckin' ride."  The
Monorail offered no privacy whatsoever and what I
wanted more than anything at that moment was to get
Brad alone.

"Watch your mouth and get a move on."  Brad released
me from his grip as we made our entrance into one of
the awaiting cars.  There were about fifteen other
people sitting around us.  I glanced down to see if
Brad was still sporting his woody.  He had shifted
himself.  Fucker.  I did notice a slight wet spot
where the tip of his dick had been pressed against the
khakis.  TOO FUCKIN HOT!  Brad saw me smile at his
predicament.  He just shook his head and grinned.

When the Monorail made it's first stop at the
Disneyland Hotel, Brad looked at me.  "This is where
we get off."

I had no time to register what was going on.  Brad
grabbed me by the hand and yanked me out of the car.
"What the fuck?" I asked.

He stopped, looked me in the eyes and said, "I told
you, this is where we GET OFF."  OHMYGOD!  Color me
dense.  My pulse quickened and I followed him through
the entrance to the hotel.  Brad sat me down on an
upholstered bench and ordered me to stay put.  This is
not real, I told myself.  This is not happening.  This
is a dream and I will wake up and my life will not be
any different than it was.

I don't know how long Brad was gone.  Time became
foreign to me.  When he returned he sat down beside me
on the bench.  There was nobody within earshot.

"Well," he said.  "That was easier than I expected."
He placed his left hand on my knee.  "Are you sure
you're up to this?" he questioned.

I was fourteen, what did I know?  "Are you?"  I asked.

"I've never been more sure of anything in my life."
He handed me the key to my future.  I took it from him
and stood up.

"Show me the way," I said, without an ounce of
trepidation or fear or second thoughts.

"I plan on it," he teased.  He tousled my hair and we
walked towards the elevators.

"Does this mean our Disneyland adventure is over?" I
joked.

"On the contrary," he said, "I'd say it was just about
to begin, wouldn't you?"  He gave me a wink and took
my hand in his.

It's off to Never-Never Land, I thought.  And I never-
never looked back.


End of third installment.  Comments welcome at
mikebranson@aol.com.  Again, for those of you who have
taken the time to respond to my story, a million
thanks.  (And I promise, the best is yet to cum!)