Date: Sun, 10 Aug 2003 02:40:24 +0000 From: Bobby Reardon Subject: Role-Playing This story belongs to me. It's a work of fiction. No one living or dead has any resemblance to anyone in this tale. The first chapter is kindof bare bones, but the next chapter will go into more detail. If you want to see another chapter, then let me know. -- My boyfriend is on the conservative side. Christ, he didn't even have sex with a man until he was 33. Denial ain't just a river in Egypt, it's almost a big fat monthly check alimony check to his ex-wife. The only benefit is that he sweated out all that repression in the gym (and ogled the studs, I'm sure) and has an amazing body. I don't think there is an ounce of fat on that 6'3", hairy, Italian-American frame of his. Thanks to his penchant for baggy suits, no one has any idea of what he's packing (and boy is he packing) until he loses a few layers. When I stripped him naked, I nearly keeled over at the fat sausage smacking his stomach. The fucking thing just about put my eye out. Right then and there I took back my mental promise to update his wardrobe. I was going to keep this prime slab USDA beef all to myself. My name is Gene. I'm 30...ish, a sometime artist, waiter, musician, cashier, general bum. Unlike Carlo, I've been sexually active for over half my life. When I was younger I had a baby face and a hot ass that tended to net affection (and sometimes the rent money) from both sexes. Not that I was a victim. I needed the attention. For a long time I couldn't get through a day without plugging or being plugged. A fabulous, fun-filled life...for a while. Once I neared that dreaded 3-0 and saw a grey hair in my comb, I knew I needed to grow up. Find a husband or a wife, three kids or cockroaches, whatever. Not long after this, one of my friends got real sick and I agreed to pick her kid up at high school cause he hated taking the bus but didn't have his license yet. That's when I saw Carlo walking towards us, asking how the kid's mom was. Every button buttoned, the red tie perfectly straight, not a hair out of place on his moussed head, even in sweltering NYC temperatures. Those dark, stormy eyes and that full, sensuous mouth hinted at much more intensity than his genial handshake did. I had to know this man. I had to kiss this man. I had to FUCK this man. After a few more meetings, which led to friendly phone conversations, which led to dinners and drinking, I did all three. Carlo didn't think he was straight or anything. He just believed that if he had no sex with men, tried not to think of sex with men, just slept alone every night, then his "sin" would be cancelled out. I think he was sick of the charade by the time I came around, because it only took about 3 dates and 4 beers to get him into bed. Poor me, having to undress, instruct, and position a virgin hunk into banging my not-so-virginal ass. The first time, he was so scared he barely whispered. The second time, he practically popped my eardrums with his war whoops. A few months later, my rent was going up again and I, having no shame or hidden stashes of cash, cajoled Carlo into letting me move in. It's not that bad a situation. He comes home from a long, hard day of molding the minds of our next generation, and there I am waiting for him. His very own June Cleaver. In tight jeans, a nipple ring, and a hair color that changes every month, but hey, I'm no stranger to a pearl necklace. There are still certain rules for how far Carlo will go. For instance, although he has almost broken the bed by pounding those 10 inches deep in my gullet many a night, I can't put more than a finger near his own sweltering pucker. I don't know if he thinks he'll burn in Hell if he surrenders to anal sex, but I have 8 hard inches and a big fat head, very well-trained to please. My party-sized cock likes to go where there's a party. I try to stay celibate, I really do, but if Carlo's not around, and one of my old friends calls up, or I see a cute trick on the way home from work or the grocery store, I give in to temptation. What Carlo doesn't know won't hurt him, right? Yeah, I know...I'm a prick. To alleviate my guilt, I go out of my way to please Carlo. To test his limits. My favorite is the schoolteacher fantasy. When he gets home, he finds a pre-cooked dinner and a note explaining my absence. He takes a shower, changes into his sweatpants and that muscle shirt with the stains under the arms that I love to jack off to when I do laundry...anyway, when he's almost finished with dinner, there's a knock on the door. "Mr. Molotti, I don't wanna interrupt, but I found out where you live. We need to talk." He lets the sneering youth into the apartment. 5'7", wiry, but more muscular than he'd want you to know. Baseball cap yanked backwards on his short blonde hair, jeans hanging low enough to reveal more than a hint of shapely, boxer-clad cheeks, the young man speaks. "I just don't understand your classes. I try, man, I fuckin' try, but English is too much for me. Can you give me a B, even a C, for trying?" Carlo says that isn't possible. The student just has to study harder. "Aw, c'mon, teach. I ain't got that kind of time. What else can I do? I'll wash your car. I'll hook you up with some good shit. Anything." Carlo asks him to leave. "Please...ANYTHING." Anything, Carlo asks, with a glint in his eye. The student begins to quiver as Carlo reaches out to have his small, smooth hand cup that big bulge in his sweatpants. "I ain't no fag," he whispers as Carlo stands behind him, applying feather-light carresses to the toned biceps straining underneath his basketball jersey. We both know what you really came here for, what you really want, Carlo purrs as he nibbles his way up the swanlike neck of his overheated pupil. "D-Don't do that..." Carlo ignores him as he begins munching his sweet-smelling neck, pushing his low-riding pants to his ankles. Bending him over the table. All the student feels now is the rough tablecloth against his cheek, and an enormous tube of meat sliding up and down his boxers to get at another set of cheeks. "OHHH....Mr. Molotti....I never...I can't..." Carlo tears a hole deep inside the punk's boxers, whispering filth in his ear as he begins hammering that fresh, virgin ass. The poor kid mewls and begs him to stop, begs him to never stop, his own developing penis oozing against the tablecloth. Finally, Carlo shudders, his spine straightening as he licks that salty neck and pumps load after load of teacher cum into his bitch's ass. Carlo turns the student around, tearing off that baseball cap, throwing it across the room. The two men share a long, deep kiss. "I love you, Gene." Carlo sighs. "I love you too, 'teach'," I sigh, before we fall into a bout of laughter, then strip each other naked for a less raucous round of passion. Those were some of our happier, simpler times. The more difficult times started when his nephew came from California to visit his favorite uncle and his new "girlfriend", Gene. Groan... If you want to hear the rest, drop me a line and I'll write another chapter.