Date: Sun, 23 Mar 2003 08:03:16 -0500 (EST) From: Clark Gaybull Subject: One of Many Escapades #9 The viewing of this work constitutes acceptance of all disclaimer and copyright verbage which benefits the author and Nifty Archives. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Because I've forwarded TWO series', there was a momentary pause to consider whether to submit this here or with my Mess-Around Buddies. These escapades - especially the EARLY ones - are alike in that much of them took place at our cabin at the lake. The latter three installments explain what has happened to me in the past seven months, which caused me to meet Bruce. For that reason, I was inclined to relegate yet another chapter in this spot - amongst the escapades. After the second and third weekends of March, however, there's no doubt that the account of our carrying on belongs here. Another consideration was whether Bruce'd even WANT me to disclose our story. I told about what occurred to me BEFORE Bruce, as an outgrowth of a psychologist's suggestion to write things down, which - after I'd done so - made it easier for me to keep them out of my mind. Bruce's rationale is entirely different. He WANTS me to tell his entire story as a remembrance of what he's gone through. Kind of memorializing his brother. He doesn't even care about name-changes. The circumstances are so remarkable that maybe this event'll be recalled by some readers. He says that I shouldn't hold anything back, so, here goes... I met Bruce at the place where I go for physical therapy. MY injuries were much worse than HIS. But, HIS wreck was much worse than MINE, which was very bad. He was riding in the "bed" of a pick-up truck driven by his older brother. Also in the cab was another guy on the football team and their two girlfriends. All of a sudden, the truck collided with a pole, head-on. Bruce, his cousin, and a third kid were thrown from sitting in the back, and the two relatives were the only survivors of the accident. He wasn't far into telling me the story when I remembered reading the other details. "So why are YOU here?" whereupon I told him MY story, and things went on from there. His therapy was mostly mental. Although I have quite a bit of "range-of-motion" work to do, HIS only physical malady was a slightly-screwed-up hip - enough of an impairment, though, that some aquatherapy was part of his prescription. Then there's a third thing that should have prevented us from going as far as we went. I turned eighteen more than seven months ago. Bruce is fifteen. Nevermind that he actually LOOKS older than me. He's taller; wider; longer; just as hairy (part of my curse for being blond). But the law is the law. And that very first time was farther than we should have gone: It was the day when we met. I should have feared that this would evolve as much as it has. I had used most of the machines and was sitting on the leg-weight device, when Bruce came out of the shrink's office, from where you can see to where I was. Instead of going out the door, he walked right over to me and said, "I thought only old-heads used this place." "Yeah...you're the first person my age I've seen. And I've been comin' here almost five months." "I'm here to see the skull doctor." "I saw her, too." "These machines look like the ones us JV football players use." "Don't know. No machines for the sports I played. I just graduated last spring." "Wonder if you can use this stuff if you're here just for mental therapy and to use the pool?" "Don't know. Why don't you ask?" And thus began our association. I can't imagine that his first impression was very favorable. I was all sweaty. Probably stinky. Hair all messed up. Looked like I peed in my gym shorts - front and back. "Well," I said, excusing myself, "speaking of the pool, I'm gonna go there and probably feel and look a lot better after that." "I'll walk out with you and find out about using the machines" (which are atop the multi-purpose building. The "natatorium", as it's called, is at ground-level, so, you have to walk past the fourth-floor therapy office to go swimming.) I said, "Goodbye," and struggled to get my gym bag out the door, then went down to the pool. My suit isn't very ample. But, there's hardly ever anybody at the pool in the daytime anyway. Even if somebody IS there, it's always old farts and - female OR male - when I walk by, I kinda enjoy their stares. They must like seeing what I got, or, perhaps, seeing what they used to look like. On this particular day, I wasn't surprised to have the pool all to myself. I put my suit on, washed off my sweat by taking a shower, then lapped in the pool "at my own risk;" i. e., there was no lifeguard on duty. Okay...I did my fifteen or twenty minutes of aquatherapy and was looking forward to going home clean after one more visit to the showers. As I'm pushing myself up at one of the sides of the pool, a voice asks, "Is that from the wreck?" (It was so startling that I almost fell back into the water.) It was Bruce. "Oh, this," realizing that he had seen the lengthy scar on my chest. "Yeah," I shrugged. "That's already cost me some payments toward my current car." Oops...that opened the door for him to learn all about the Rico/Manny thing. "Wow. You really did that?" (Now he knew that he wasn't dealing with an angel here.) "Not anymore. Well...pardon me while I finish up." (I expected him to leave. But, he just sat there. Despite the towel over my shoulder, I was getting cold, such that I was anxious for the hot water of the shower. Should I pull off my suit with him still there? Don't usually shower the second time with my suit on.) Holy shit! What's this? He's unzipping his jacket, unbuttoning his shirt and stating, "Maybe I'll hit the showers, too." All right. Wha'do I make of this? "Y'all ain't got a towel, do ya?" "You'll let me use yours, won'tcha?" "Yeah...but it'll be wet." "Not THAT wet." Well...so much for taking my modesty into the shower. What a time for revealing my equipment. What equipment? I was so cold when I took my swimsuit off that, if my dick had any self-preservation instincts, it shouldda shrunk into my abdomen, followed by my balls. As it was, I think that my usual four flaccid inches were less than two. And my two nuts looked like they were one, in a single tiny sac. My nipples were so small and pointed - but not from sexual arousal. And that big scar was purple. I couldn't get under that hot water fast enough. Not far behind was, I'm sure, a much warmer naked body, which soon made itself apparent to me. Hell...I didn't have that much meat even when I was hard. Holy shit! (I use that exclamation too much.) He WAS hard! And not trying to hide it! "Want me to wash your back?" Should I be impolite and say, "No"? Always one to mind my manners, I instead replied, "Well...I can't reach there." He walked right over to me with a bar of soap, lathered up my back and must have stabbed me half-a-dozen times with his solid shaft. Holy shit! This was having an effect on MY OWN organ, which was soon pointing more than ninety-degrees up along my belly. "Turn around." "What?" "Turn around." Fuck! There was no denying it! This kid was after me! He reached to HELP me turn around. You know what he reached for, don't you? All of a sudden, I wasn't cold anymore. I think that I went from cold to numb. Maybe hot inbetween. A couple of tugs on my woody and I was ready to do whatever he asked. Then he took one step forward so that our bellies touched, forcing our stiff pricks to slide up along the other's stomach. "You really gave a guy a blow job?" He correctly interpreted my silence as meaning that I had. "I was wondering what that'd feel like." I continued my silence. "I was wondering what that'd feel like," he repeated, this time pulling on my cock with every syllable that he spoke. "It feels good," I finally said, after another long pause. "You mean HE did YOU, too?" he asked. And I realized that I hadn't told him what Manny had done to me. "Well...don'tcha wanna?" What was I gonna do? His hand jerking occasionally on my water-slickened phallus felt so good. "Aren'tcha gonna show me?" More silence. "Afterwards, I'll try on you." "Okay." (Anything to relax the grip on my dork. I was close to cumming right then and there. Maybe he'd be less of a tiger after he shoots his load.) "But come over here. You're gonna need to lean on this wall if I do it right." "THAT good, huh?" he uttered in smug disbelief. That kinda pissed me off. Now I WANTED to show him. So I pushed him back against the tiles and followed him there. "You asked for it, you tease." And he raised his arms perpindicular to his body, as if to hang on to the sides. Then, I turned on all four hot-water spigots full-blast. My mouth went for his chest, just beneath his chin, so that he was forced to raise his head to allow my approach. I bet if I'd have touched his dick while I sucked his nipples, he'd have cum on the spot. I could hear him moan as I tongued them. This wasn't gonna last long. It was at about this time that I realized his younger age. Sure...he has a big dick, with plenty of bush; noticeable pit-hair and a five-o-clock shadow after three or four days. But, in spite of his height, width and length, he's also got a lot of muscle-tonin' to do, even if he IS a JV football player. >From his tits, I licked down to his belly-button. Bruce was having difficulty standing still now. His movements seemed to be saying, "Hurry up. Get down to my schwantz. I want things to go faster." Oh, no ya don't...gonna PAY for that "THAT good, huh?" crack. A few tongue-circles around his navel. And a couple of pushes of spit into his innie. Then, down to the REAL object. Boy, was this turning out to be fun! Still, he shouldn't have questioned how great it is. I'll show him. My hands pried between his ass and the wall, pushing his tush toward my face. At this point, I repeatedly nudged his poker with my nose and cheeks while kissing his pubes and balls. He sounded like he was gonna explode. And I hadn't even taken his boyhood into my mouth yet. If I'm not careful, I'll get a jizz bath, either down my throat, or sooner - across my face. "Good enough for ya?" I taunted. "Don't stop, you prick." Okay. Next step. Leaving go of his butt, my right hand grabs the base of his cock to aim it at my mouth and my left fingers fondle his balls. I can't tell if his wet glans is because of the steam from so much hot water or emanating from his insides. Suffice to say that, when my tongue first touched his member, it did not taste like something that was flowing exclusively from non-human plumbing. Sure...some chlorine and soap was noticeable. But another flavor was present, too. Just over the head, now. So that my tongue-flicks can do their work. The butterfly lick, I call it. Final step. Here goes. Get as much of that baby past your lips as you can. Poor Bruce. Acts like he wants to sit down. Don't know how I did it but all six-and-a-half inches are engulfed. Get ready for the simultaneous hand-jerking to begin. One squeeze follows the first, very slow retraction. Then down and back a little faster. And a third time. I believe this is it! That's all he can take! Blimey...I can feel (and hear) that he's gonna blow! I gotta SEE this! After only three sucks, I remove my mouth - but continue pumping - 'cause I wanna check out how far this is gonna fly. "Aaaahhhh." Over my right shoulder and halfway across the twelve-foot-wide floor with the first of several blasts. NOW you can slip down that wall into that squatting position (which tended to accentuate his puckering bunghole and the final drops of spunk emerging from his bobbing cock between his bent knees.) If MY package wasn't 100% stiff before, THAT sight certainly brought it to full-staff now. Not that I expected reciprocation, 'cause I didn't. I was content to kinda silently gloat and end it right there. Or, if I needed, I could get by with simply giving myself a hand-job, which I started to do. Seeing this, Bruce crawled toward me, opened his mouth and...clatter, clatter, clatter...we hear the door to the natatorium a couple of rooms away, open and close. That which was about to occur, would not. It DID occur the next time, however. That foxy lad made sure that we did not get interrupted then. Bruce found out that the shrink had some paperwork to catch up on and she was gonna be in the centre's office on a certain Sunday afternoon. Having also learned that he was eligibe to use the machines, he made arrangements to meet her - and me - there then. Good thing that Bruce was there before I was. Otherwise I might have driven away, seeing an empty parking lot. I didn't know that the building was closed on Sundays. Forunately, Bruce was standing outside. Said that he'd been dropped there by his mom. He explained that we had to wait for the doctor. Wintertime is pretty cold in this part of the state. But there's Bruce - with no jacket, holding his gym bag, wearing only a muscle shirt, school shorts and sneaks without socks. Brrr. We were GONNA go back to the warmth of my car. But just then, the skull lady drives up and we follow her into the building, her saying, "Oh...Clark's here, too." I know that we were there to exercise, but I was glad that the elevator wasn't shut off for the day. I was kinda tired. After the four-floor ride and the unlocking of the therapy section, she takes her stuff into the office and Bruce and I head for the machines. I didn't say anything but, as I stepped from my full-length running pants and unzipped my windbreaker, I couldn't help but equate the macho look with a lack of intelligence. Well...at least he was ready for the machines first. Okay...the treadmill IS a sissy device. But, it helps me warm up, alright? Then the stepper, 'cause Bruce is still using the weight machine, where he went first. Besides...you stay there longer 'cause you can use it for your arms as well as for your legs. I'm finally done with my second contraption and I walk over to where Bruce - lying on his back, legs straddling the bench - is pushing up against the resistance. As I approach the "leg" end of him, I see that he's got a bone. I can look up the upstretched leg holes of his baggy shorts and see his fuzzy balls, telling me that he's not wearing a jock or any underwear. Hearing my closeness, he smiles, points to his bulge, and whispers, "Let's see if we can use the pool." "Hey...I wanna use this machine." "Okay. YOU use the machine while I ask about the pool," after which he fetches a towel from his gym bag in case he needs to put it in front of him while he talks to the doc. "Take your time. I've got lots to do here, ya know." A few minutes later he returns, triumphantly holding a key. "This should get us in to our aquatherapy. She's gonna be here at least an hour more. Let's go." "Hold your horses. Go over there and use the stepper while I carry on here some more." Aquatherapy, huh? Never was aquatherapy quite so enjoyable. First of all, while I'm preparin' to wash off the PT-produced perspiration, Bruce's words were, "Suits? Why do we need suits?" Secondly, by the time that he goes to the pool, he's already as stiff as the diving board. (And I'm HALF hard.) Third, he says, "I can't swim." "You gotta be shittin' me. Nobody can't swim nowadays." "I can't. Why d'ya think I wasn't in here the other day?" "How do you benefit from aquatherapy?" "I just hang onto the side and kick. Or walk as fast as I can across the shallow end." "Great. This is gonna be a real blast," I said sarcastically. "Let's see," he smirked. "To learn to swim, whaddya gotta do first?" "Fuck if I know. I never taught anybody how to swim before." "Okay...I'll go out here in the deep water. You stand on my shallow side and put your hands under me while I try to swim." That was just an excuse for him to pass his bare, erect genitals over my outstretched arms. "How do you float on your back?" "Just like it sounds." So he turns over and starts to sink. I push up against his suitless ass, and his fully-expanded phallus floats to the surface, then sails straighly along his belly. I don't know if MY OWN dick is buoyed up by the water or if it's engorging with blood. But, it's occurring to me that the temperature in the pool is not too chilly. In fact, that hot, excited feeling is o'erspreading my loins. Sensing this, Bruce takes off in a sprint that would have left Greg Lougainis in his wake. Fuck! I'd been had! Followed by the inevitable pursuit. I still can't swim very fast, so, he probably LET me catch him and hold his head under water. While he was down there, his lips found my pecker and engulfed it. Afraid (maybe I wasn't) that continued struggling would cause him to bite it off, I let him have his way with me. "Okay. Okay. Let me swim over here and I'll sit up on the side of the pool." My erection split the water like a shark fin as I paddled toward my perch. Oh...the anticipation of what this kid was gonna try to do to me. The swimming lesson had been a sham. But an ACTUAL lesson was about to occur. "This probably won't be that good," I taunted. "You gotta coach me," he said, thinking that I was serious. "Okay...remember...no teeth." (Man, was I eating this up.) Breast stroke over to where I'd plopped. His elbows on my knees. His head in my lap. And...contact! Ooooo! Shudder, shudder, shudder. It's been too long since I'd had this. Even from a novice, this is pretty good. With an increased quiver in my voice, I quote rule number two: "Nice and slow." (As if he had to be told that.) He was still stimulating the tip. "Rule number three." I could hardly speak. "Deep as you can." Whereupon he flossed using my pubes. Unfortunately, he couldn't employ step number four. He was propping himself up with his arms and couldn't manuever his hands very much. But it's okay if the finger motion is absent when the first three procedures have been done so well. That's probably what enabled ME presently to last longer than HIM the other day But not MUCH longer. Far be it from me to choke the boy. So, to prevent him from getting a throatful of cum, I sensed the time to arch my back, withdraw from his mouth and blast past his face, splashing into the pool. (Did you know that jizz floats? No problem, though...the filter'll take care of it.) "Musta done it right," he observed. "Not bad," I understated. "Not bad. Probably had a good teacher." "Well, we're even, anyhow." "Don't YOU want to shoot?" "Don't have time. I'll save it 'til later." Our "later" occasion was six days subsequent. My routine - as boring as it's getting - involves going to the therapy center each weekday morning. That's where I see Bruce. I guess he still visits the shrink there once a week. Anyhow, his part-time job is to flip burgers in one of the three fast-food restaurants that his dad owns. In late-February, he's complaining about having to close - by himself - one of those places on a Saturday night. His dad's gonna darken one of the other eateries and Bruce mockingly repeats his father's words: "Just call when you're done and I'll come and get ya." Good ol' sympathetic Clark. "Okay...I'll help. But it'll cost ya. What time do I gotta be there?" "We close at midnight." "Well...I'll just sleep late Sunday." (As if I don't sleep late any other day.) "See ya then." As I approached the restaurant plenty early - it must have been around 10:30PM - I could see all sorts of employee uniforms through the windows. So, I decided to ask at the drive-up if my help was really needed. After I ordered McNuggets (that's one of THEIR competitors), Bruce knew that it was me. "Sandy's got her car. But state law says she can't drive after eleven, so, she's leaving soon. Lisa's gotta go with Sandy, who's her ride. And we're not gonna argue with Lisa 'cause she came in on her night off to cover for Barb, who's booked off all weekend to be at a wedding out of the area. And Tom hasta go real quick after we close. Somethin' about a midnight overtime shift that he's gonna be late for at his full-time job. So, I'm glad you're here." "Calm down. Calm down, Bruce. Clark to the rescue." The clean-up was going smoothly, when suddenly I heard Bruce curse. "What's wrong?" "Dang it...I thought this Biggie was empty but it was mostly full. I spilled it on myself and now I'm all wet. Looks like I pissed myself." What could I do? I only chuckled. A little while later, a guy knocks on the locked door near where Bruce is mopping. "We're closed," Bruce yells. Then, "Customers. God bless 'em." While I'm watchin' all this, I see that Bruce is wearing an apron but it doesn't cover the back of him, where there's a bare ass showin'. "Is that the new uniform?" I kidded. "Very funny. Maybe things'll be dry by the time we get done here." More mopping. Then I notice a table which has some packets of salad dressing on it. How'd we miss picking them up? Oh well...I put 'em in my pockets and continued to wipe my section of the floor. Finally. The home stretch. He's got the fries and I'm fiddlin' with the adjoining shake dispenser. "Oh," I said, "got these packs of dressing here. Somebody else must like these 'make-your-own- salad' places, too." "Not me," Bruce says. "I like a little MEAT in mine. Here...let me show you." Faster than I realize, he steps toward me and - all with one yank - jerks my sweats and underpants down almost to my knees. He's already got the tops off of a couple of packets of dressing and is squeezing their contents onto me just below my belly-button, resulting in that sticky crap running into my pubes and onto my balls. "I LIKE the topping, though," he grins mischievously. To prevent any drops on the floor, Bruce begins to lap the stuff from around my crank, which has the inevitable effect of making it stiffen. "Let's put a little more on here." And he pours the contents from another packet along the length of my woody. "Hmmm...looks good." Saying that, he shoves my dick into his mouth all the way to its base. "Gotta clean it off real good." So the retraction and total engulfment is repeated again and again. I couldn't prevent the explosion from happening. And it's only his second attempt. However, I was quite concerned about an ensuing mess. Not to worry. Despite my efforts to warn the boy that my load was cummng, he kept his head right there and sucked my spunk directly down his gullet. Now...it's my MOTHER who has the relatives in Sicily. I have my FATHER'S Germanic name and Arian looks. So how d'ya s'pose he knew the branches of my family tree (?) when he said, "I always DID prefer CREAMY Italian." That wasn't the end of things, either. When Bruce stood up, it was obvious that he was fully aroused. There was substantial pointing from behind his apron. "Gimme that," I barked, pulling it from around him so that he was naked from the waist down. I used the garment to wipe the remains of the feast from my loins before hoisting my bottoms. Poor Bruce. He's lookin' toward the windows, worried that he'll be seen. But, being behind the counter, there's no chance of that. Not to be outdone, I said, "Now let me tell YOU about MY dilemma. Maybe you can help me. Everytime I eat at one of these places, I have difficulty deciding whether to order a chocolate or vanilla shake." First, I flipped the switch to dispense some vanilla ice cream - runny enough that they can CALL it a shake, but I don't believe you if you say that it's easier eaten with a straw than a spoon. Next, I smeared it from below Bruce's navel to just above his jutting penis. "Shit, that's cold," he winced, as his two testicles rose into a rapidly shrinking round scrotum. "It's even colder on your dick." To prove it, I licked a quantity of the melting treat from his pubes to his pole, competely engulfing the throbbing thing. "Oooo," he shivered, which could have indicated the cold, or, a sexual reaction. (Probably both.) Then, as it dissolved and was warmed by my mouth, another "oooooo." Followed by, "That's better." Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately), that was a scenario which needed repeating, until all of the vanilla was gone. "Mmmm...that tasted pretty good. But maybe I prefer chocolate," whereupon I arose, pressed the button to make THAT flavor flow, and performed the procedure again. It might seem weird that I'd suck a dick, but cringe at the thought of someone shooting in my mouth. What's happening here, however, ain't so gross 'cause it's gonna taste just like chocolate, right? Well, that was my logic, anyhow, as I hung right in there to swallow his squirts. The gushers came before the last batch was off of his abdomen. There was so much to take that it made me cough as it continued to pump out. It might have been different if we were later in the game. But, with that intoxicating addition, I was not at all inclined to pull away, even when that tell-tale expansion occurred at the bottom of his prick and he hoarsely forwarned, "It's gonna cum." Jeez - how much is this youngster gonna give me? Only a couple of his drops got onto the floor, though, so, the clean-up of my chin was probably a bigger project. In fact, neither of us made much of a mess, resulting in very little extra mopping. And we both came fairly quickly, therefore, it was only a short time later than usual when we were able to leave that place. Also, from now on, I'll not hesitate when asked to choose between a chocolate or vanilla shake. Chocolate every time. However, could you serve that in a cup, please? I like to put nuts in mine. So here we are...two orgasms into our friendship and it was my intention to end it right there. The three years' difference really bothered me. Well, moreso that Bruce is a minor and I'm now "of age." There's a problem, though, in that Bruce wants to take this a step further. "Have you done anything else?" he asked, during one of our weekly meetings at the therapy centre. "Well...I'd like to talk to you about things," I answered. "But not here. This might take a while. And nobody else should hear." "Fine," he said. "When do you want to talk?" "Anytime this weekend...around your work schedule." Another, "Fine. Like usual, I have off Sunday afternoon." I didn't even know where his house was, so, Bruce gave me directions to it and I arranged to pick him up there. My plan included a late-winter check of the cabin and to take him along. "Where we goin'?" I told him about the shack, which he thought was cool. "Yeah, much of my wild behavior occurred there," I mused. But he thought that I was bragging. "There's our tree," I said sadly, as we passed the scene of the accident which claimed the life of my friend, Ted. About ten minutes of silence later we were there. "This is it. The plumbing's disconnected for the winter, so, if ya gotta go, go outside." "Just as long as YOUR plumbing works," he joked. (Boy, does HE have the wrong idea.) It was colder inside than out, therefore, I suppose that he was disappointed when we went back out into the fresh air. Not a bad day. Lots of sun. Only a slight breeze. Still a thin coat of ice on the lake and jackets on us both. "Yup. Lotsa shit went down here." "Lots more'll go on here, too, I hope." "Well...that's what I want to talk to you about, Bruce." And I began my speech. Probably forty-five minutes of voicing my concerns: About age; The law; My wish to leave the area soon; The depth of feelings. I must admit, he was a good listener. No interruptions. No impetuousness. No frustration evident. Very mature, I thought. If only he'd given me a reason to reinforce my position. So that was that. We had visited the lake and nothing happened. Things went the way that I wanted. I said what I wanted to say. His reaction was calm. And I expected that our future time together would involve no further passion. Wrong! Not that the return trip featured a DRASTIC swing of the pendulum. But here's how it went... I have difficulty walking and chewing gum at the same time. Therefore, I prefer to concentrate on driving, not talking. So Bruce talked. He talked very intelligently about my worries. About age being an arbitrary line drawn by the law. He said that, in order to enforce the law, there's gotta be a complaint and that he'd NEVER be an accuser if he didn't like something that HE initiated. He shrugged off my leaving the area and the intensity of any emotions. "Hell, I ain't into it THAT far, are you?" No, I wasn't. But did his statements just deepen things more? Sure gave me more to think about. Just when I hoped that the thinking would subside. I wanted to change my therapy place, if only to elude him. Trouble is, I'm a paid member there. I'm familiar with all of their machines. I've been going there for five months. Another location would be so much farther away. I know...I'll do afternoon sessions instead of mornings and I won't tell him, hence, I won't see him. That didn't work. He asked the shrink to call him if she saw me, and, twenty minutes after I began my post-lunch workout, he was there. "'s up? What's with the PM routine?" "Oh...I slept in this morning." (I didn't LIE.) "Think about what I said?" Indeed I had. But my best answer was, "Well, I had MY say and YOU had yours and never the twain shall meet, I guess." "What's goin' on this weekend?" "You probably gotta close up Saturday night, right?" "Right." "And Sunday, I'm gonna go across-state, to a boat show with my folks." (Actually, I couldda stayed home and had the place all to myself. But I didn't want HIM to find that out. Besides, it was the perfect opportunity to discuss with my parents my changed college wishes.) "How 'bout the weekend-after-that?" (Doesn't he GET it? I'm hesitant so that we don't carry things too far.) I HAD seen many turds from mice or squirrels at the cabin two days earlier, so, I told him that I was gonna go there and clean up a bit, thinking that THAT might turn him off. Not so. "Great. Can I go?" (That one backfired on ya, Clark.) "That'll be the sixteenth. 12:30 okay?" Bruce nodded. "See you then, then." "Uh uh. See you next week...after therapy." "Oh yeah...right." Turns out that I visited the bungalow on the fifteenth, too. The only source of heat in the cottage is an old Franklin fireplace, so, in addition to tending to the poop, I collected some fallen tree limbs for burning the next day to replace the chill indoors. When that time came, I built the fire much too hot, so, we began the second of our talks in our underwear. Almost immediately, the topic of conversation became my reluctance to do what he wanted. "I must be ugly," Bruce self-depricated. "No you're not." (Now he's sounding like the school kid that he is.) "Don't YOU want to be the one who introduces me to intercourse? Somebody else might be less desireable." My feeble attempt at lightening the discussion was to say, "Whaddya mean MIGHT?" Changing the subject, he announced, "I gotta piss. Plumbing's still not hooked up, right? I should pull up a tree, I guess." My head-nod toward the door was his answer, for which he put his shirt and pants back on and wandered outside. The length of the pee break; the coziness inside; inadequate shut-eye; my animalistic tendancy to hibernate; whatever the reason, I had fallen asleep on the sofa and didn't hear Bruce come back in. The next thing I know, I'm semi-conscious, semi-hard, and semi-kissin'...his tongue is in MY mouth but I'm too groggy to play along. He's naked, too; on top of me; and grinding his stiff peter against the pouch of my CKs. Bruce was unaware that I thought that kissing was too gay. But suddenly the sensation was met with my automatic co-operation. Irresistable. Tongue dueling with tongue. Sometimes being sucked on. Sometimes only lips touching or being sucked on. Spit swapping freely. How did this rekindle? Here we go again. Rockin' my world. In spite of my penchant for being in charge, forget it. Everything's outta control. I'm simply matching what HE'S doing to ME. Except for the first one eleven years earlier, I think that I've never had an experience where I've felt so much the follower. All the while, that pound, pound, pound of our middles is occurring. Could be that I'm gonna blow from that! He puts his hand between us, grabs my rod through my underwear and - pow - what a mess! Right in my briefs! Like I took a leak in my drawers, only stickier! Now I gotta get rid of 'em and clean myself off. Why isn't this erection going away? Why do I still feel so horny? Could it be the presence of this desireable, naked, unfulfilled but all-too-ready fifteen-year-old? Paying no attention to my eighteen-year-old head and obeying only my teenaged hormones, I pulled Bruce to a bed and resumed kissing him. Probably like before but better able to notice now, his breathing was impaired by my mouth so often covering his. Therefore, our brief separations provided the momentary opportunities to gasp for air. >From his face, I gradually worked my way down to his girl-like chest. He might be on the JV football team and working out at school, but those pecs seem more flabby than muscular. Very sensitive, however. I deposited a thick covering of saliva around his nipples as I licked first left, then right, then left again, and so on. Quite effective, as he was increasingly audible and animated, raising his boobies as if to say, "Here they are. Let me make it easier for you to suck on them." Okay. Time to reciprocate. Replacing my lips with finger-squeezes of his tits, I next proceeded to slobber around his belly-button, causing his stomach muscles to contract and him to become "a 26" instead of "a 28". His hands went from clenching the covers at his sides, to above his head, elbows bent, grabbing the pillow. Even easier access resulted to his wildly-waving willie, which would be my next target. However, no sooner had I engulfed it and coated it with an ample layer of drool by gobbling down on it several times, than Bruce pulled upward at my temples and whispered, "No. I want you to take me." Was this a game? I enjoy pleasuring somebody as much as I enjoy BEING pleasured. Now he's interrupting? "I WILL take you, Bruce." "No...FUCK me, Clark." (I KNEW what he meant. So, I guessed that this was the moment which would end or continue our friendship.) "I don't even OWN a condom," was my final effort to avoid doing this. "I'm not worried about that." "Nothing in return, okay?" "What the fuck is wrong with you?" Up from the bed one more time. But, my direction was clear. "Lubrication. Gonna need lubrication. Be right back." Into the bathroom I dashed and returned with a tube of sun lotion. "All I could find. But it's served this purpose before. Go ahead. Slick me up." I pointed my dick toward him and he applied a handful of goo to my probe. (Stop thinkn' 'bout where it's gonna be in a few minutes, Clark, and nevermind how good it feels as his fingers spread the substance up and down and around.) "Get on your hands and knees and lemme do your ass. That's the way you wanna do it, right?" "I just wanna DO it. One way is as good as the other." "No. One way might be BETTER than the other." "Then we'll try the OTHER way afterward." Postured as he was allowed me to squeeze ample lotion down onto his lower back, just above the upper end of his crack. As the puddle became bigger and began draining between his butt cheeks, this was my cue to assure that it went to where it would do the most good. I never really PREPARED to do this before; thereore, these actions were what I IMAGINED were proper, although maybe wrong. While rubbing the stuff around his hole, I thought, "My penis has gotta go in there, so, I better risk changing his 'oooh, I like that's to 'ow...that hurts'." Enough oiling of the outside of his indetectably- haired opening. Time to put a finger in. Then two. Do I dare go for three? No way is my cock THAT big! Some forcefulness required at first. But then it was, like, pulling me in. And I didn't have to do any moving around. Bruce was wiggling his tush such that I could feel the sides of his passage, pushing toward me saying, "Deeper. You can go deeper." "Doesn't that hurt?" "No. It's like nothing I've ever felt before." My fear of doing him bodily harm is subsiding. With all of the smearing and finger-entering and anticipating the next step, my ol' Johnson remained fully stretched. So, here goes... First, past the lips of his crevice. (The touch of just the TIP of my dork against his poop-chute was exstatic.) Next, the pushing. Slowly. Surprisingly little resistance. And then that "come-on-in-here-farther" tugging. Suddenly, the warmth, the wetness, the engulfment is every bit as thorough as a blow-job. My tool, which is two or three inches longer than my middle finger, was all the way in. I knew because my pubic region was contacting his rump. "Everything okay up there?" Bruce merely nodded and mumbled a stuporous "uh huh." Followed by, "Go on." So a slow retraction preceeded a firm thrust forward. Now repeat. And repeat. And repeat. Also, go faster. And faster. And faster. Soon I was hungrily poking Bruce's bum. I could tell that his meticulous grunts were a result of willful work rather than painful prods. I wish that I could write about this from Bruce's perspective. (Maybe he'll verbalize the experience someday and that'll happen.) Right now, I can describe only his blissful appearance. A wistful expression, the likes of which I'd never seen him display previously. Not that I'm in the company of kids on drugs very much, but, Bruce had those numb, glassy eyes and slow-moving, peaceful features. Like a zombie. Even when I was fully enveloped, those "um, um, um"s were without thought; without purpose; solely to maintain a sub-conscious rhythm. Let's see if what I had been told recently really tripped his trigger. You see, since my previous three ventures at anal intercourse, I was directed to probe for a certain spot on the penis-side of the canal. Bruce seemed to be tolerant of (or oblivious to) my intrusion, even my eventual roaming around. So now I was gonna try for that SPECIFIC target. I hoped that I was big enough. Oh, Jesus! When I aim upward to hit Bruce's spot, I increase the friction at the bottom of MY pole. I wouldn't want to do anything UNcomfortble for Bruce, but - wow - does this ever INcrease the pleasure for ME. And things must be turning up a few notches for Bruce, too, 'cause his breaths are noticeably deeper and his "uh"s are noticeably louder. Now we're goin' at this like we've done it many times before. No longer am I tentative in my actions, pulling from just above Bruce's hips so that his butt slaps against my loins when I poke forward. Well, this is what he wanted. And frankly, if I'd have known this, I would have caved in sooner. I'm becoming so adept at this that now only my left hand holds on and my right hand starts to wander. Then, as my stomach lies onto his back, I playfully tickle his right pit. How much farther can I reach? Beneath and around to his right nipple, pointed with lust and wet with sweat. All the while...blam, blam, blam...fighting that exstatic release, getting closer and closer as the widening exploration continues. >From his right pec, down the right side of his chest and abdomen. Uhhh...there it is...now I'm grabbing his fully-erect penis, breaking a strand of something wet stringing down from its tip. All it takes is a couple of more tugs and - goosh - if I thought that my fingers were wet before, they're soaked now. That was all I needed to unleash MY OWN load - my second in rapid succession. Almost simultaneously, we had both emptied our gonads. What a rush! I thought that maybe Bruce had had enough. He was still on all fours, quivering with each exhale. But he must have been just catching his breath 'cause he spins around, extricating my dick from within him, and drops down, back-first, onto the cum-drenched sheets, being made wetter by the spunk flowing from his asshole. Onto my left shoulder goes his right calf. He lifts his left calf to rest on my right shoulder and says, "Now the OTHER way." Am I getting old? He wants more? I don't know if I can get it up for a third go-'round this hour. HE'S not the one who has to have it firm. But the sight before me assures that we're gonna keep on keepin' on: Mature enough, yet too young. Grown enough, but still a lot of growing to do. Knowing enough, yet so unknowing. "Come on in here," Bruce says, as he pulls me against him with his youthful exuberance. Somehow I'm erect enough to resume probing beneath his testicles. And somehow he has maintained his stiffness. A little more lotion and we SHOULD be ready to go at it again. So harmless going in. So tight. So warm, now that I'm there. I think that I like this better than the other way. I didn't notice his sphinctering 'til now. Maybe it's because I just wasn't paying attention to that. After all, it WAS our first time. Can't absorb EVERYTHING, can you? Maybe he wasn't DOING it. But it sure is great! The table is set before me. There's Bruce - eyes closed; blankly anticipating uncertainty; arms perpindicular to his body, like he might fly away; dispaying that side of his bod which I prefer: Pale, child-like chest; solid, boy-like belly; engorged, man-like meat. How could I NOT play along? The poking quickened. Remember to thrust upward as well as inward. Think, "Penis seeking penis." Funny (no, tantalizing) how it bounced and shimmied when I collided with his butt upon full entry. Bruce's blankness had changed to comfort, contentedness, confidence. He's resumed meeting my advances with increased audio. How do I spell it? Aw, ah, ooh, uh. The next facial expression displays complete concentration..."kid-at-work"...dogged determination. Not surprisingly, this is takin' a little longer. Time to go exploring again. Let's see if I can do this with BOTH hands. Tweakin' those sweaty nips once more. (Must be real sensitive there.) Next, massaging each side at the bottom of his ribs, converging all ten fingers at his belly-button. There's that shiver of ticklishness. Uh oh! Looks like another round of the squirts soon. Moisture appears at the opening of his piss-slit. Rubbing it around his glans increases the wiggling in front of me. With all of this motion, I've GOTTA be hitting his hot-button. Hell, I can feel every wall of his insides. I think I'm gonna achieve the orgiastic hat trick! Instinctively, my playing with his porker becomes pumping. Too late! Here I cum! I'm first this time, dammit! Which pisses me off to the point of attacking his dork. Come on, you prick! It's become like a contest. Something that I MUST do. Why are you fightin' it, Bruce? Why are you bitin' you lip, Bruce? You GOTTA give in. You KNOW you want to let go. My thrusting has really slowed now. Still completely enveloped but probably not very stiff anymore. Just a few squooshy pushes to punctuate my frantic jerking. Okay. Here HE cums! This oughtta be good! The squirming which was so conspicuous before is replaced by total stillness: Ninety-degree rigidness from his head to his toes. He can't POSSIBLY hold back much longer. Then, the beginning of the end: Splat. Spat. Splat. Each gusher expands the underside base of his cock. And his balls rise prior to each torrent which pours forth. What a view! Not as much stuff, but very good distance. "Bruce! Bruce! Are you still with us?" I can't imagine that future weekends will EVER be as intense. I would consider myself extremely lucky if this becomes the routine. But if anything MORE than routine occurs, I will certainly submit it here. P. S. I would be remiss if I did not express my gratitude to someone who has helped me in many ways. Thanks. (He OUGHTTA know who I mean.)