CONRAD by Jon Reel I was fifteen when my mother remarried. His name was Conrad, Conrad Pruitt, and I guess to Mom he was everything my father was not. He wasn't bookish, he wasn't intellectual, and he didn't wear horn-rimmed glasses or boring gray suits. No, Conrad was a pilot for American Airlines, complete with a navy-blue uniform, aviator shades, and a Rolex watch on his broad and hairy wrist. Before flying for American, Conrad had been a pilot in the Air Force, and even as a civilian pilot the military aura still clung to him. One look at Conrad told you he was the Right Stuff. He stood tall and broad-shouldered, and a smile came readily to his well-formed lips. Conrad's blond hair, just graying at the temples, might have been curly if he hadn't kept it cropped short. His perpetual tan, and the squint lines around his light gray eyes -- eyes shaded by a pair of perfectly straight blond eyebrows -- bespoke a lifetime spent outdoors. He was from Texas originally, and he had a hint of a cowboy's drawl -- not much ,but enough to make him a natural at soothing the passengers he shepherded six miles high through the blissful American skies. Conrad was a man's man. I hated him. No, scratch that, I didn't hate him. But he made me feel gawky and insignificant. None of the things that mattered to me meant anything to him, and I didn't care about the stuff he liked either, like fishing and football. To be fair, Conrad never deliberately belittled me or my interests, and he never pushed me to toss a ball around, but we had nothing in common. And on top of that -- or beneath it -- was the inescapable fact that he had horned in on me and Mom. Of course I was happy for her, or tried to be, because she was obviously in love with him, but it still felt weird having this stranger around all the time, and everywhere, for our house was now his house too. So Conrad was in the kitchen. By the pool. In her -- their -- room. Don't get the wrong idea, I never heard crude moans through the walls or anything like that. But of course I knew the story. I mean, something was bringing that contented smile to Mom's face. I beat off a lot in those days, -- every day, often twice, and always before going to sleep. I'd draw up my legs so that my feet were together and my knees apart, and then vibrate two fingers on the spot below the head of my cock, holding it with my thumb. Flicking rapidly back and forth, I'd let my thoughts wander. Usually I thought about my favorite cuties at school, guys I'd seen naked in the showers, or guys I'd never seen naked but wanted to, guys with pert butts and narrow hips. In my fantasies I had x-ray vision and could see through their jeans to their underpants, and through the underpants to the flesh beneath. Once Barry, a friend of mine, told me he got a lift from some guy in a little red Mazda. When the guy shifted gears he put his hand on Barry's knee. Barry told the fag (Barry's word) to let him out right away or he would hit him, and the guy had let him out. Barry didn't know about me -- nobody did, at least I didn't think so. Anyhow, Barry's story provided me with j-o fantasies for well over a month. What if Barry hadn't said anything, and the man had driven them to a secluded spot and sucked his cock? I tried to imagine the stranger fumbling with Barry's zipper until he got Barry's cock out, tried to imagine him taking it into his mouth and sucking on it. What would it feel like to get my own cock sucked? Would the guy doing the sucking bob his head up and down in my lap, or would he hold my cock and lick it? For that matter, what would it feel like to close my lips around Barry's boner? Would there be a taste? I'd work the head of my dick trying to envision it, making the sexual ache grow and grow. The pressure would build until I sensed I couldn't hold out much longer. Then I'd grab my balls with one fist, take the my cock in the other fist, and really jerk it, jerk it until great wads of cum erupted over my shoulder, onto my neck, my chest, my belly -- and then one final jerk and contraction would send a ropey length of cum back up to my chest again, before my dick, with two or three mini-spasms -- mere ghosts of the previous gushers -- dribbled the final trickle of cum down into the circle of hair at its root. For a moment I'd lie back exhausted. Then I'd pad over to the bathroom to clean up. God only knows how guys who have to share a bathroom with their parents, or worse, with inquisitive brothers and sisters, ever make it through adolescence. Socks, I guess. But after Mom married Conrad, when I beat off I couldn't keep from thinking about them doing it together. I would imagine him lying on top of her, covering her body. She'd have drawn up her legs, maybe even lifted her heels off the bed, and spread her legs wide apart to give him access. Her fingers would dig into his back. In my mind I could see his butt lift and push back into her, his butt-cheeks clenching together in order to wedge his cock in up to the hilt. I imagined her abstracted look as she concentrated on the sensations inside her, eyes glazed, tongue sticking out just a bit at the corner of her mouth. Would she fuck back, clutching and grinding up her hips, or would she just lie there underneath him, giving herself up to the passive enjoyment of his thrusts? I imagined it both ways. I was horrified at myself, and I knew I must be depraved to visualize such things, but the thoughts were so exciting I couldn't stop myself. As my own climax approached I imagined him starting to really fuck her rough, both of them sweating and rutting like animals. I put the sluttiest phrases I could think of into her mouth, egging him on: "Oh Conrad, fuck me, fuck me, that's right, fuck me deeper, deeper, Oh God I'm cumming again, I'm cumming, Conrad fuck me, fuck me, Oh God fuck me or I'll go crazy." In my fantasies he picked up his tempo in response to her pleas. I saw him ram his cock way into her, and then buck forward a jot more, so that his pubic bone mashed against her clit. "Oh Christ! that's right, that's right, ooooooohh that's right, oh yeah, like that, nnnnnnnhhhh, nnnnnnnnnhh, nnnnnhhh, oh Conrad! unh . . . unh . . . unh . . . unh" I'd make her moan, beside herself, as Conrad's butt rose, sank and clenched, rose, sank and clenched. He mashed into her, churned her pussy, made her snap her head back and forth on the pillow and plead for it and call his name. Afterwards, as I lay panting with cum all over myself, hot cum going cold and runny, I felt sick with self-disgust, and vowed I'd never wallow in those fantasies again. Sometimes I kept those promises a day, sometimes half an hour. At some point I became obsessed with seeing Conrad's cock. I had to know what Mom was taking up inside her. Judging from the rest of him it would be large -- he stood well over six feet tall. I'd seen him in a bathing suit often enough, and secretly admired his furry slab-like pecs and the ghost of a washboard stomach. His broad wrists and long, thick fingers suggested a large penis, but I had heard such proxies were unreliable. How different we were! A thin layer of baby fat lay under my skin and hid any trace of musculature -- it made my skin as soft as a girl's. Worse, my eyebrows were thin and feathery, and the wretched peach-fuzz sideburns I cultivated trailed off into nothingness. To top it off, my cheeks had a constant pink blush on them, like the dots of rouge on a toy soldier's cheeks, and when I was embarrassed the pink would deepen to crimson and spread over my entire face, in miserable contrast to Conrad's manly tan. Even my dick was small, less than six inches fully erect, I'd measured it. It wasn't going to be easy to scope out Conrad's equipment, but I thought about it all the time. I considered bursting in while he was drying off after a shower, but I couldn't think of a pretext for being in their bathroom instead of my own. Luck finally gave me the opportunity I needed. I was walking down the upstairs hall when I heard the sound of a man pissing. It had to be Conrad, and more important, he must have left the door at least part open for the sound to be so clear. On cat's feet I made my way down the hall, heart pounding for fear of going too fast . . . or too slow. I reached my goal and yes, the door was open about a foot, and yes, I was in time! The yellow stream was just trailing off. I stared, bug-eyed. I could see his reflection in the mirror in front of the toilet. In his hand he casually held the manliest cock I had ever seen. Nothing I had glimpsed on my classmates in the gym showers came close. The circumcised head was like a soldier's helmet, full, round, and flared where it met the weighty shaft. The blond thatch of his pubes surrounded the base like a glory. Jesus, I thought. Jesus fucking Christ. So that was what she was taking inside her. I was mesmerized by the sheer beauty and power of it. To possess such an instrument! My imagination couldn't encompass it. Conrad shook out the last few drops. I came to my senses, walked briskly down the hall and into my room, leaned back against the door, wrenched my pants down about my knees, and jerked off. I was so aroused by what I'd just seen that I didn't try to prolong it, but just whipped my dick like crazy, frantic to cum. Seconds later I shot long stripes of cum onto the rug. I wiped it up quickly, then got naked and lay down on my bed to do it again, properly. That night, when I jerked off yet again before going to sleep, my fantasies were still of Conrad's hand shaking the last drops of urine from his glorious thick-helmeted cock. Over the next few nights, however, images of Conrad making love to Mom crowded back into my j-o thoughts. But now, in addition to imagining the rear view of his ass plowing into her crotch, I fantasized about the heart of the matter, about his large penis -- for erect it must be truly monstrous -- actually entering the lips of her vagina. Her pussy would be wet and slippery with her juices, for Conrad would have warmed her up with his fingers before he pushed up her knees, crawled forward, and put his cock to her pussy lips. Maybe he would tease her for a while, nudging his head at the coral folds, seeming to enter her and then pulling back, dipping the head in and then withdrawing it again, like a swimmer testing the water with his toe. Would she beg for it, beg him for God's sake to do it, to fuck her, to fuck her with his big cock before she went crazy with desire for it? Suddenly and with no warning he would follow through on one of his teasing strokes, and plunge his cock all the way in. In my mind I would follow his cock as it slid deep up her pussy, pulled up, and sank back into her again. I imagined the helmet-head parting the folds deep, deep inside her, lunging and dragging along her sensitive inner walls. I imagined it gleaming with natural pussy-lube. Maybe he would grasp her by the tits and kiss her, filling her mouth with his tongue while he rammed her with his cock. How would it feel to be supporting that massive hairy body, to be gripped by those big hands? He would surely grow sweaty with the exertion of it. I saw her buck her hips up against his to force the utmost penetration, saw her grasp and knead his muscular butt, saw her face contort with agony as she came, milking him with the salmon contours of her innermost cunt. And still Conrad would fuck her mercilessly, making her cum and cum and cum. The hair at the base of his cock would become matted with her secretions. This vivid image disgusted me and yet aroused me almost more than I could bear. And eventually he would shoot his sperm deep inside her, feeling the same contractions of overpowering pleasure that would any minute send my own load racing up from my nuts, and he would jerk spasmodically and shudder as jets of cum coursed out through his cock, drenching the depths of her cunt. He wouldn't make crude sounds, he was far too manly for that, but his eyes would squeeze shut as he tasted the summit of his pleasure. By then I was whipping my cock like a demented person. The pressure in my cock and balls grew so strong that it momentarily verged on torment. A quaking spasm, release, and a wad of cum flew past my field of vision and splatted on the headboard, followed by several more quick contractions that coated my chest and belly with pearly swags of cum. I wiped it off and fell asleep, my consciousness slipping down, down beneath my shame and into contented slumber. . . . . . . . One weekend towards the end of the summer the three of us together went to the beach. Conrad rented a cottage. From the beginning, Mom made it plain I was grown up now, and wouldn't be expected to cling to her apron strings, in fact I got the impression that, apart from meals, they didn't expect to see me much at all. That was fine by me, in fact, that made it tolerable. After dinner on Saturday, Mom and Conrad "took a nap" and I walked the boardwalk, watching the crowd, looking for cuties. Eventually I got bored with watching people, but kept on walking; I guess I wanted to be alone. Night had fallen by the time I got to the end. The boardwalk extended quite a distance in either direction from the swarming center, and as I walked, fewer and fewer people were to be seen beneath the streetlights. Towards the end, the boardwalk was deserted except for an occasional drunk. Not long after turning back I was surprised to see Conrad walking my way, alone. Had he followed me? As he approached I was once again struck by how utterly unlike we were, he the cowboy-exec in his madras shorts and alligator shirt, me the would-be punk in oversized tee and cut-off sweats. "Hey Josh, how's it goin', Sport?" Conrad came up to me, his hand raised in friendly greeting. He was going to give me a comradely punch, either on the arm or the stomach, as was his manner. The first few times he had done this I was appalled by the jockish gesture, but there was something disarming about the way he delivered it -- a friendly fist to the body came naturally to him, and I grew to recognize that these punches were an attempt to establish some sort of familial warmth between us. It was brave, really, in the face of my unwavering unresponsiveness. But I was wrong. His hand didn't form a fist and it didn't land on my arm or my stomach. Instead, Conrad thrust his open hand up between my legs, and gently but unmistakably squeezed my cock and balls. "On a night like this, we need to go out and find you a chick." He had felt me up! A thousand thoughts exploded through my mind: What was this about a "chick?" Obviously a cover, in case I freaked. No real man ever felt another guy like that, not ever. So what was up with Conrad? He couldn't be gay . . . could he? And what made him think he could touch me that way? Did I have to hit him now, or at least threaten to, the way Barry had threatened to hit the guy in the Mazda? Or was it already too late? Yes, too late, too late, surely that had to be done immediately, in the first instant or not at all. And anyhow, I wasn't sure how to hit with a fist, I could only slap him, which would hardly establish my manliness. But did this mean he knew I was gay? Could he tell? Had others then guessed as well? Had he -- sickening thought -- discussed it with Mom? Or she with him? Or -- O Jesus, not this, not this -- had he seen me that day when I watched him pissing? Had he glimpsed my face in the mirror, transfixed as he shook the last few drops from his cock? All those thoughts and more exploded in my brain. Suddenly the surf seemed far away, and even my field of vision seemed to have come unmoored and float before me. Blood was pounding in my ears. Conrad's smile had melted into a questioning look. It washed over me how much he'd risked. Yes, how daring he was! I felt unsteady on my legs. The landward rail offered support and was mercifully out of the light . . . I didn't want Conrad to see how badly I was blushing. With effort I unfroze myself and walked over to the darkness. I leaned back against the rail, and gazed across the boardwalk and out to sea. In the distance were lights on freighters. Conrad came over and leaned back against the rail too, close beside me. "You know, Josh, when I first came here, twenty years ago or so, none of that stuff on the other side of the highway was built yet. The first thing to come was that shopping center with the Safeway in it." He talked on like that, as if nothing were happening, and as he talked he put his hand to my crotch again -- and this time left it there. I didn't move. I let him do it. And that was that -- there was no going back, Conrad was feeling my penis, rubbing it to throbbing hardness, and I was letting him do it. It felt wonderful, but I could hardly concentrate on the sensation, so many questions surged into my mind at once. If a masculine man like Conrad touched other guys' dicks, who then did not? Did Mr. Hartmann, my History teacher? Did Mr. Marsh, the coach? Was there a vast conspiracy of silence I knew nothing about? I surrendered to the thrill of Conrad's hand on my cock -- I'd have to sort it out later. Conrad's hands explored my crotch purposefully, like a blind person reading a face by touch. Through my sweats he made out the length and thickness of my cock, discovered where the head began, felt for my balls. Had he perhaps been curious too? Through the pliable material he felt the head with his fingers. The sensation of another man's hand -- of Conrad's hand -- touching me was astonishingly pleasurable, and strangely unlike the feeling of touching it myself. My cock strained forward to meet his touch. When he satisfied himself with his exploration, Conrad began to squeeze my cock gently up and down through the cloth. It tented out the loose material. Conrad ran his fingers down to my balls and then pulled up with the flat of his hand over the shaft and head, over and over, in easy strokes. And all the while he talked on about unrelated things, about when restaurants had come and gone, about storm damage in previous years, as though his hand demanded cover not only of darkness but of small talk, too, as I let him stealthily squeeze and pleasure my stiffened cock. I let him ramble on as he stroked me. But what was expected of me? Was I likewise permitted to feel his cock through his pants? If Conrad could touch me like he was, what then was forbidden? I reached over and put my hand against his thigh, and haltingly brought it to the fly of his pants. In a trice (and without breaking the flow of irrelevant pleasantries) Conrad clapped his free hand over mine, securing it to his groin. So then this too was allowed, in fact, desired. My tentative touch steadied to a grip as I processed the information that Conrad wanted me to play with his cock. I swallowed hard as I took in the size of him. It felt like a baseball bat. The thick tube reached from his groin practically all the way to his hip bone, his jockey briefs crushing it flat against his belly. It was hard as stone, as hot, living stone. As he had mine, I read the size and position of his cock with my fingers. Then I did my best to mimic Conrad's rhythmic stroke. I would have liked to have run my hand up under his shirt as well, to have run my fingers through his chest hair, and felt his pecs and nipples, but I wasn't sure of the rules to this new game, and didn't dare risk it. Maybe dick-rubbing was okay, but betraying further interest would shock and disgust. Anyway, Conrad stroking my cock and me stroking his was excitement enough for now. He thrust his hips and cock gently forward to meet my hand, letting me know he wanted me to rub it harder. My own dick quivered under his masterful massage. Fortunately no one came by, because although where we stood was dark compared to under the streetlight, it wasn't dark enough to hide what we were doing. In the distance a lighted ferris wheel and a few carnival rides marked the center of the boardwalk, there was a pier there. It seemed unnaturally far away, as did the crashing of the surf. The freighters at sea passed each other. I felt as if I were on some powerful drug. Conrad drew back his hand and stuck it under my sweat pants, touching my cock flesh to flesh, the first time anyone had ever done that. My breathing had gone uneven. His fingers closed around my cock and began to pull. The heightened intensity frightened me. I wanted to respond in kind, but surely he didn't expect me to unzip his pants right there on the board walk? Had he gone berserk? Yet how I longed to touch his cock for real, and not through his shorts. Oh God, to make him shoot! I stole a glance at his face, but his eyes were focused on the far horizon. He had stopped talking now that he was sure I wouldn't bolt. I looked back out to sea myself, afraid that if I continued looking at him he'd turn and look me in the eyes, and maybe the magic spell would break. The insistent tug of his hand on my cock was unspeakably pleasurable. The full handed skin-to-skin stroke intensified the sexual ache, and my nuts were drawn up tight. Suddenly Conrad was rubbing a drop of something wet and slippery onto the head of my cock -- pre-cum. He rotated his moistened thumb around and around the underside of the head. A sharp stab of pleasure emerged through the more general ache, and it flashed on me that I was very close. What then? Was I supposed to walk back through the center of town with cum all over my shorts? Was I supposed to pull down my shorts and shoot it right there on a public boardwalk? We were both of us breathing pretty hard by then. I caught his glance: "Do you . . . do you want to walk on the beach?" "You bet, Josh." His tone was suddenly entirely different from before, focussed, with me. I felt reassured, and realized I had for the first time given him verbal permission, even an invitation. Now it was up to him -- he knew I would let him do anything he wanted. We broke apart, and he led me across the boardwalk to the stairs to the beach -- he led me down to the sand. The moonlight seemed brighter away from the streetlights on the boardwalk. The crash, boom, and slow withdrawal of the surf seemed closer, yet still unreal. Conrad drew me along the boardwalk, his hand against the small of my back. He took my shoulders and leaned me back against a massive wooden pier. As my eyes adjusted I could see the beach was bright with moonlight, but it was also totally empty, and we couldn't be seen from above. In one adroit movement Conrad hunkered down in front of me and tugged my shorts down to my ankles. My cock stood out from my body at an upthrust angle -- small, but straight and eager. Before I knew what was happening, Conrad had taken my whole cock into his mouth so that his nose crushed against my belly. The sensation was strange to me -- wet, warm, yet strangely empty. The touch of Conrad's hand had been recognizably like my own, but this was new and different. So this is it, I thought, a blow job. But it wasn't "it." Not yet. In a moment I found out what a real blow job was, when Conrad began to suck in earnest. The vacuuming sensation as he devoured my cock was a hundredfold more powerful. Conrad rocked his head back and forth rapidly and purposefully, sometimes twisting it slightly to suck me even harder. "He's really gobbling it" I thought to myself. I could feel his tongue working the underside of my cock. At times he seemed to lodge my cock in the back of his throat and actually milk it by swallowing, but mostly he just sucked back and forth on it quickly, almost deliriously. I looked down. Somehow he'd loosened his own pants too, I could see his arm whipping back and forth. I wondered what to do with my hands. I laid them on top of his head, but lightly, not wanting to impede his sucking, and then drew them around to the back. I realized I had always wanted to touch the nape of his neck, where the hairs formed a golden chevron. I ran my hands through the locks of hair on his head, stroking it. How soft his hairs were! I had imagined they would be bristly, but they were soft instead. I was short of breath by then, almost gasping. Conrad's vigorous sucking was pushing me nearer to the brink. No one had ever made me feel that way before, and at that moment I adored him. The insistent pressure in my cock and balls rose to a dangerous pitch. I was afraid I might not be able to get my dick out of his mouth in time. What if I ended up spraying cum all over his shirt! What a geek he would think me! "Conrad" I said. At the sound of his name he seemed to suck even more intensely, if such a thing were possible. "Conrad . . . I . . . uh . . . I need to pull out. I . . . I can't hold it." Evidently he was so lost in what he was doing that he hadn't heard me -- he was sucking like crazy. If I had seen a dog go after a bone that way, I would have been afraid to come between them. "Conrad?" I said again, the pitch of my voice rising. To my own ears I sounded like a little boy begging to be taken to the bathroom in time. "I'm gonna . . . I'm gonna . . ." Conrad seemed to nod without breaking his rhythm. I fought desperately to choke back the surge rising inside my cock. Then Conrad reached up behind me, grabbed me firmly by the butt with both hands, and pulled me to him, forcing my cock all the way into his mouth, making it absolutely impossible for me to withdraw. The message was unmistakable. Conrad was telling me to cum in his mouth! The thrilling lewdness of the thought brought me up and over the edge. Conrad wanted me to shoot in his mouth, wanted to feel it spew onto his tongue and throat, to taste my cum, to eat it! He grasped my butt and sucked like crazy. I was close to losing consciousness with shock and need and pleasure. I couldn't hold out for another second. Mighty contractions racked my groin and balls, and my pleasure-tortured cock squirted streams of cum into his mouth. The first spurts shot out with enormous power. Conrad swallowed and swallowed. I surrendered to it, heaving and gasping for breath. It was so strange, to cum and not to see it fling itself up my chest. Instead, I was feeding Conrad my cum! Gradually the force of the spasms diminished, until just small amounts of cum were hiccuping out. I consciously contracted my pelvic muscles to squeeze out the last drops. Finally he let my cock flop out of his mouth. Conrad ran his tongue around inside his mouth, gathering the rest of my cum, and swallowed it. I looked down at my cock, amazed, and then at Conrad. I slumped, spent. Conrad stood up. He fisted his cock furiously for a few seconds. Still panting, I marveled at the sight of it. His cock was easily twice the length of his manly fist, longer, actually, and his hand, the hand that had so easily circled my cock, didn't reach all the way around it. Conrad stood with his feet some two feet apart and his knees slightly bent. He was maybe a yard away, jerking his big cock, holding it underhand, his thumb against the glans, and aiming downward. He was breathing hard and his athletic chest rose and fell quickly under his shirt. He looked at me, taking in my face and body in a raking glance. My pants were still crumpled at my ankles. A drop of after-cum hung at the tip of my deflating cock. Then he shut his eyes and locked his handsome face in an expression of deepest concentration. A few more pulls and he froze. His body went rigid, and he trembled almost imperceptibly. He stroked himself again and stopped, his face twisted, his lungs expelling short, shuddering gasps of air. Then he pulled one final time, hard, and let it happen -- his pulsing cock strafed the sand with cum. Later I would replay that image many times in my mind's eye. He opened his eyes and looked at me. I looked back. I couldn't read his face. Perhaps like me he was totally drained, beyond thought or feeling. Recovering somewhat, I bent over and pulled up my pants. I was no longer dizzy with lust, and the significance of what had just happened seized me by the throat. I had just had my first sex, and with a man, a grown-up. With Conrad. With Mom's new husband. There came to me the image of her leaning back against him, laughing, happy and secure in his love. What had we two done? We had betrayed my mom. "Conrad, I gotta go" I said, seized by guilt and horror, and I lit off down the beach in a desperate sprint. I didn't look back until I was far, far back towards town. Chapter II On the streets of the town, away from the ocean, the August air was warmer, almost sultry. I was out of breath and sweating from my sprint down the beach. Although I felt bad about having bailed on Conrad, I knew I had to be alone to sort things out. The alternative -- strolling back down the boardwalk together -- would have been grotesque. On the far side of town was a 7-Eleven. Still dazed from what had happened, and blinking in the fluorescent light, I bought a coke and took it to a side street, sat down on the curb, and considered the situation. Not the sex so much (that I was saving for later), but how things stood with me and Conrad and Mom. Laughter and car sounds from the main drag occasionally pierced the crickets' and cicadas' edgy racket. So Conrad wasn't exactly the straight arrow he seemed to be. Just who had Mom married, anyhow? Was he some kind of Don Juan, a seducer so compulsive that he'd even go after a scrawny kid like me? If he wanted to cheat on Mom, Conrad certainly had every opportunity. The airline scheduled crews to fly for several days in a row, putting them up at airport hotels. I thought about Conrad and the flight attendants -- stewardesses with Miss Texas hair; complaisant stewards -- and imagined them holed up together in the dreary hotel lounges. It seemed obvious that he could have his pick of partners a lot more desirable than me. The notion of Conrad feeding his cock to some eager little uniformed flight attendant made my dick stir in my pants, but I fought the image back -- I needed to do some serious thinking. On the whole, I decided, there had been something about Conrad's manner, some clumsiness or awkwardness, that argued against his being an inveterate sexual predator. And yet surely he'd had a cock in his mouth before. Inexperienced as I was, I could tell that technique like Conrad's wasn't something you were born with. There was an almost military precision to Conrad's competence. Maybe that was the clue -- maybe his years in Colorado Springs had included drills he never spoke about. Yes, that was probably it. Conrad had sucked my cock as though to satisfy an exacting sergeant. But how had he known I'd let him, and that I wouldn't tell? Hours later I finally crept up the creaking wooden steps that led to the cottage. Putting my ear to their bedroom door, I satisfied myself that both Mom and Conrad were there and asleep. Then I brushed my teeth and went to bed. In the darkness I summoned up vivid memories of what Conrad and I had done. I spat on my thumb and rubbed it around the head of dick, reproducing as best I could the feel of Conrad massaging my pre-cum onto it. Images flooded past me -- Conrad squeezing my crotch, Conrad's fingers in my pants, Conrad so excellently hoovering my dick, Conrad willing me to shoot in his mouth, and finally Conrad jacking himself off in front of me, legs apart, back arched, arms bulging like an action figure's. I drew up my legs as I remembered Conrad's sharp, repeated intake of breath when he held himself at the brink, and shot my load to images of Conrad's own ejaculation. After the contractions subsided I drew the back of my hand up my belly, put it to my lips, and licked off the sperm. So this is what he was so eager to taste, I thought, and drifted off to sleep. Over my cereal the next morning Mom really let me have it about being out so late. "You know, Josh, being old enough to go out at night by yourself also means being old enough to be considerate of other peoples' feelings. We had no idea what had happened to you." She warmed to her topic, painting me pictures of a mother's helpless anxiety, of Conrad sent out into the night to find me, of their considering whether it might not be wiser to alert the police, of there being creeps out there who preyed on youngsters . . . At this Conrad broke in. "Aw, Helen, let the kid alone. Josh is okay; he isn't reckless or dumb. He was probably with a girl." Mom blanched at this possibility. "Josh . . . ? Oh, alright you two, I guess it's a guy thing." Which, in a manner of speaking, it was. I had been afraid it would be awkward, being with Conrad and Mom, but somehow it wasn't. It was easy -- in fact, it was better, because I wasn't so much on the outside anymore. It wasn't just me-and-Mom, and Conrad-and-Mom. Now there was me-and-Conrad, too. We had a secret. It made us somehow more like a real family, where everyone has something going with everyone else. And Conrad was as easy and sunny as ever -- the total alpha male. Which was funny, because after all it was Conrad who had been on his knees before me, with my cock in his mouth, which was supposed to be the most humiliating posture one male could show to another. It occurred to me I still had a lot to learn about life. And it washed over me that my being queer wasn't a secret anymore, because Conrad knew about it. Finally someone knew, someone who obviously didn't think it was weird or sick -- someone I could talk to. And that someone was Conrad, Conrad of the jockish gestures, my stepfather! I almost laughed out loud. But as much as in the abstract I liked the idea of being able to talk to Conrad, the thought that he himself might broach the subject filled me with anxiety bordering on nausea. Maybe he sensed that, because he didn't make the slightest allusion to it. But that night, after we got home and went out for burgers and shakes, and I sat watching him suck up the dregs of his milkshake with in-drawn cheeks, I felt myself blush. Conrad saw me color up and looked at me for a moment, puzzled. Then a gentle smile spread over his face. "What's with you guys, anyway? What's the joke?" Conrad chuckled. "Aw, Helen . . . " . . . . . . . . . . Before I was up the next morning, Conrad left for a three-day tour of duty. When Conrad was away the household settled down to a lower pitch, and I had time by myself to further get my bearings. The conviction grew in me that it was no accident that things seemed brighter than they had in a long time. The net effect of what Conrad had done was to take away my alienation and lift the terrible burden of my secret. Conrad was deep. It came to me that he must have guessed, have somehow known, that the only way he could get through to me, get past my resentment and distrust, and transform me from a sullen outsider into a willing member of his new family, was through our doing something sexual together. But at what a risk! I dimly knew that what he had done could get him in a lot of trouble, with Mom, even with the law, -- he played for high stakes, did Conrad. And skillfully. I was overcome with admiration for his audacity and his generosity. For surely there hadn't been much in it for him sexually -- I mean, I was about as removed from sexy as you could get, with my baby-fat cheeks, my peach-fuzz sideburns, my awkward legs. Bitterly I reflected, not for the fist time, that I looked like Snow White with a buzz cut. If it had been cock Conrad wanted, he could have done a lot better than my little dong. Yes, Conrad had been magnificent. As I worked it out I felt terribly ashamed of the way I'd run off and left him under the boardwalk. When he returned I would let him know that I would be totally grown up about it, that I got it, that everything was cool. Conrad spent the day after he got back from his tour of duty lounging by the pool. Mom was off showing houses; after the summer doldrums the real estate market was picking up. I just hung out, watching TV, watching Conrad. I wanted to speak to him, to let him know that everything was alright and that I appreciated what he'd done for me, but somehow I couldn't. I guess I just couldn't talk about what had happened between us -- I mean, for Christ's sake, I'd shot a load in his mouth. So we were both hanging out, him by the pool, me in the house, both of us waiting for something to happen -- the air was thick with it, like humidity. I kept thinking about taking a nonchalant dip in the pool. In my mind I rehearsed diving in and pulling myself dripping up the ladder to dry out casually in the sun beside him, but something held me back. Maybe it was the idea of being alone with him with only a bathing suit on. So I went to the kitchen for a coke. As soon as I walked in I saw Conrad's back at the refrigerator. He was barefoot and his Hawaiian shirt hung unbuttoned over his bathing suit. I wanted to pad quietly back out, but the thought had no sooner formed itself than I realized that Conrad had already sensed my presence. I couldn't run out on him again. Conrad continued rooting about in the refrigerator, perhaps to give me a chance to bolt, but then he turned around, empty handed, and looked me in the eye. For a moment neither of us said anything. Then he broke the silence. "You okay?" "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. Really. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry I . . . I'm sorry I ran off like that." "I was worried at first. But then I guessed it was just natural. Probably just what I would have done when I was your age, I guess." This was a courteous untruth. I was pretty sure no one had ever seen Conrad turn tail and run. "It's just . . . It's just I was, like, upset about . . . " I paused and swallowed. This part was hard. ". . . about you and Mom, that's all." "There's nothing wrong between me and your mother," Conrad instantly replied. "Me and your mom are like this." He held out two fingers pressed together. His tone was stern, the tone of a man who would brook no conversation about his wife under any circumstances whatever. "Yeah. I know. But it . . . I . . . I didn't get it." Conrad looked at me, eyebrows pulled together. "Didn't get what, Josh?" "Like, you just wanted us to be . . . to be more like . . . ." I stumbled. For what precisely had Conrad wanted us to be more like? Surely not father and son, unless you saw getting blown by your dad at the beach as a typical filial activity. "You know . . . to be more like a real family. I mean, for us . . for you and me . . . and, like, to let me know it was okay about being . . . you wanted to let me know that you knew, and that, you know . . . (why wasn't he helping me?) . . . and you wanted us to be more close, you know, more like . . . ?" My straggling sentence had turned itself into a question. Conrad looked at me in blank puzzlement. After a moment or two he squinted his eyes and cocked his head just slightly to the side. "You mean you think I wanted to be your daddy? To send you a message? Josh, Sport, you been reading too many of them damn novels!" I didn't know what to say to this. In my confusion I finally stammered " Then why . . . ? "Why?" He paused, considered. Then he took aim and fired: "Because I couldn't keep my hands off you any longer, you sexy little fucker, that's why. "Hunh?" "Yeah, from the moment I set eyes on you I wanted you. I hadn't wanted a boy for a long, long time, but you look just like . . . well, like someone I was once real close to, back in high school. It doesn't matter who. And you had a way about you, like you were sulking but trying real hard not to let it show . . . it got right to me. But I never would have done anything about it. That is, not until I noticed you sort of studying my zipper." The customary twinkle had returned to Conrad's eye. I had of course guessed that he must have had something to go on to have dared to do what he did, but it shocked me to hear it put so baldly. "So I reckoned I'd show you what you seemed to want to see. I started leaving the door open when I changed clothes, even pissing with the door open. To give you your chance. I'd stroke it a bit, keep it nice and big. I could tell you wanted to see it. And I was pretty sure it'd beat anything you'd have seen in gym class. I was beginning to think you'd never come along at the right moment, but then you did. Oh yeah, I heard you in the hall alright. Heard you stop. I figured you could only have stopped to watch me, there was no other reason for you to stop like that. And after I flushed and you ran inside your room, I just walked on up and put my ear to the door. You sure weren't doin' your homework, Sport." He said this last with a broad grin. Conrad flopped his tongue wetly in and out against his upper lip, making a lewd slip-slop sound. "I knew then that you were at least a little bit more interested in me than you'd been willing to let on. And I just took the first chance that came along to do what came natural." While he was telling me this my blood began to beat a rhythm in my ear. It all came back to me, the dizzy way I'd felt on the boardwalk. And it seemed to me the whole elaborate explanation I'd spun about Conrad's motives was nothing more than a defense against this sick dizzy feeling, the confusion I felt when I came face to face with the heat of his desire . . . and mine. So after shaking the piss from his dick, Conrad had listened through the door while I'd jerked off leaning against it! Jerked off in a frenzy over the forbidden sight of his grown-up cock! The shaming thought was incredibly exciting. I wondered if he had heard me lie down on the bed immediately afterward to do it again. And here he was telling me about it, and suggesting it had led to what "came natural." What then was natural now? Was there an invitation in his words? The thought made my cock pump up and ache for it. Surely he could guess that it would arouse me to hear him talk this way . . . he must want me to be turned on to him. Thinking about how he knew he was turning me on made me all the more aroused -- it was like a chain reaction. Conrad's eyes dipped to where my cock was straining against my shorts. From the shine in his eyes I was pretty sure that he was hard too, but I was afraid it would commit me to something if I looked. The refrigerator hummed against the pregnant silence, and then the more vigorous purr of the air-conditioning kicked in. The breeze from the vent caught his flimsy open shirt and blew it slightly back, so that the fabric caught on his left nipple, which held it open, like a curtain. I stared at that nipple as though mesmerized -- I knew it was out of bounds but I couldn't look away. Besides, if Conrad had all along caught my furtive glances, what point was there in pretending not to look now? Conrad followed my gaze. A long moment passed, and then he simply shook the shirt back off his shoulders and let it slither to the floor. He didn't say anything -- he didn't have to. The gesture said it all. "Go ahead . . . or not. We both want it. Choose." So now it was in the open between us. I couldn't swallow. I could hardly breath. I stared at his chest, at the swirls of hair all over his chest and stomach, at the barely noticeable rise and fall of the beefy slabs of his pecs. His shoulders were lightly dotted with freckles. You could just make them out through the tan. But his nipples fascinated me more than anything else. They were so big, as big as the erasers on those real thick pencils they teach you to write with in first grade. I looked down at the shirt on the floor, then up again. And sure enough, his cock jutted out the material of his swimsuit. My own cock was pulsating to my heart beat, and I longed to take his nipple into my mouth and suck it. To chew on it. But I was frozen. It was too weird. There was something so strange in his offering me his chest right there in the middle of Mom's kitchen! But then I panicked that Conrad might decide he'd given me enough of a chance, that he might pick up his shirt and coolly walk away. I felt sick with need -- to have him, to cum -- the thought that he might suck my cock again was intoxicating. But I was paralysed. I felt as if we were at the edge of some divide; we were off the path, but not yet in the thicket. My mouth hung open as I looked back up at his face, pleading. He must have read my look, because he raised his hand and rested it lightly on the back of my neck. Did he pull me, or did his hand merely rest there as I slowly bent to take his nipple in my mouth? I don't know, and as I ran my tongue over it I forgot everything except the sensations of the moment. I pushed the sturdy nipple back and forth with my tongue, tasted it, then sucked at it. Conrad sighed his satisfaction. From pleasure, perhaps, or perhaps with relief at having won on the strength of a dubious hand. A mild scent of chlorine and sun- warmed skin rose off him as I buried my nose in his chest hair. I sucked on his nipple cautiously at first, but with increasing freedom, testing the rubbery nubbin with my teeth and swirling my tongue over it. As I licked and suckled at it I felt it harden in my mouth. I started to lap the hairy pec it sat on, slicking his hair down with my saliva. Then, embracing him, I returned to the chewy knob. My nose was jammed against his chest. Whether or not he had pulled me to him, he was holding me there now. Then suddenly I was airborne. With one arm under my knees and the other about my shoulders, Conrad picked me up as easily as a duffle bag and carried me through the house. As he swept me along in his arms with a powerful loping stride, I lolled my head against his shoulder to drink in the smell of his underarm. I couldn't remember when I had last been picked up and carried, and it stirred vague yet potent memories of my father carrying me through the house. He lay me down on the living room rug, and pulled a pillow off the sofa and put it under my head. I let Conrad pull off my tee shirt and shorts -- everything about me but my dick was limp. Then he pulled down his bathing suit. This was the first time I'd ever seen Conrad totally naked. It was astonishing what thick and bushy pubic hair he had, and how white his ass and belly gleamed against the deep tan of his chest and legs. His hard-on swung out in front of him, like a club, and his enormous balls hung low. As helpless as a dreamer I lay there stunned while he knelt beside me. Conrad lightly ran his big hands over my body in sweeping stokes, from my thighs to my chest and down again, drawing thrills of electricity in their wake. He took my straining cock in his cupped hand and started jerking on it, pulling it insistently away from my body. His stroke was rough and could have been painful if I hadn't been so thoroughly aroused. As it was, the roughness of his stroke matched the intensity of my desire for it. He was quickly ratcheting me up to the point where I would shoot. Then he let go of my cock and swung his huge body over me, so that his thighs were on either side of my of head. Although his ass grazed my chest, his lower legs bore the brunt of his weight. He towered over me as he stroked his massive cock right at my face, just inches from my mouth. "This is what you really want to suck on, hunh, Sport . . . this big fat cock of mine. Isn't it . . . isn't it." I nodded, witless. "Go on, say it. Tell me." "Unh-hunh." "Tell me." "I want . . ." Why was it so hard to say? I guess because at that unreal moment there was nothing left of me but my throbbing cock and wordless cravings. Looking up at him I tried to focus, and finally brought it out: "I want . . . I want it." "Come on and say it, Josh. Tell me how you want to suck my cock. Go on. Tell me how you want to suck my cock." Conrad was coaxing but firm, as though training a puppy. "Tell me how you want to suck my cock." Panting, I felt the last reserve drain from me like water from a broken pot. "I want . . . to suck your cock." "There, that wasn't so hard now, was it, Sport?" crooned Conrad as he fed his cock head to my open lips. He held the thick base of his cock with his fist, and gradually fed me just the head, then stopped. I had to open wide for it, and he put the head part way in and pulled it out again several times before he let me really close my lips around it. With his other hand he held the back of my head, not forcing me, but rather supporting me. Cautiously I licked and sucked on the bulbous head filling my mouth. With the tip of my tongue I searched out the piss slit, then licked the undershaft and finally sucked on the whole round head. At first I was afraid that after a moment he might sink the rest of it down my throat, and that I would gag or even puke on it, but Conrad never gave me more than I could handle. I only hoped I was doing it right and that it felt good to him. "Yeah, that's what you wanted, isn't it, Sport. You wanted that for a while now, didn't you? You even beat off thinking about it, didn't you? And you thought I didn't know. But I knew. Oh yeah, I knew alright. Now suck it. Suck it. Lick it. Suck it. That's right. That's right. Use you tongue. Suck it. Yeah. Yeaahhhh." I sucked and licked on the big, firm, plum-shaped head of Conrad's cock. It filled my mouth. Sometimes he half fucked my lips with it, pulling it a bit back out and inserting it again, but mostly he just held it in my mouth and let me suck on it. Soon I was rewarded by a little slippery salty taste that I recognized as pre-cum. This was a great relief, because I knew it signaled Conrad's pleasure. It made me want to suck harder. I realized that I very much wanted for Conrad to cum in my mouth, and then I knew how it must have been for Conrad when, on the beach, he gripped my butt and pulled me deep into his mouth, in those shuddering moments just before I came. "Whoa, slow down there, Sport -- do it like before. Yeah. Yeah. That's it. Yeaahhhh . . ." Obediently I resumed the easier lick and suck motion I had been using. Conrad stopped giving me instructions, but merely drawled "Yeaahhhh" over and over again. His low tone suggested immense power held in reserve, like the purr of a leopard, or the rev of an expensive sports car growling at the light. With anxiety and desire I wondered if I could swallow all of it if he came in my mouth. As much as I longed for it, when I remembered how much he'd cum at the beach, I was afraid. But instead, Conrad pulled out of my mouth, crawled backwards, and lay down on top of me, pinning me to the floor with his massive body. He began to eat at my neck and shoulder, and dry-hump me, rubbing his undercock in a silky rhythm up and down my belly. Conrad closed his mouth on the sinews of my neck and shoulders and half bit and half sucked on them. He thrust his tongue hard and deep against my throat. I could hardly believe what intense pleasure he was causing in my neck. It sort of tickled, yet mostly it threw flashes of delight up and down my body. I wanted to scrunch up to protect my vulnerable neck and throat from his attack, but I forced myself not to, because it felt so good. Conrad reached under and grabbed my cock again and jerked it vigorously as he continued to fuck my belly and mouth my neck. I was half disoriented from the intensity of the sensations. Then for a moment I heard the sound of the sea as Conrad pushed his tongue deep into my ear. Squirming and pinioned by his weight, I gave myself up to it. Conrad licked my face, licked my sideburns, pushed his tongue deep up under my chin, chewed on my neck. He pinned back my arms and lapped at the cornsilk hairs that had at last begun to grow in my armpits. All this without ceasing to rut his cock up and down my belly. He was a hungry lion, and I was his helpless prey. All I could do was moan for it, moan, and try to meet his fucking motion with answering upward thrusts. I felt his thick cock shearing hard along my belly in repeated strokes, and wondered how this compared for him with having sex with Mom. Then he paused and, supporting himself over me with his elbows, gazed down into my face. I looked back up at him in total surrender. He lowered his face towards mine, never for a moment taking his eyes from mine. His lips parted; I could see a thin string of saliva hanging from one lip to the other, and behind it the dim lustre of his teeth. He was breathing hard, and I felt the moist warmth of his breath on my face. "He's going to kiss me," I thought, "he's going to French me like he kisses Mom." It had never occurred to me that Conrad would want to kiss me that way. In actual fact, I'd never seen Conrad do it even to Mom, although I had imagined it was one of the many sexual things they did when they were alone. Even more than his cock, the thought of Conrad putting his tongue in my mouth was overwhelmingly hot, and all of a sudden I knew I was going to cum. The very weight of him had become almost too sexy to bear, and the sense of my cock mashed up hard against his hairy naked body was more than I could take. A squirt of excruciating pleasure, and I grunted hunh - hunh - hunh - hunh - hunh - hunh as stream after stream of cum gushed out between us. Conrad froze over me as he felt my cum shoot out against his belly. His pupils dilated as the liquid pulsed urgently beneath him. He hung fire -- maybe he thought that since I was shooting my load I wouldn't want him anymore. But I did -- and I had to let him know it. So with both hands I grasped his meaty butt and pushed my cock, drooling but still hard, into the hairy fold of his groin, and opened my mouth. His eyes widened as he read how much I wanted it, and after hanging suspended for another split second, he dove down and kissed me square on the mouth. It was as if he was going for my tonsils. His lips mashed down in an airlock as his tongue swirled over my teeth and gums and tongue. Instinctively I licked back. I couldn't tell anymore where I stopped and where Conrad began. I didn't care. He started humping me again, shearing down hard into the creamy mess on my belly, sliding his cock up and down. I thrust my cock up into his bush and the crease where his thigh met his trunk. I could hardly tell where the pleasure was coming from, whether from his fucking down on me or from my own upward thrusts. The cum on my stomach began to get thick and jammy from the stirring it was getting from Conrad's cock. His lunges got shorter and more controlled, and he murmured words I couldn't quite make out. He no longer slid his cock in broad stokes up and down, but rather ground it into one sticky spot, then even that slowed to the merest vibration. He was evidently close. He twitched a couple of times but held on, and I knew he must be ready to cum and prolonging it. I tensed, waiting. Then I felt it: -- his cum shot out in hot wet spurts like blood from a sliced artery. He panted over me as he splattered me with his cum. Then he rolled off onto his back and, cock in hand, milked out the last few spasms. Feeling Conrad shoot made me need to cum again badly. I scooped up some of his load, rubbed it on my dick, and jerked off with the slimy goo. Conrad reached over and ran his fingers through the rest of his cum, which lay in streaks all over my chest and neck. He put two dripping fingers to my lips. Eagerly I sucked them into my mouth and licked them clean. His cum was tangier than mine, and thicker. It felt slippery against my tongue and teeth. He left his fingers all the way in my mouth even after I'd licked off the cum, and I sucked on them as I beat off, yanking my cock like crazy. "He's teaching me how to do it," I thought. I remembered him feeding me the thick plum-shaped head of his cock. And with that I shot another load. Conrad lay on his side, watching me, holding his head up in the palm of his hand, elbow to the floor. When I stopped gasping and came to my senses I looked over at him. His eyes twinkled merrily, as if to tease me for my earlier hesitation. We both laughed, then stopped. Conrad's eyes grew serious and his grin melted away. He leaned over and put his lips to mine. Gently he licked my lips with his tongue, as if politely knocking. I opened the door a tad to let him in. He pulled back and looked me in the eyes again, then kissed me again, gently. It was as if to say "See how good this is, even now, even afterwards?" I felt such love for him, and as trusting as a baby. It was amazing, but obviously Conrad thought I was . . . well, hot. Hadn't he called me a sexy little fucker? I wanted to hear him say it again. "Conrad . . . ?" But just then from the driveway came the sound of brakes; a moment later a car door slammed. Mom was home! To be continued . . .