I bent in and began to lick, and suck and eat. As he moaned in pleasure. “Do me Southern,” he whispered. “I want it slow, syrupy and deep. Then you can ride hard.” I sat back farther, and he rolled to his side. I stretched behind, pushed his upper thigh forward, and moved my hand to his mancunt to lube. His ass pushed back to meet me. He was hot, fucking hot. I could almost see the heat waves rising from his throbbing body. So I positioned behind him and placed my dickhead at the entrance, the hood having rolled down as I had hardened. I pushed lightly and he responded. I popped in, and immediately began the slow snaky slither inside. He gasped in pleasure as I reached his sensitive nut, and murmured sweet encouragement. All the while, I was caressing his supple body and pulling him close into me. I loved his heat. But, more than that, I loved the hardness of his body. Not an ounce of fat. This wasn’t a boy. He was all man. Taking him was like winning the gold.
I continued the pressure and the rocking. Soon I touched down, feeling my balls on his freckled ass. I reached around to check his status—he was long and hard, and his pre-cum was leaking. I scooped some up, passed under his nose, then licked it from my fingers. Ambrosia! Honeysuckle! All the tastes and aromas of my youth. He actually made me feel new again. We were both perspiring even in the cool room. We were the heat of the organic, fertile South. Feeding on each other’s lifeforce.
But the languorous pace of the Deep South was not to persist. He pushed his butt back into me, and I responded by burrowing hard and deep. And then we did it again. And again. We were both in fever. I was plunging and he was backing into me, squeezing me as I withdrew. His chute was alive and hot and moist, perfectly forming to my heavy cock. The perfect receptor for my seed. I rolled him farther forward and moved my chest onto his back. I stretched my legs and stiffened, pushing as deeply as ever into him. I throbbed with impatience. And the involuntary spasms started that were God’s gift to man. His head turned and our lips connected. I pressed my chest harder into him and he rolled even more. And then I blasted, coating his inner walls with the milky paint of my seed—and my love. He spasmed over and over into my fist, filling it with his own essence. The aroma of cum, combined with our musk, rose and permeated the room. I pulled him into a deep spoon, dropped my chest onto his back and rested my head on his shoulder.
I guess my news could wait until tomorrow. Neither of us had a morning that needed anything more than each other. This evening was too perfect to spoil with news—however important.
*****
I knew all was well in the world when I woke the next morning. Trey had left me to sleep, showered and was puttering in the kitchen. I was stretched out on my back, arms and legs thrown out, filling the entire king, with the sheet wrapped haphazardly around, leaving me mostly naked. But, I could smell. It would be biscuits and gravy along with my favorite over-easy eggs.
I brushed, washed and brushed and headed to the kitchen which was on the other side of the living and dining rooms. He faced the range, stirring his gravy. What an image! He was apron-ed, but otherwise nude. His glorious ass was hanging in front of me, on display—and I was sure, “on offer.” The delicate bow of the apron ties dangled provocatively in his cleft, swinging back and forth as he danced before the pan.
He dropped the spatula in the pan, turned and embraced. “You sure slept well—and long.” Then he pecked me on the cheek and released and returned to the stove.
“How could I not with you in my arms? I nuzzled his neck and bit his ear lobe and my hands insinuated under the apron and grasped. He was soft and I was able to scoop both his shaft and sacs into my hand. They were treasure. So precious. So promising.
“No harassing the cook, dear boy. Din’t yo Momma teach yall nuttin? Go sit at the table, if ya knows what’s good for ya. I’ll bring it in.”
If I didn’t know that he had graduated MCL from ‘Bama in engineering, I’d guess he was a poor, barefoot plantation chil’. But I did know better. We often played the roles of ignorant, poor Southern boys—always ready to party, always ready to drink, always ready to fuck. But, we both knew it was play-acting. I was already a New Yorker, and he was fast becoming one. These domestic private moments were to cherish—before we each emerged into the aggressive life of any big city outside of this coop.
I moved obediently to our makeshift dining table—one of those formica-topped folding utility tables—and our four new wood chairs that I had found at Goodwill the previous Saturday. You should have seen Trey and me walking down Broadway balancing two each! They were heavy oak, carved in the Victorian style with vines, tendrils and gargoyles. They had hideous red velvet seats. They belonged in a haunted castle. My designer would be aghast. But hell, some of what we live with has to be fun or comfortable (or both) interspersed among the class modern pieces she had chosen for me (many of which I had yet to purchase).
Breakfast was, as usual a special treat. Trey was a good cook, and he loved down-home recipes.
I pushed my plate aside, dropped my elbows on the table (you should have seen his eyes at this transgression of manners!), and brought him up to date on Phantom. I had the audition that afternoon. Miller had txted me during last night’s performance. Trey was excited for me, and I could tell it was sincere.
He pushed his chair back, tore off the apron and beckoned me to his lap. In classic Peacock Club style, I straddled, facing him and wrapped my arms around the back of his chair, ready to give him a lap dance. I squirmed and swirled catching his dick in my cleft. Then I slid back and forth. He was rock hard and ready within seconds. He pulled me tight. Then he lifted and dropped me slowly onto his towering erection. We were apparently going to christen the new chairs. If we had tried this on our foldings, we’d be on the floor by now. Then he stretched out his legs and pushed deeply into my hole. He slid right in, filling and stretching me in that now-familiar way. I was amazed. “What did you use, Trey?”
“Just a bit of bacon fat that I hidden on the side of my plate. Nothing like old-fashioned bacon grease.”
It was perfect. I could immediately smell that special smell as our heat dissolved the fat. From that day, I would always link the smell of frying bacon with Trey taking my ass with his talented Southern dick.
It didn’t take long—again. This boy always knew how to turn me on. I rose and fell a few times, being sure to use his magic wand to bring my love nut to life. I felt his first spasm as my own began to shoot onto our chests. His fingers scooped it up before it could drip from his cum cuts, and he fed it to me—with just the extra taste of bacon. Another aroma-action-fuck pattern had been established. We had a book of them now.
You northerners wouldn’t understand the idea that every sense contributes to the ultimate pleasure of sex: the taste of food (or cum), the smell of musky aroma blended with flowers (and bacon-grease!), the touch of a rock hard pole on a receiving chute and bouquet of nerves. All of these permeate the brain of a Southern boy! There were so many reminders of sex in the world—smell, sight, taste, and feel. Is there any wonder that we’re uber-sexual? Eat your hearts out, New Englanders!