A gay story: This Ain't the Summer of Love It was the second week of summer, the summer between his junior and senior years of college, probably the last summer Brandon would ever be able to spend like this.
Perhaps, by this time next year, he would have found and accepted a full-time job, and be headed for a lifetime of working forty-eight or fifty weeks a year. And even if he chose grad school, he might well be relocating to a new city to get a head start on finding housing and part-time employment to pay his way.
No, this would be his last leisurely summer as a college student, living for free at home with his parents, working some but surrounded daily or nightly with equally care-free friends. He knew it, and appreciated it.
Already, he had settled into a comfortable and glorious routine. On mornings when it hadn’t rained or when the dew wasn’t too heavy, he mowed. The family owned a small tractor, an old Massey Ferguson with a mower attachment, and his father had been more than pleased to let him use it to earn easy money, grooming the spacious lawns of the big lakefront properties of the summer people from the city.
He could be done by early afternoon, while his friends continued to slave away in the hardware stores and feed mills and highway crews that offered short-term employment in the area. Home sometimes for an early dinner with his parents and younger brother; or at the very least, a short chat with his dad as the older man sipped a Scotch and soda in his recliner and watched the pre-primetime re-runs of M*A*S*H or Frazier.
Then he would head out to the football field at the high school to play ultimate frisbee, or over to his friend Mike’s house to play three-chord rock and roll and twelve-bar blues with the makeshift band that maybe, just maybe, would be ready to play a party before the end of the summer.
Then maybe a half-hour hanging out at the Tastee Fresh, watching the carloads of teens and young adults cruise through, flirting with the girls who were scooping the ice cream into paper sundae dishes.
(He didn’t date during the summers. The past two summers, he had been maintaining a long-distance relationship with a college girlfriend, but that had ended two months ago after she hooked up with someone else on her spring break trip. Just a week ago, during finals week, he had gone on a promising first date with a new girl, and he planned to ask her out again as soon as school resumed, but he was content to be romantically unattached for the summer.)
After ice cream, maybe pick up a single six-pack of beer and split it two or three ways while watching the stream flow over the old millworks by the city park. Not enough to get into trouble, although his parents would no doubt be asleep before he got home. Just a pleasant buzz to end another perfect day.
In the morning his father would already be at work when his alarm went off at seven. He would have a cup of coffee and talk for a while with his mother, who might have been writing letters to her sisters or preparing for a Bible study; and then by eight be firing up the tractor.
And after he finished his day’s work shortly after noon and put the mower in the barn, usually there was no one home to even ask where he was going or what he would be doing for the rest of the languorous afternoon.
Where he was going, usually, was the lakeside home of one of his customers, Roger Aaronson. Roger was a fifty-something English professor at a prestigious private college downstate that his family couldn’t have afforded even if Brandon had applied. But it was Roger’s second career as a novelist that paid for the expansive summer home with the 180 feet of lakefront.
Brandon had started cutting Roger’s lawn the previous summer, and they had become something like friends, or mentor-mentee. This summer, he had accepted the professor’s invitation to come over any time he wanted, to swim off his pier or sunbathe on the deck while the older man worked diligently in his study on his next book. Around three, Roger would come down, fix them each a single cocktail, and they would play backgammon and talk about film and current events and Brandon’s own hopes of becoming a writer.
And then Roger would take Brandon upstairs, to his bedroom with the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lake, and lay him down on the cool white 600-thread-count sheets, and fuck him in the ass.
***
He had figured it out the previous summer, when he first met Roger and began mowing his spacious lawn — that Roger was gay. Or bi, whatever. He had none of what Brandon thought of as the stereotypical “tells” of being gay. Other than perhaps a casual sense of style — linen shirts, topsiders, nice haircut. Mostly what Roger exuded was an air of competence and confidence.
And face it, Brandon had to tell himself. He was a little bit star-struck. He had never met a published author of this stature before, someone who wrote “literature” instead of textbooks; and someone who engaged him as worthy, intellectually, over the beer that he offered Brandon sometimes after mowing. Or at least, worthy of grooming.
That summer, he would mow Roger’s yard, and find himself feeling oddly jealous of the young women — college girls themselves, no doubt, or slightly older — who showed up in their convertibles in Roger’s driveway and sunned themselves on Roger’s deck before disappearing with Roger into the darkness of the house after the professor finished his writing around three o’clock.
“It is one of the perks,” Roger admitted, over one of those beers on an afternoon when he didn’t have company.
“So,” Brandon explored, boldly. “They drive all the way up here from the city?”
“Sometimes,” Roger replied. “Some years I find someone local to just hang out all summer and… enjoy my company.”
Brandon thought about that. He tried to picture some of the young women he knew, girls who had been three or four years older than him in school, wondering whether any of them had become the professor’s summer fling. Maybe, more likely, he thought, another one of the vacationing summer “lake people” up from the city.
“So… with local girls… where do you find them?”
“It’s more like they find me,” Roger shrugged. And then he added, casually, “And not just girls.”
And that is when the notion of being Roger’s summertime fucktoy had first, shockingly, occurred to him.
It was the fact that he was dating someone at school, that had stopped him from exploring this forbidden desire last summer. If it wasn’t for Megan, he realized at the time, he might have offered himself up last summer. It wasn’t like it would be cheating on her with another girl, a rival for her romantic affection, for her status as “girlfriend.” But, to Brandon, it would be sex. And so in March when Megan came back from her spring break trip, seeming oddly “off,” and eventually admitted that she had been with another guy in Florida… Brandon decided to let that relationship go.
He would get into another relationship. He had other girls in mind, he thought; girls that he had faithfully and loyally avoided flirting with too heavily. But first, he was going to scratch that itch that he had been suppressing. This summer, just for this summer, he was going to see what if felt like to be an accomplished man’s object of desire. Take the plunge into… getting plunged into…
***
Which is what was happening at the moment, this time with Brandon on his back, his legs up, knees hooked around Roger’s outstretched arms, looking down past the older man’s thick, silver-haired torso, at own penis and testicles bouncing rhythmically right above where Roger’s hard cock was smoothly and insistently pounding into him.
He was past the still-inevitable initial discomfort of the blunt penetration, and now all he could feel was the pleasant feeling of fullness and the incredible building sensation of ecstasy from where his mentor’s knob was massaging his prostate. Brandon had understood from reading that that gland was supposed to be a pleasure center, but he had never appreciated how exquisite it could feel in practice. He almost always achieved orgasm this way, whether on his back or his knees or his stomach, hands-free. And Roger certainly seemed to love that.
Brandon still insisted, during their pre- and post-coital conversations, that he wasn’t gay. Indeed, he had always and exclusively dated and had sex with young women, enjoyed being the masculine, assertive, penetrating partner in sex; and he had every intention to return to that paradigm once school started again, and beyond. This was a short-term, exploratory thing, that he was enjoying precisely because it was something you did when you were young that would never happen again, like backpacking through Europe.
Roger always shrugged at those protestations, telling the younger man that it was not uncommon, that the term was “bisexual,” (and that indeed was what Roger considered himself). He also assured him that regardless, the city was full of married men who identified as strictly heterosexual but secretly engaged in at least fellatio on a regular basis. It was just sex, the professor argued. Just a pleasurable activity, a hobby, like ultimate frisbee or playing in a garage band. It didn’t define who you were.
Brandon still wasn’t sure. The whole issue and discussion crashed into his mind like waves on a rocky shore, then receded just as quickly. Conscious thought could not gain purchase in his brain that was responding to the increasingly urgent pulsations of pleasure racing up his spine, because right now, he was getting fucked. He closed his eyes, and felt them rolling up into his head. He blindly reached up to grip the older man’s shoulders, bracing himself against the onslaught. Roger was not a big man. He was more stout than Brandon, thicker, both in the upper body and between his legs, but he wasn’t as tall. He was a middle-aged academic, for crying out loud, not some hulking brutish bear; but he was insistent, especially when in pursuit of an orgasm.
As he was now.
Brandon bit his lower lip. At the moment, he could have done with some more lube, but he sensed that Roger was past that point. The friction against his tautly-stretched anal ring was becoming like an itch, an itch that needed scratching, more scratching. More scratching. Should stop scratching. Can’t stop scratching. Can’t stop. Can’t stop. Gotta stop. Gotta stop. Can’t can’t can’t can’t… and then suddenly his orgasm shot up his spinal cord and exploded like a mushroom cloud filling his cranium, his penis spurting warm gooey liquid onto his flat hairless stomach, even as he sensed Roger enjoying his own moment of ecstasy, finally plunging into him to maximum depth and then holding there, depositing his own generous serving of semen into Brandon’s bowels.
***
Afterwards, Brandon felt awash in guilt and shame, as he still did, every time. Of course, he wasn’t that far removed from the years in which he always felt guilt after merely masturbating. It was the way he was raised. Sex is good, his mother had told him, it is a gift from God; but only to be experienced within the bonds of matrimony with the one and only woman that Jesus has picked out for you. She had taught him that masturbation was shameful. What would she think of her boy being on his back with his legs around a man older than his father, letting that man use his tight, hidden little orifice that God had designed solely for eliminating waste, to plunder it with a fat, terrible organ, thrusting in blind animalistic pursuit of his own unholy pleasure?
Jesus would not approve, Brandon knew. His mom would sure as hell not.
But that was part of why the remorse afterwards was so intense and overwhelming, that it merged with, became part of, his orgasm. It washed over him, pushed him up against the rocks and then drew him back out to a turbulent and dangerous sea, pulling him under, drowning him; until all he could do was reach out and cling to the man who was in the maelstrom with him, the man who had put him there, the only being who could rescue him or take him down to the bottom, it didn’t matter which. His savior and his doom.
Afterwards, his savior and his doom brought him a Diet Coke. Brandon sat up against the headboard, blissfully disregardful of his own nakedness, intensely alive. And intensely aware, oddly enough, of the nakedness of the older man, his mentor, his lover, moving casually around the room. His torso, thick and sprinkled with graying hair; his ass, pale and small compared to his back and slightly sagging; his cock, thick and still moist, swinging gently between his thighs.
Most days they lingered like this for a short while. Only the first time had Brandon recoiled in horror after their mutual orgasms were complete, tried to hide his face while dressing blindly and stumbling to the floor with both ankles down one pants leg. Roger had sat on the floor beside him, reassuring him with his presence, not yet trying to convict him with his intellect. And now, a week later, the afterglow was as comfortable to Brandon, as the fucking was irresistible.
“So, what is it tonight?” Roger was asking him, taking a seat at the foot of the bed where Brandon sat, naked and happily vulnerable. “Frisbee, or band practice?”
“Frisbee tonight,” Brandon replied. “Not back to Mike’s until Thursday.”
Roger stretched out across the bottom of the bed, supporting his head with one crooked arm. He reached out with his other and stroked Brandon’s calves. Brandon watched the older man moving, casually, languidly. He had a bit of a belly, not much, but enough to pull his navel and the column of whorls of silver hair down toward the bed, off-center, as he lay on his side. Below his belly-button, Roger’s ample treasure trail tapered down toward his crotch, abruptly stopping at the point where he evidently shaved his pubic mound. Brandon figured that that made his mentor’s cock look bigger.
It looked plenty big now, in repose, but still full of latent power, hanging down over the top of his thigh, pushed forward by the similarly-shaven and equally potent scrotum below it. Roger’s cock was not much different than his own when they were both erect, Brandon thought; but he liked the idea of his mentor, his top, being bigger than him. It felt natural. Brandon realized he was biting his lip, and his own penis was stirring again.
Roger’s hand was stroking over the fine hairs on Brandon’s lower leg. “You ever think about shaving?”
“Shaving what?” Brandon asked, warily. “My legs?”
“Well, everything,” the older man replied.
“No…” Brandon replied, uncertainly. “Why?”
“I just think you would look magnificent,” Roger replied. “You have such a nice body. And it’s not at all hairy as it is. But completely bare…”
“You want me to look like a girl?”
“No.”
“Like a teenaged boy?”
“Not at all,” Roger answered. “Like a healthy young man, who prepares himself for sex.”
“I don’t think so,” Brandon said, his voice shaking a bit.
“I think you’d find it very enjoyable,” Roger assured him. “All the more sensitive.”
“Yeah, um, I really don’t think so,” Brandon repeated.
“Really?” Roger raised an eyebrow. “Your penis seems to disagree.”
And at that point, Brandon looked down and saw that his prick was indeed standing upright against his belly.
***
And that’s how it came to pass, that the next afternoon, by a quarter after three, Brandon found himself sitting naked, his bare bottom on the hard surface of Roger’s bathroom vanity, knees at his chest as his partner stood between his legs and carefully drew a razor down his shins. Brandon’s penis was rock hard, curving up to touch his belly. The older man was concentrating on his work; also naked, his manhood hanging semi-flaccid.
Brandon’s chest and even his underarms were already bare and tingling. Soon his legs would be the same, from his thighs to his ankles. And he knew that after that, he was going to submit to having his older neighbor removing the bush above his penis, and then tracing that razor around the delicate contours of his scrotum.
Brandon had spent the previous 24 hours thinking about what a bad idea this was. Shaving his body — being shaved — well, that was a chilling prospect.
“My parents will notice,” he had protested. “What will I tell them?”
“Swimmers shave. Tell them you’re going out for intramural swimming this year,” Roger suggested.
“There’s, um… no such thing as intramural swimming.”
“Do your parents know that?”
Brandon swallowed. “But what about my friends?”
“Tell them, it’s for your kinky new girlfriend at school.”
Brandon wasn’t sure. But he was powerless to remove himself from the situation. And some small corner of his mind was finding it exciting to contemplate being asked; giving his scripted dishonest answer, being reviewed with skepticism. What would people think, wonder, suspect? The truth was unimaginable.
Fifteen minutes later he was completely shorn, hairless from his ears to his toes, his legs wrapped once again around the thick torso of the older man who had denuded him and then penetrated him.
As always — well, always was a relative term; he had been fucked at this point less than ten times in his life — but as usual, the sensation of fullness, completeness, as well as the exquisite massage of his prostate, had him helpless and trembling. But he was aware of something else.
Maybe it had always been this way, but he was intensely aware of Roger’s hands all over him. Moving purposefully up and down his legs, over his thighs, caressing his knees, lingering on his suddenly-smooth shins, back up the undersides of his tingling calves. Flattening themselves on his chest, now barren of even its little wisps of hair, grasping at the flesh there as if trying to gather up enough to fill an AA-cup bra.
He could tell from the way Roger’s hands were moving on his body, in addition to the rigor of his thrusting, that the older man was very much enjoying his body, even more than in the past. And that made him happy, and excited. He knew that his attraction to the older man was largely a matter of being star-struck. A published author, famous even, found him interesting and alluring; had even called him his “muse.” It was rewarding to be able to give such an accomplished man pleasure. And not just the pleasure of grinding a cock into his tight lubricated little asshole until the older man filled his intestines with his pulsing jism. Roger had wanted to shave him, so he had given him that pleasure, too.
And then Roger pressed his lips to Brandon’s. Brandon’s eyes popped open — he hadn’t realized they were closed — and his mouth opened, too, mostly in surprise. Which Roger took as an invitation. And then Brandon had a man’s tongue in his mouth.
For almost two weeks, Brandon had been coming to Roger’s house to allow the older man to push his manhood up inside his own body and rub it back and forth until they both had orgasms. But they had never kissed, and never talked about it. Roger often assuaged Brandon’s concerns with assurances that their encounters were just sex, and sex was just an activity, like a form of exercise, and certainly not something that defined who you were.
Kissing, though… kissing was something that Brandon associated with romance, with love, and of course with girls. No matter how good Roger’s hands felt on his body, or how very very good Roger’s cock felt in his rectum, he had never felt a desire to kiss Roger. And he still didn’t now.
But he was kissing him. He realized that when Roger, apparently noticing his reticence, pulled out of the kiss and looked meaningfully into his panic-stricken eyes. Then kissed him again. And this time, Brandon accepted it, and responded in kind, even as the older man’s tongue began exploring his mouth with a firmness and an aggressiveness that he had never experienced in a kiss with a girl, as the recipient or as the penetrating partner.
He kept accepting Roger’s tongue right up through the moment when Roger went rigid inside him and held still, except for the throbbing of his cock as it pumped him full of semen. And then, his ass full of cock and his mouth full of tongue, Brandon was cumming too.
Afterwards, lying side by side on their backs, Roger apparently noticed Brandon’s state of discomfort.
“You okay?” he prompted.
“Yeah.”
“You’re… um… thinking about the kiss.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s sexual attraction,” Roger assured him. “Not romance.”
“It just feels…”
“Gay?” Roger finished for him, softly, after a pause.. Brandon nodded, feeling shameful.
“Don’t be so stuck on labels. If you need a term to define your sexual inclination, try ‘submissive.'”
“Submissive?”
“You’re a pleaser, Brandon. But you also seem to enjoy… letting go. Surrendering.”
Brandon swallowed hard. His penis was hard again.
***
By the time he got home that evening, his mind was elsewhere.
“Brandon… did you shave your legs?” his mother exclaimed.
Brandon froze for a second, then remembered his answer. “Uh, yeah. I’m going to go out for intermural swimming this fall. Just, uh, getting used to it.”
His mom looked skeptical, but his father just shrugged. “Like Michael Phelps?” he asked.
Brandon exhaled with relief. “Yeah, like Michael Phelps.”
His father went back to his newspaper, and his mother just shook her head but didn’t pursue it.
***
Two weeks went by. Brandon only missed a couple of weekday afternoons at Roger’s house. Weekends, of course, they both had other plans; or at least, Roger never expressed any expectation that Brandon might visit on a Saturday or Sunday.
It was a Tuesday afternoon, after swimming, after the gin and tonic and a game of chess. They were in Roger’s sun-splashed bedroom, and this afternoon, Brandon was riding his mentor, letting the older man lay back and relax while he did the work, balancing himself with his hands on Roger’s slightly-furry stomach while he eased himself up and down on the thick cock that was up inside him, shoving his bowels up into his stomach.
Roger’s hands, as always now, were slowly moving over every inch of Brandon’s slender legs and torso that he could reach. He was shaving the young man at least twice a week now. It was easier now, and it had become foreplay; something that Roger did while becoming and remaining completely erect, their cocks occasionally colliding while he worked. Today Roger had gone ahead and penetrated Brandon right there on the bathroom vanity, cupping Brandon’s ass while Brandon braced himself against the countertop, then wrapped his arms around Roger’s neck and just went along for the ride. And so Roger had simply picked him up, still buried up inside him, and carried him to the bed.
Now he was just lying on his back, enjoying the show and the tactile sensations, watching the boy’s slim pink erection bounce from side to side, running his hands down Brandon’s smooth thighs. His thighs were two-toned, Brandon observed, not for the first time. He spent enough time sunning, as well as mowing, with his shirt off, that his upper body was all the same bronze color as his forearms; but the abrupt pale white tan line that began at his hipbones went halfway down his thighs before turning brown again.
“You’re getting quite a farmers’ tan there,” Roger commented.
Brandon, who had been trying to find his prostate with the blunt instrument that was squishing around in him, stopped his riding for a second, and looked down at his legs. And shrugged. “Yeah, that’s kind of an occupational hazard around here.”
“You would look so much better with more of a swimsuit tan line,” Roger mused.
Brandon furrowed his brow, but also felt his penis twitch. He could tell Roger was objectifying him, projecting an image onto him that he found… objectionable. But kind of exciting.
“Yeah, well, I guess it’s a little late for that.”
“Not really,” Roger said. “You’ve always used sunscreen to prevent yourself from burning. You don’t remember when we used baby oil to speed up the tanning process.”
“Huh,” Brandon replied. He already had a sense where this was going. Later, after Roger had filled him with semen and he had spurted his own contribution onto Roger’s stomach, Roger led him into a spare bedroom he had never entered.
The walls were covered with framed black-and-white photographs of naked young men, posed artistically, relaxed, often shot from behind, looking over balcony railings or reclining on sofas. Their chests and backs and thighs dark from the sun, their buns shockingly white, the tan lines suggesting Speedo swimsuits or even high-waisted bikini bottoms.
Brandon knew without asking who they were, but he asked anyway. “Are these all your boyfriends?”
“Not boyfriends,” Roger corrected. “Friends. Playmates.” Brandon felt his penis stiffening again, already. He didn’t have to ask. He was already picturing himself in one of those frames.
The next afternoon, Roger gave him a package, a gift to unwrap. It was a tiny swimsuit, a stretchy little bit of fabric, not a Speedo but a similar brand. He put it on, after letting Roger rub baby oil over his upper thighs and his lower torso. Then he went out to lie in the sun for a couple of hours while Roger returned to his study.
He thought about the young men in the photos in Roger’s spare bedroom. He looked down at his swimsuit, the waistband stretched tightly across the oiled flesh of his stomach, around his hips at their widest point. He felt his cock stiffening, and he pushed it sideways to keep in inside the fabric. He bit his lip, and then tugged up on the sides of the suit, so that the narrow elastic bands arched high over his hipbones.
It took about a week for the tan on his lower belly and his upper thighs to catch up with the rest of his body. Of course, Brandon was never anywhere where anyone else could see the shocking evidence that he was sunning himself in a tiny little swimsuit, to even let them suspect that he was doing it to make himself more sexually desirable to a middle-aged man.
One afternoon the following week, it rained all afternoon. Brandon sat inside and read while Roger diligently finished his day’s worth of writing. Later, in Roger’s bed, Brandon took notice of how dark it was. He had never been with Roger in anything but full scandalous daylight.
As Roger laid him on his back, and hoisted his legs up over his shoulders, Brandon was transfixed by the contrast. In the near-twilight of the thunderstorm, the entire room seemed to exist in shades of black, white and gray, like the artistic photographs in the other room.
Roger’s body was a medium, silver-gray. Brandon’s own body was darker, almost gun metal. Except for that tiny, two- to three-inch band of white, between the tops of his thighs and his lower belly, arching up over his hipbones. His pale slender penis rose up from his cleanly-shaved pubis, while Roger’s thicker cock disappeared down below the pallid orbs of his testicles, and pushed into him.
Roger seemed excited, or at least, more intense than usual. Brandon could surmise why. He had let Roger turn him into one of those naked young twinks, one of his sexual playthings. He had acquiesced to the transformation, to please Roger, and, yes, because the acquiescence, the submission, was incredibly arousing to himself.
As Roger looked down at him, studied him, confirming that he had adjusted to the penetration and it was now time to begin fucking in earnest, Brandon realized that he was excited, too. Very excited.
Too excited. Before he knew it was happening, Brandon felt his orgasm racking his body, making his penis jerk spasmically between their two sweaty stomachs, spitting silver streams of semen up his naked belly and chest.
Roger stopped thrusting and chuckled. Brandon’s own chuckle was mixed with a whimper. The author held his weight on one hand and reached down with the other and scooped up a dollop of the sticky stuff, then offered his fingers to Brandon. Brandon had sampled his own semen out of curiosity before, and hadn’t liked it; but since it was Roger offering, he opened his mouth and sucked the slimy substance off the older man’s fingers.
He didn’t like it this time, either. The bitter and sour taste buds in the back of his mouth protested; and the rest of his tongue rejected the texture on principle. But it was Roger, and Roger seemed to have been gratified by his acceptance. The older man was fucking him again now, even more vigorously, reaching one forearm around behind his back to clutch their upper bodies together.
Roger’s mouth sought out Brandon’s, and Brandon opened his lips, not so much willingly, but rather as if he had no choice in the matter. He wrapped his arms around the older man’s shoulders, locked his ankles behind those taut thrusting thighs. We are making the beast with two backs, he thought, recalling his Shakespeare. That made Roger Othello, and he was Desdemona. The image should have stopped him in his tracks, but it didn’t. When it came to satisfying Roger’s lust, Brandon realized he would be a twink. He would be a woman.
The problem was, he was too far post-orgasm. In the absence of sexual arousal, his body was not accepting the onslaught as it usually did. Roger’s thrusting felt more like an assault than a powerful internal massage; the friction in his anus felt sharp and unpleasant. His usual moans became groans.
Roger must have noticed, and understood. He stopped thrusting, and gently pulled himself out of the young man and laid back beside him.
“Sorry,” Brandon gasped.
“Nonsense,” Roger replied. “It happens. I loved making you cum so quickly.”
“Yeah,” Brandon nodded, agreeing that that had been pretty powerful.
He looked over at his older partner. Roger was lying on his side, up on one elbow, his slight belly drawn down toward the bed, the way it did when he lay this way. But normally when he lay this way, his cock was lying, spent, on his thigh. At the moment it was still standing upright, thick and veiny and glistening.
Brandon sat up, then shifted onto his knees. He was suddenly transfixed by Roger’s phallus, which had so recently been shoving its way up inside him.
It wasn’t like he had never taken Roger’s penis into his mouth before. He certainly had; but it had always been foreplay. From the outset, Roger had made it clear what he wanted, physically, and that had been the penetration and sloppy friction inside Brandon’s tight young ass.
Brandon nudged Roger to get him to roll over on his back, and then he moved himself between the older man’s thighs. Roger’s penis, which had never lost any of its thickness, was becoming longer and more rigid, reaching straight up his stomach from the two egg-sized testicles in his wrinkled lopsided scrotum.
He reached out with one hand, closed it gently around the shaft of the tool that gave him so much discomfort and pleasure, pulled up it upright. He half expected his mentor to stop him, to say, “That’s okay, Brandon, you don’t have to…” But instead, all he felt was the older man’s hand in his hair, encouraging him, guiding him down, accepting what was his due.
Roger’s cock was sticky, with drying lube and, Brandon realized with a nauseating thrill, the mucus from his own intestinal tract. There was no fecal matter that he could see, but the slight, sickeningly sweet aroma of something like spoiled meat filled his nostrils. And then it filled his mouth, as he licked up the underside of Roger’s shaft with one slow motion, tongue flattened on either side of Roger’s frenulum, gathering up the maximum amount of sticky goo; then as he parted his lips and slid them around the swollen knob.
This was so nasty, so wrong. But Roger wasn’t stopping him. Roger seemed to expect it. Brandon thought about how he had never even had anal sex with his longtime girlfriend Megan. He would have liked to try it, but wasn’t going to push. And at any rate, he would never have expected her to go down on him afterwards, to suck on the penis that had been in her fetid rectum. It was humiliating. It was disgusting. It was exhilarating.
And then Roger was tensing his hips, pulsing in his hand, and filling his mouth with the slimy texture and the metallic-and-chlorine taste of his semen.
Afterwards, Brandon leaned back against the pillow shams of Roger’s bed, and listened to the steady rain that had followed the thunderstorm, while Roger ambled off downstairs, comfortably naked, to fix them both another drink.
When he returned, Brandon received the glass and took a tiny sip, simultaneously relieved and reluctant to eradicate the lingering taste in his mouth.
Roger was sipping his own drink and watching him intently, studying him, reading his mind. He felt a strange, sudden surge of something like… gratitude, as though he should be thanking his mentor for cumming in his mouth. He wasn’t ready to get hard again, but the disturbing thought sparked some kind of arousal below his gut.
Brandon realized that Roger hadn’t asked him to take that rectum-slickened member between his lips and suck it until he got six shots of semen added to the bitter cocktail in his mouth. But he had felt compelled to do it nonetheless.
“You like it?” Roger asked.
Brandon lowered his eyes and felt himself blushing. “Yes…”
Roger paused for a moment and then laughed. “The drink, Brandon,” he said. “What did you think I was talking about?”
Brandon blushed harder.
“Sucking me after I’d been in your ass?”
Brandon just nodded. Then he ventured, “Did you?”
“Of course I did. I loved that you did it without being… asked.”
Or told, Brandon thought, imagining how he might have swooned if Roger had been that dominant toward him.
“It’s not about making you do what I want, you know,” Roger was continuing “It’s more, really, enjoying watching you figure out what you really want.”
“And what do I really want?” Brandon asked, because he felt like Roger knew the answer to that question better than he did.
“You want to let go, don’t you?” Roger offered. “You want to see what happens, when you take a risk, and surrender control.”
***
“That was some storm this afternoon,” Mike was saying.
The rain had passed and the skies had cleared, dropping the temperature and leaving a glorious mid-summer evening, perfect for playing frisbee. Instead, Brandon and his friend were sitting on the hood of Mike’s car in the high school parking lot, watching the marching band — or, more precisely, the girls in the flag corps — practice.
“Yeah, it sure was,” Brandon agreed.
“So where were you during it?”
“What?” Brandon had a flash of panic, realizing that he really had no story easily at hand.
“I mean, they sent us home early, so I ran by your house, but no one was home. I figure you weren’t mowing.”
“No, well…”
Mike wasn’t being accusatory or anything, just puzzled. “Not the first time, buddy. You got somethin’ going on in the afternoons?”
Brandon was floundering, imagining what his friend might be thinking, imagining, guessing. Guessing that he had been spending his afternoons this summer getting fucked in the ass.
“C’mon, you can tell me. You fuckin’ one of those rich city women?”
Brandon grinned, grateful for the way out. Of course. Who would assume that his afternoons were occupied with being a fuckboy for a middle-aged man? That would require skipping right past the possibility of a classic, illicit heterosexual affair, one that had to be conducted clandestinely in the middle of the workday. Of course Mike would land there first. He decided to lean into it.
“Yeah. Busted.”
“No shit!?” Mike exclaimed, impressed. “So, tell me… who is it?”
Brandon just shook his head.
“Ah, man, this is killin’ me,” Mike groaned. “I mean… oh, damn, she’s married, isn’t she?”
Brandon was starting to enjoy milking this. He just grinned and shrugged.
“You STUD!” Mike laughed, extending his closed hand for a fist-bump.
Brandon sipped his beer and thought to himself, this is probably a good thing. He should probably encourage Mike to let this little rumor circulate a bit. Make sure that his buddies were all thinking of him as a virile, ultra-hetero lothario who was banging older women.
If only Mike knew the truth, he shuddered. Hell, what if Mike could only just see him naked now, if for some reason they ended up in a public shower — shaved bare, a bronze tan all the way up his thighs to his hipbones.
He imagined his friend would be shocked. Then it occurred to him… what if instead of being disgusted, Mike was aroused?
For the first time ever, he allowed himself to actually think of his best friend in sexual terms.
He gulped, and glanced down at his own crotch, terrified that he might be sporting an inexplicable boner in front of Mike. Nope. Nothing.
He felt a shiver of relief. Thank goodness. Evidence that he wasn’t turning gay.
Maybe it had to be Roger. Maybe it just had to be a man who wanted him, who wanted to coax him along, take advantage of him. Use him. He took another swig of beer. Maybe that was okay.
***
Another quiet afternoon. The Miles Davis album had played itself out, and the turntable had gone silent. The whir of the air conditioning, the squeaking of the bedsprings, and Brandon’s erratic, high-pitched were grunts the only sounds in Roger’s spacious bedroom, while the parallelograms of sunlight from his sliding glass doors advanced across the floor toward the queen-sized bed where Brandon was on his knees and shoulders, face down, ass up, as the professor grasped him by the hips and plowed into him.
And then he wasn’t face down any more. Suddenly he felt one of Roger’s hands gathering up the hair on the back of his head into a fist, pulling him up and backwards, bending his neck and lifting first his chin and then even his shoulders off the bed.
Oh my, Brandon thought. He didn’t find the action painful, but he did find it slightly threatening, and also erotic. Roger was often direct and forceful with him, but he had never done this before. Of course, Brandon hadn’t had a haircut all summer; perhaps this was just the first time it had been long enough.
With his back arched this severely, Brandon did indeed feel the older man’s cock filling him in a way that was new and different, pushing into him as deeply as ever but from a unique angle. He liked it. He also felt more helpless than usual. He liked that, too.
He heard the smack of Roger’s right palm on his butt cheek a nanosecond before the shocking sting of it fully registered with him. Roger had spanked him before, too, but never quite that hard. He could feel the blood vessels and the nerve endings in his bottom pulsating with aftershocks. He was also sure that he was clenching harder, now, with his sphincter gripping the muscle-like shaft full of sensations that Roger was rifling up into him with.
His brain alive with the sudden awareness of different parts of his body, Brandon felt himself surrendering himself to an orgasm that had come upon him unexpectedly quickly. He tried to fight it off because he didn’t want to become spent and then sore before his mentor had finished enjoying him, but it was no use.
Fortunately, the rhythmic contraction throughout Brandon’s pelvic region was all it took to trigger the same reaction in the man on top of him, and almost as soon as he was aware that he was smearing the pool of his own semen into a sticky mess across his stomach and Roger’s 600-thread-count sheets, he could also feel the older man throbbing inside him, adding another layer of his viscous ejaculate to the walls of his intestines.
Brandon became aware that it was only after Roger’s orgasm had receded, that the author had released his grip on the fistful of his hair; allowed Brandon to go prone, and then followed him down, covering his entire back with his sweat-slickened chest. Brandon could feel the side of the shorter man’s face on his shoulders, and the heavy swell of his belly in the small of his back. Brandon flexed his glute muscles, and felt how that was enough to lift his partner’s pelvis and cause his dwindling penis to pull out of him.
He had been doing exercises to build up those muscles for two weeks, exercises he had looked up online specifically to give himself more of a bubble butt, to be more attractive sexually to the man who had just taken him for, what, maybe the thirtieth time this summer? He wondered if Roger had been able to see the difference. He suddenly felt very pleased with himself, in spite of his position, in spite of the sensation of lube and semen oozing out of his rectum and down over the back of his scrotum. Or because of it.
A couple of minutes ago, with Roger bending him in two backwards by the hair and slapping his flank, he had felt like a wild pony being broken. At the moment, he wondered who had broken whom.
Roger rolled off of him, and tousled his hair. “You’re letting this grow out?” he commented.
“Uh huh,” Brandon replied. “Is that okay?”
“Okay?” Roger asked with a chuckle. “You don’t need my approval.”
“I know,” Brandon huffed. The thing is, he wanted Roger’s approval. Or rather, Roger’s lustful appreciation.
“Sure, I like it,” the older man said. “Gives you kind of a surfer dude look.”
“I was actually going more for Argentinian mid-fielder,” Brandon joked. “But I’ll take that.” It was true. He certainly wasn’t trying to cultivate a feminine appeal, and he didn’t think that was Roger’s thing, anyway, based on the photographs in the next room. Roger seemed to like young men, not t-girls. And more than anything, he wanted Roger to like him. He wanted to be the object of Roger’s lust.
He wanted to be in one of those photographs. He wanted to be Roger’s favorite memory.
Then he felt Roger’s hand cupping one of his buttocks, which he hoped were noticeably more muscular since he had begun his exercises.
“Mmm,” Brandon murmured. “I like that.”
“Me too,” Roger hummed. “You’ve been working on them?”
“Mm hmmm,” Brandon acknowledged, feeling both pleased and a tad embarrassed.
“Nice,” was all Roger said, his hand moving in circles around Brandon’s right cheek, grasping and releasing.
“I want to be in one of your photographs,” Brandon blurted out.
“I’d like that, too,” Roger replied. “By the end of the summer, we’ll do a photo shoot.”
Brandon smiled. He liked the idea of five more weeks to work on his glutes before Roger took the pictures that memorialized him for all future visitors as this summer’s fucktoy. He assumed Roger was thinking the same thing. Wasn’t he? Or did he have yet something else up his sleeve?
“What do you have in mind next for me, Roger?” he asked, his own voice sounding… coy, even coquettish.
“Oh, I can think of a couple of things,” the older man replied.
Brandon felt a shiver run down his spine. Roger kept assuring him that he didn’t care about labels or stereotypes; but the cliches were running through his mind anyway. Twink. Femboy. Sissy. Crossdresser. God, how far was he willing to go?
“I’m not trying to turn you into anything,” Roger said, reading his mind again. “The thing I’m enjoying is helping you find the limits of your comfort zone. And then helping you go a little bit further.”
Brandon bit his lip as he considered that. He wondered what the professor had in mind next. Whatever it was, he was sure he would have reservations about it, and then get over them. And at any rate, as Roger kept saying, the sexual things they had been doing — the casual nudity, the kissing, the ass-to-mouth fellatio — were an activity, a hobby, not anything that defined him.
The physical changes in which he had acquiesced were temporary as well. The body hair would grow back. The tan would fade. Even the effects of the workouts to develop what he once would have considered a feminine derriere would dissipate once he stopped exercising. Eventually this intense but inconsequential summer would be nothing but a memory. He sighed, and let Roger kiss him.
***
That fall, back at school, Brandon found himself fitting more or less seamlessly back into his comfortable milieu.
He was sharing a house off campus with two friends, so no longer sharing a dormitory shower room with sixty guys. Classes were, at this point, almost easy. He returned to enjoying all his regular extra-curricular activities — in the fall, that was flag football, ultimate frisbee, and playing his guitar on the roof outside his room’s little dormer window. And he eventually added a couple of new hobbies.
His renewed relationship with the girl he had asked out back during spring finals week went quite well, for a while. Until it didn’t.
She had liked running her fingers through his longish, wavy hair, which he was now wearing in more of a grunge look.
Later, as they became more intimate, she had found his smooth, lithe hairless body and legs to be quite acceptable; even something of a turn-on, she admitted.
She didn’t object to his provocative tan lines, immediately. But once they finally got completely naked together, he found that she just couldn’t accept the delicate scrollwork of the tramp stamp tattoo across the small of his back.
Oh well.
The bears at the gay bars down by the warehouse district liked it.