Jack and I took Viagra that day. Once we had both come inside him, it took just a short while to rouse ourselves back to a state of excitement. Jared lay back across the bed and we fucked him long and slow from both ends, taking it in turn to pillage his mouth and anus. His butt smelled strongly of spunk as we churned. He farted afterward, spurting the white gunk onto our sheets. He spread his legs wide and we scooped the come back into his hole. Afterward we lifted him into the bath and pissed all over him. He turned his face into the amber streams, opening his mouth, bathing in the shower. The boy smiled and piss poured from the corners of his mouth.

  Our afternoons with Jared became an odyssey as we explored the limits of his body. The boy was never anything more than passive. He rarely got hard as we delved into his ass, and he never ejaculated. We put everything imaginable up his ass: toys, snooker balls, food. We gave him enemas of beer and milk and applauded the spectacular fountains that erupted from his hole. Once, with several loads of come inside him, he squatted and dumped the hot white stuff into a bowl, before pouring the butt-fermented spunk down his throat. Nothing was too much for him. He had no limits. Each day when we were done with him, he asked when he could come back. “Not another week,” he complained, “that’s too long. Can’t I come over tomorrow?” I refused to acquiesce to his demands and kept a minimum of seven days between our meetings.

  If he had another man on the go during that time, he didn’t mention it and we didn’t ask. On reflection we knew very little about him. He went to college but where he came from was a mystery. He didn’t talk about friends or interests. He didn’t talk about anything except the things he wanted us to do to him.

  After a couple of months I began to lose interest. Despite the wild experiments, sex with him became routine. His passivity was predictable, boring. If he displayed any passion, any physical response to the things we did, it might have been different. But he took it all without comment or reaction.

  I began to spank him, with my hand at first until I bought a flat leather paddle to use on his smooth white flesh. I used it hard, beating his rump until it smarted. The boy made all the right noises, gasping, crying, though I noticed there were no tears in his eyes. His reaction, like every other, was artifice.

  “Same time next week?” he asked. “You gonna pick me up at the usual place?”

  We were in my car, just the two of us, as I delivered him to the bus stop. He had a hand on the door, ready to bound off.

  “No,” I said at last. “Next week won’t do.”

  His pretty face fell. “The week after then?”

  “I don’t think so. I think it’s time we took a break.”

  “What?” his bottom lips thrust forward. “Don’t you want me?”

  The answer was no, but I broke it to him gently. “Jack and I are a couple. For the sake of our own relationship, we can’t keep doing this. I’m sorry, Jared. It’s not your fault, but you have to respect what we have. I’m afraid it’s over.”

  It wasn’t over. His messages, via email and text, continued. He sent photos of himself and short films recorded on his webcam. I deleted each message without response. The only way he would get the message was to cease all contact. After a while the frequency of his messages began to dwindle. Jack and I returned to a monogamous kind of normality. We didn’t feel the need to prove our manliness or desirability by having sex with much younger guys. I continued to feel uneasy about the affair. I wasn’t proud but in time I began to forget. It was easy to pretend it never happened.

  Until the doorbell rang one Saturday evening in March. Jack was making dinner while I worked on my laptop in the study. The bell rang insistently, quickly followed by a rapid hammering. I knew it was Jared before I answered.

  He swayed on the doorstep when I answered.

  “Hey man,” he pushed straight through into the living room. “Where’ve you been? I’ve been waiting for you.”

  He smelled of beer. But there was more to his behavior than alcohol. He was completely out of it. His pupils were black holes, his expression crazed and distant. He shucked his jacket off onto a chair and began to hitch his T-shirt over his head. His body was noticeably thinner than before. He’d lost muscle tone and his rib cage was painfully visible. I noticed a profusion of white stains on his pants.

  “What are you doing?” I asked. Jack came through from the kitchen, his face stony.

  The boy laughed, a sharp, hysterical sound. “I’m here to get laid,” he drawled, unbuckling his belt. “Come on guys, do me! Do me right fucking now! Fuck my ass.”

  “I don’t think so,” I picked up the clothes he had discarded and threw them back at him.

  “Come on. You want me. You always want me. My ass is good, good and nasty. I got a butt load of come in there. Nice and sloppy for you.”

  I stared at him, appalled, as he shucked his jeans down his skinny legs. His cock was a worm in an unruly nest of pubes, white and wasted. He came over to me, grabbed my hand and forced it onto his dick. It was cold and lifeless. I recoiled.

  “What are you on, you idiot?”

  He giggled and turned to Jack. “You wanna fuck me, don’t you Daddy?”

  “No. Get out.” Jack’s tone was uncompromising. It seemed to get through to the boy’s addled mind. Jared’s face slackened. He wavered in the middle of room. I thought for a moment that he was going to puke.

  I offered to drive him home.

  “Home,” he repeated, and the word seemed to have no meaning on his lips. “Fuck you, you pair of cunts.” He pulled his pants up, struggling with the fastenings. “If you don’t wanna fuck me there are plenty of guys who do. Hundreds of guys.” He retrieved his T-shirt and jacket and cursed us as he dressed.

  I stepped aside as he staggered to the door. I looked at Jack. “We can’t let him go out, not like that.”

  Jack shrugged. Jared had already gone. “He got himself into that state; he can get himself out of it.”

  Outside there was no sign of the boy. I searched the street in both directions but he had vanished. As I returned to the house and locked the door, I hoped, a little guiltily, that he was gone for good.

  FRAZZLED

  Trebor Healey

  Stan liked sunbathing nude at the gay beach on Sauvie Island, where he could usually get some action and also enjoy a day of reading and sun with his significant other, a schnauzer named Frazzles.

  He’d been in Portland for five years, having escaped a decade of debauchery, alcoholism, and misery in Dallas, his birthplace and the home of his ex-wife, who’d divorced him two years into the spiraling debauch when he’d given her a case of crabs picked up from a Mexican truck driver.

  He hadn’t made the same mistake with men that he had with women. He kept it all very impersonal. Besides, he had Frazzles, who’d been with him through his Portland years. Frazzles had learned to spot Stan’s type, and barked vociferously if Stan happened to be dozing off or looking in the wrong direction when one entered his cruising space.

  Thus the generic blond stud now approaching was a given to receive Frazzles’s summons—which got the man’s attention, but also scared him off, and he veered hastily into nearby bushes.

  “If a man’s afraid of my Frazzles, he doesn’t deserve me. I want no truck with a nelly queen who’s afraid of a wee little schnauzer,” Stan commented a little too loudly at the scurrying blond. “I bet you’d like to sniff his ass, though, eh, Frazzles?”

  And the little dog barked affirmatively as Stan chuckled.

  And then someone else would walk by, and the excited little canine would be in a tizzy, running in circles and barking exuberantly, with Stan guffawing and carrying on: “You like big cocks, don’t you, Frazzles—you little size queen!”

  Two sailboats cruised by, slowing down, and sporting a rainbow of bandanas in their rigging. Being color-blind, Frazzles was at a loss on this score, but he was no slouch when it came to detecting virility; he spotted someone for Stan on the second boat and ran toward the shoreline.

  “Frazzles, I’m too fat to swim out after them, and I’m too old to draw them in, so stop your yacking,” he shouted after his companion. But Frazzles was already heading back around, tail wagging, satisfied with having proven his worth. He was never persistent about consummation, which was difficult for his attention span anyway.

  Two punkish boys arrived not long afterward, and Frazzles, spotting them, began to growl almost imperceptibly, sizing them up. Both were dark-haired and thin. They were also heavily tattooed, unshaven, and visibly stoned. Frazzles had been around Stan long enough to know that youth could sometimes trump all other characteristics in the cruising game, but he needed a little help on this one. Stan came to his rescue with a shhhh. Barking at drug-addled clubkids who probably hadn’t had much sleep was decidedly not attractive, and Stan was quick to reach into his handy Ziploc and proffer a large Milkbone biscuit to distract Frazzles.

  The two boys took off their clothes, laid down a sheet, and soon reclined, flat on their backs and staring vacantly into the empty blue sky. But not for long. Petting Frazzles’s head, Stan felt it rise under his hand as the dog perked up when the boys began to grope one another slowly.

  Then things moved quickly. The boys got up on their knees, hands at each other’s waists, two Tom-of-Finland cocks bouncing around like a couple of jib booms in a strong wind, while Stan force-fed Frazzles another Milkbone, and with his other hand, began to fondle himself, enthralled with the scene unfolding before him.

  He whispered in Frazzles’s floppy ear: “What a treat, eh, Frazzles? I hope they fuck each other right here in front of us.” Frazzles licked his chops, looking quickly back and forth between his master and the two studs—who did not disappoint.

  They fell into a sixty-nine, all writhing green tattoos and moans of pleasure that intermingled with occasional pops as one or both of their sizable organs slipped out of a lustful mouth. Stan had a furious boner by then, and being that his attention was increasingly centered on it, Frazzles—overwhelmed by the action-adventure of it all—commenced to lick his master’s balls.

  Stan pushed him away. The last thing he needed was Frazzles in some Pavlovian spiral, focusing on his master’s anatomy instead of on the anatomies of his prey. “You’re man’s best friend, not his fuckbuddy, you little slut!” Stan scolded him.

  But his remonstrations fell on deaf ears, for Frazzles saw first what Stan had been dreaming of. One punk was up on one knee while the other rolled onto his back, and a condom was clumsily and quickly unwrapped by all four of their hands. When the one entered the other, Stan was beside himself, lost in a vision of throbbing veined meat, black pubic hair, and straining arm and chest muscles, which soon sent his semen flying like Ariel out of his stubby little cock, concurrently causing his schnauzer to bark maniacally, concerned ostensibly that Stan’s “little death” was in fact the big one.

  The boys—who were cumming as well—heard, and upon emptying their prodigious tools, commenced laughing out loud at the prone Stan and the hysterical schnauzer jumping about and sniffing his balls. Which only got Frazzles all the more frazzled. He was momentarily off and running in a beeline for the punks, who suddenly considered they may have offended the aggravated canine with their mirth. He circled them once, barking in a fury, then circled them again. Stan was sitting up and shouting at him, but Frazzles couldn’t be dissuaded, and when he circled for the fifth and sixth times, the boys did what anyone would do—they threw something at him. The used condom, in fact. And Frazzles, elated, returned to his master with the prize, which Stan held up now like a severed head, calling out wildly as the boys laughed: “The fuck, the fuck; I’ve got the fuck.”

  UNDER THE RUSHES

  David Holly

  After talking it over with the people involved, especially Will Branch, I’ve decided to give a complete account of the events that occurred back in April of 2005. I’m only doing this because the news media got it all wrong. The national news turned Will and me into heroes and temporary media sensations, but we didn’t deserve much credit. Here’s what really happened….

  It was the first day of spring break week at Lithia College, so Will Branch and I pedaled our bicycles out to Foggy Fenland, which most people thought was nothing but a marsh, but where we had found a nice spot with a sandy shore where the refulgent sun hit full on. The mire was only four feet deep at its deepest, so it wasn’t much good for swimming; however, the spot Will and I had discovered couldn’t be beat for sunbathing and other activities that might require a bit of privacy.

  Wearing only cutoff jeans with our T-shirts flapping behind us, Will and I bicycled over the elevated gravel road across the sun-drenched bottomland. Our path took us along the edge of the slough where waterfowl of brilliant plumage made their home. Two long-billed curlews were feeding along the rushes, and a great blue heron and several black-necked stilts were wading near the shore. Will and I braked as a family of brown rabbits hopped across our path. One little bunny sat up and regarded our bicycles with amazement.

  “Jim Finch, do you smell the wild dill blowing?” Will shouted, breathing deeply. “That scent makes me want to pound your dick until you come like a milkweed.”

  We dismounted and walked our bikes through the rushes and tall cattail stalks with tops just budding until we reached our spot, a sandy beach basking in the sun and hidden from prying eyes by the tall rushes, scented herbs, and thick ferns.

  Will untied the blanket from the rack on his bicycle and spread it on the sand. The picnic basket had ridden behind my seat. I lifted it off and set it on the corner of the blanket. Will was still standing, though he had kicked off his sneakers. He handed me a dare you look, so I unfastened my shorts and hooked my thumbs into the waistband. I slowly wiggled out of my pants until I stood glorious in my hot-pink thong swimsuit. Will’s eyes regarded my well-filled pouch with approval.

  “Your turn,” I said and waited until Will had dropped his shorts, catching them with his toe and draping them over a clump of green reeds. In his golden thong, Will resembled a god of ancient Greek mythology. When I touched his thick cock through the cloth, my swelling dick pulled the back of my thong tighter into the cleft between my perky cheeks. I wiggled my proud ass and felt sexy as hell.

  “I can’t wait,” I urged. “It’s been a whole fucking week, Will. Let’s do it before we eat.”

  “Do what, Jim Finch?” Will asked, playing innocent.

  I stepped closer until my cock nudged his. “Let’s do it now, Will. Right now.” I twisted so our cocks rubbed hard. Will moaned, so I stripped his thong down to his knees. His cock bobbed, hardened to its full thickness.

  My fingers found the head of his dick, just as they had years earlier in what was the first of a long history of giving each other pleasure. I fingered his dry cockhead with my fingers, stroking the top lightly with my thumb. Then I gripped his shaft with one hand and rubbed my palm over the tip.

  “God, Jim, get the lube,” Will moaned.

  Laughing, I rummaged in our picnic basket. I pulled out sandwiches and bags of chips until I found the bottle that had slipped beneath the black raspberry beer. Will had decided to help me look, and his cock brushed my bare buns. A strange thrill shot through me, as though there was something I wanted—but I didn’t know what it was.

  We stretched out on our blanket and lubed each other. Will’s hand was like an old friend on my cock: he knew how to jerk me off better than I knew myself. It was the same with me—time and experience had taught me the movements that gave him pleasure. When a guy pounds his own cock, he tends to give himself a break. He’ll back off sometimes if the pleasure grows too intense. However, when you’ve got another guy beating your meat, he’s not going to give you a break. Even when you beg for mercy, he’s going to dig deep into your tingles and make you come harder than you can ever make yourself. At least, that was the way with Will and me.

  My lubed-up hand was thumbing Will’s dickhead in the way that drove him crazy, while he was stroking hard up my shaft and squeezing the head of my dick. Working at his dick and feeling my own getting ready to erupt into a series of orgasmic thrills, I looked past Will’s pleasure-tortured face, his lips drawn back with the delicious agony that was growing within his dickhead, and saw the blue sky framed in the thick green rushes. Little finches, red crossbills, starlings, and a red-winged black-bird were sharing in our sport. The birds delayed their feeding while Will and I tumbled beneath them and prepared to spill our seed.

  As the orgasmic ripples grew in my cockhead, a long-tailed weasel ran across our blanket, and the watching birds scolded him for his effrontery. It was if all nature stood in hushed expectation of our orgasmic tempest. We had attuned our bodies to the throbbing excitement of nature, and nature approved.

  We moaned, we thrilled, we squirted our hot wet seed, we howled like beasts, wild, free of society’s restraint, at one with the rushes, and the soft wind, and the chattering birds, and the waiting weasel. The orgasm was like thunder in my cock from the flashes of lightning in my brain. I knew I was shooting great streamers of semen, and I could feel the hot strands of wet spunk that spurted from Will’s cock splattering upon my chest and stomach.

  When the climax was past, we lay muttering softly, sounds that made no sense but were abundantly clear, as we rocked our hips lightly and fucked the last drops of semen out of our cocks, into each other’s fist.

  “Fuck, that was a good one, Jim.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed, unable to come up with anything more intelligent.

 

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