Gay Erotic Stories

Turned out that we all had pretty good arms in that department, Mike especially. He would tell me to run a long pattern and hook right just beyond a trashcan, say, and when I did, all I had to do was just reach my arms out and there suddenly was a football in them. He could have beat out any quarterback in my league back home! And it felt so goddamn good to have some activity. As we approached the main parking area, I said to Steve, “Show us a little of your tumblin’ stuff, man.” Steve smiled an okay, and in a newly-mown flat area, he begin a few warm-up maneuvers, and then turned to us and said, “Don’t get your hopes up, guys, this isn’t the Olympics.”

But what he did just fuckin’ astonished us. He did part of his floor exercise routine, with flips, saltos, and a salto with a twist, in the layout position, high above our heads. Then he did more or less the same things, only backwards, this time with a salto in the pike position, and both times he nailed his landing. By this time he’d gathered a substantial crowd, who whooped, clapped, and asked for more. It’s not the sort of thing you see every day, especially in a rest stop performed by a guy in nothing but a little running short and shoes. He grinned modestly (really!), and made another pass, this time with different amazing saltos; and then he threw himself to the grass, and did one of those impossible-to-believe-until-you-see-it things, starting from a sitting position with his legs an absolutely 180-degree line.

He put down his arms and raised his entire body on his fingertips (yes!), and slowly closed his legs and then slowly swung his body between his arms into a hand-stand, with perfect control, his ropy forearms bulging, his perfect abs working, his upper arms and back flexing under his perfect control. It was his piece de resistance on his team, and it met with huge whoops and shouts there in the rest stop along the highway! From his handstand he did a couple of flair-like flourishes with his legs, and then with a mighty flexion of his trunk muscles, sprang into the air, and nailed his dismount, and with a big grin took a tight little bow to ongoing hollering and applause. As we walked back to the truck, with him in the middle, he put one arm on each of our shoulders and we were so proud to be there with him. Secretly I was thinking, “Hell yes, it was un-fucking-believable--but know what, he could have gotten huge applause just doing anything, just doing a couple of jumping jacks, if it showed off his incredible ripped body . Back in the truck, we settled down for another three hours on the road. It was late June, and the days were very long, but the last two hours on the road would be in dusk or darkness, and nothing to do but talk. Hell, there hadn’t been much to see all day long in Nebraska anyway.

The conversation took a sort of loopy turn, as we told funny stories from our past. I’d heard most--but not quite all--of Mike’s, but I loved hearing them again. As he told ‘em they were always funny as shit, and some of them were regular set pieces, like the time he and his date were in a state park not too far from Palo Alto and had a late-night nude picnic on a blanket on a playing field, followed by a had a really good fucking and sucking session, under the stars. The park had been closed for hours, and they’d snuck in past a broken chain that was supposed to secure a little-used back entrance that Mike had spotted earlier in the week. When at last they had to head home, they found that the keys were supposedly in Mike’s jeans, and Mike’s jeans were with all the picnic gear, and the rest of their clothes and even their shoes in the trunk of the locked car--a car a friend going out of town for the weekend had lent him.

As Mike explained it, when your mind is on fuckin’ little practical things just don’t register, and as he gathered up the stuff to stow in the trunk to get it out of the way, he had no idea of what kind of trouble he was getting into. Anyway, it wasn’t his car, and he didn’t know that you could lock the car by just depressing the button on the door and slamming it, something that his date had just unconsciously done, just as she had accidentally leaned against the open trunk. So intent on fucking this little beauty--it was their first (and would be their only) date--that he didn’t think anything of it when he heard the fatal click of the truck lid.

It turned out that the girl was a very talented lay with a real taste for cock, and their fuck and suck session was ball-breaking awesome. But when it was time to go and the realities of the situation dawned on them, she was less friendly--a whole lot less friendly. They wouldn’t get home until about 10.30 the next morning, with a lot to explain to a county mounty. The way he told it, well, we almost puked with laughter.

I had a couple of stories, not quite so funny as Mike’s, but pretty hot, and Steve told a couple. We were having a great time.

Steve said, “Guys, how about a change of plan? I was headed back to Laramie, but it was just to pick up a few things. I don’t need to be anywhere for a few more days. Why don’t we stop in Cheyenne and we can stay at my folks’ place. They’re in Europe for three more weeks.” It sounded fine to us--great really--particularly since it was 50 miles closer and our original destination anyway. But also we didn’t quite want to part with Steve.

Steve directed us to an exit off I-80, just west of Cheyenne, then to a outlying road that steadily climbed for a few miles, and then, past a gate in a fence to a long lane between two pastures, and eventually to a gigantic house situated on the highest rise for miles around. It was nothing like one of these new McMansion things you see. It was a gigantic log house. Actually, it looked more like a lodge at a national park than a private dwelling, though there were garages and outbuildings like a pool house and guest house, and a barn, and the grounds around the house were beautifully kept, mostly with dry-tolerant plants, but there was a lush perennial garden too that obviously was well-watered. We later learned the house had been built in the early twentieth century by an ex-governor of Wyoming, but it had been extensively remodeled and updated and expanded by Steve’s folks.

He said that his folks were on a six-week trip to Europe, and that the only staff on the property while they were gone was a gardener-caretaker who lived in a cabin down by the main road with his wife, the housekeeper. Steve’s brother would be coming in within the next few days from Penn, where he was finishing his third year at Wharton. We entered by the back door near the kitchen, and stowed our gear in a bedroom upstairs. Steve told us to pick from several guest rooms he showed us, but we took a single room with a king bed. Steve took note of that. On the way upstairs we passed the foyer, and on a rustic table there were several photographs. There was some quality about them that put them way out of the ordinary. One was of an elderly couple with rather leathery faces displaying both wisdom and affection; one of a middle-aged couple, both of them quite remarkably good-looking; a portrait of Steve, with his patented wide grin and drop-dead masculine beauty; and a picture of--well, not quite Steve, but almost: another strikingly handsome youth who could almost be his double, only with fair hair: It was easy to guess that had to be his brother.

Steve showed us around the house, with its great room--you’d have to call it a “saloon”; its baronial dining room, and various more comfortable rooms like the a TV-entertainment room (in effect the boys’ living room), a double study for his dad, and his mom’s morning room, with a long row of windows facing the south; and a big comfortable room they just called the living room. Though everything was perfect, nothing was overly fussy. Even the main rooms downstairs were decorated mostly with furniture in rustic styles, though punctuated from time to time by something surprising, like a large Spanish colonial vargueno or carved chest. There were bronzes here and there that could have been Remingtons. His mom’s morning room was different. Instead of the Bohkaras, Kirmans, and Navajos that were typical of the rest of the house, the gleaming hardwood floors in that room was covered with a gigantic Chinese silk rug that must have cost a fortune. The sofas and curtains were cheery florals. On the walls were what appeared to be prints by Picasso and Matisse, and what certainly looked to me like an original Rousseau. There was money here, and plenty of it.

In the basement was an amazing photography studio. Steve had said that along with music, he was studying photography, and in this he followed his father, who had been a serious amateur photographer for years. All over the house were examples of his father’s work, from outdoor Ansel Adams influenced work to studies of flowers and animals; but portraiture was his favorite genre.

I asked if he’d mind shooting a couple of rolls of Mike. He said, “Absolutely!” and Mike shrugged his okay.

Actually, there was fairly little set-up needed. Lights were already in place, in front of a plain ivory-colored backdrop. Steve told Mike where to stand, and Steve took some readings off a meter and adjusted several lights, and studied the effect and added one more light, and made some more readings, and then he was satisfied. He loaded three separate cameras and put them on a worktable, and told Mike how to stand, with his legs spread somewhat, and a hip cocked just a little, and his right arm bent at the elbow, so that the bicep bellied up. Steve held up his hand and told Mike to look at it, and he began snapping. After every snap or two he’d tell Mike to shift this way or that, or to smile more broadly. And he came over to tug another lock of Mike’s golden hair over his forehead. He told Mike to turn around and shot him from the back to get a view of his broad back and shoulders. Then he told Mike to turn back around, and hold up his right arm, bent at the elbow, over his head so that his fist was more or less above his left ear, and to smile broadly, and hold it. When Mike did this, his tee shirt rode up, slightly exposing his hairy belly.

I had been watching the whole procedure with great interest, but as soon as Mike’s matted belly came into view I helplessly sprang a boner. Mike saw my shorts tented out, and within seconds his were too. Steve said, “Hold it.” And set down his camera to think a second. He said, “Mikey, you’re making him do that. You go over behind that screen and stay there until I tell you to come out.” And he picked up a weeks old copy of the Economist that was laying on a worktable and handed it to Mike to read. Mike dutifully begin paging through and started an article on the unfavorable demographic prospects of Norway, and his erection subsided.

After a few minutes, Steve took the magazine away and began posing Mike again. He told Mike slowly to pull his tee shirt off, and in the process Steve snapped off about four shots. Mike tossed the shirt out of frame and stood there in his glory, with his big chest, covered with dark-blond hair, his well-defined abs, with the track of fur running down the middle, spreading over his lower belly.

Steve told Mike to move this way and that, and turn around, flex this muscle or that, etc., and then told him to take off his little running shorts. Mike did so, again documented by four shots by Steve, and he kicked off his shoes, leaving him in a perfect state of nature. Mike’s penis was somewhat distended, but not erect; and he was an object of classic beauty, something that should have been in the Uffizi.

Steve grabbed Mike’s shorts off the floor, and, surprisingly, pulled them on over his own.

Working quickly, Steve took a dozen shots of Mike in this state, with his pendulous balls and his dick deeply impressive even though flaccid. One of my favorites in years to come had him sitting on the floor, with his big legs, covered in sun-bleached golden hair, crossed at the ankle, but not occluding the view of his penis, his balls almost touching the floor, and his luxuriant public hair. Steve pulled a cane-bottom ladder-back chair from near the wall behind him into the shooting field, and told Mike to stand up again and put one foot on the seat bottom. He approached very near to Mike and took several close-up studies of his genitals, and as he did Mike began to stiffen, with each heartbeat his arteries pumping him up to new levels of rigidity until he was like a rock again. And he would stay that way for the rest of his shoot, with his phallus towering over his balls, and almost cleaving to his furry belly.

Steve caught the process in a number of quickly snapped photos, and hurriedly grabbed another camera. And there was no point to my concealing myself behind the screen any longer. And there was no reason for Steve to be wearing two pairs of shorts! He had pulled on Mike’s in an effort to tame, or at least conceal, his own erection in order not to distract Mike during the early part of the shooting, when Mike was supposed to be flaccid. So Steve pulled off his shirt, and kicked off both pairs of shorts, and continued the shoot nude, except for his shoes. Every time I glanced at him, I impressed with his obvious expertise as he quickly shifted from point to point to shoot, and even more, I was amazed at Steve’s bodily perfection. His big arms and legs, with their generous amounts of dark hair were unbelievable, but it was his chest and belly that were as if carved of marble--or would seem so if not garnished by the hair distributed in the center of his chest and running straight down to his belly before losing itself in his pubic bush. As he moved around, his erect cock bobbed here and there and his balls swung freely. I had already pulled off my tee shirt and shorts, and kicked away my shoes.

Steve systematically began what amounted to an atlas of Mike. He took scores of shots of him from the front and rear, and side; and then began detailed studies of his hands, his forearms, his upper arm, his neck, his left ear, his right ear, his chin, and right down to his feet. But he spent the most time documenting his trunk. He shot close-ups of his furry pecs, and then pulled out to include his upper abs in the frame, and then documented his abs generally, and with special studies of his fuzzy navel, and of course his penis and cockhead featured in these. In order to document his incredibly sexy lower belly, so lean and powerful-looking, with its hair covering extending from a single line below the navel to a broader and broader spread, and his pubic hair, he had to ask me to squat down in front of Mike (but out of the frame) and grasp his phallus and pull it down out of frame, a task that I relished, to say the least.

Steve didn’t ignore Mike’s backside, with studies of his shoulders, and his butt thickly covered in golden hair, and his thighs and calves. He told Mike to put his left foot up on the chair seat, and he shot between his legs from the rear to focus on his amazing testicles, suspended in air.

Now Steve told me to enter the shooting area, and Mike and I had a number of shots together. In some we were side by side, with his arm over my shoulder; or Mike sat on the chair, looking up at me, and I stood beside him gazing down at him with admiration and awe. In other cases, Mike was at the center, and I stood behind him, with my arms encircling his trunk. In several Mike is kissing me, holding my face in his hands, our heavily stubbled chins touching; and below, our cocks tangent. And in quite a few I am holding his phallus, or he is holding mine. Steve told me to pull the leather daybed from over by the wall into the shooting field, and he told Mike to lay down and to jack off, as Steve circled and shot from this angle and that. He shot a sequence of 42 photographs, from the first time Mike touched his phallus until the final shot of cum covering his belly and chest and face, running down his side and off his jaw (just below the ear).

Steve had reloaded his cameras several times so far, and now he reloaded again. It was my turn now. I did not consider myself nearly as interesting a subject as my uncle, but being photographed in front of him was truly hot. In any case, there was no opportunity to do any artsy pictures of me since I was ragingly erect, and no tedious articles from the Economist was going to change that. So all my photos were sexually raw, with no possible pretense to being art for art’s sake. But Steve documented my body in much the same detail as he had Mike, with big shots, close-ups, detailed studies--my rear and fuzzy butt, my shoulders and arms, my forearms and hands, my legs, face, everything was photographed--and most of all my chest and abs and belly and cock. Of course Steve asked Mike to hold down my dick so that my lower abdomen could be shot separately. It wasn’t easy for Mike to affect this task and the veins in my cock seemed to enlarge and pop out as my phallus resisted.

Steve then told me to lay on the daybed, still sticky with Mike’s semen, and, just like Mike, jack off, while he snapped another 40 or so shots until I too had bucked and shot my load, and was dripping cum from my chest and face and even my hair.

Poor Steve! He was the only one who hadn’t had relief, and so Mike and I took care of that. Mike lay down on the floor, and spread his legs, and told Steve to sit between them, facing away from him. He then pulled Steve’s shoulders back so that his upper body was in effect reclining on Mike’s body, though his butt was still on the floor between Mike’s legs. Mike then systematically caressed Steve’s shoulders, his chest, and worked his hand down Steve’s washboard abs as far as he could reach, running his fingers through the trail of hair.

Meanwhile, I knelt between Steve’s legs, and began to give his genitals the attention they begged for and deserved. Mike’s phallus was rock hard, veiny, and his flared cockhead was so distended that it was virtually shiny. I grasped it with my hands and despite the high emotional pitch I was in, the act sent a gigantic thrill through me. Though I had just shot off a few minutes ago, I was already again as hard as ever I had been. I began my handwork, and then, slowly and deliberately, I took first the cockhead and then the top of the shaft into my mouth and worked it with my tongue as artfully as I could imagine. And then removing both hands--they found occupation in gently caressing Steve’s balls--I took more and more of the shaft in my mouth. It felt quite different from Mike’s. I have to say that as much as I idolize my uncle, and consider him absolutely perfection, there is something to be said for a slightly smaller phallus when it’s a matter of fellation, and Steve’s was a great size for sucking, permitting much more mobility and even artistry--and it was more comfortable.

In addition, the “accidents” of his cock was slightly different: a little less hair on the bottom of his shaft than my uncle’s, a somewhat different arrangement of the most prominent veins, at least as discovered by my mouth and tongue, and his coronal ridge was perhaps sharper than Mike’s. Also his smell was subtly different. It was just as intensely masculine as Mike’s, but somehow fresher, not quite so complex and rich. I tried to move with care and deliberation, and I alternated mouth music with hand work, and even took a break by giving careful attention to his testicles, taking first one, and then the other gently, ever so gently, in my mouth, and then returning to my principal care, his wonderful cock. Mike all this time was kissing Steve’s hair, or caressing his face or body with both his hands. Steve was in transports. Suddenly my uncle said urgently, “Mikey, hold up. Right now.” It was an order, and of course I obeyed. Mike could tell that Steve hadn’t long to go. So Mike told me, “Let’s trade places,” and we did. As rigid as Steve’s cock was, the rest of his body was perfectly compliant as we more or less manhandled him in the process of Mike and me changing places. Soon it was I who was caressing Steve’s chest and neck and face, and whispering in his ear, and it was Mike fellating him, and working him with his hands. Mike aimed to be more deliberate and make the process last and last and last, but Steve could not hold out forever under Mike’s attentions, and he grew rigid all over and had a minor paroxysm, spraying his jizm up to his face--and even onto mine! He almost fainted, or so it seemed.

After maybe four minutes of deep respiration, during which he murmured, “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” over and over again, he was sufficiently recovered to get back up. Amazingly, he still had a few more ideas for concluding the shoot.

He directed Mike to lay supine on the floor. His cock was fully erect, though almost, but not quite, parallel to his belly. Steve told me to stand over Mike’s midparts, more or less facing his face but at a 45 degree angle, so that my right foot was slightly closer to Mike’s upper body than the other, so that would have a good angle to shoot the scene. Steve brought lubrication and with fairly little ceremony, slathered it all over Mike’s great tool; and then, more carefully perhaps, worked a glob of onto, and even into, my anus. He stepped back to his shooting position, and told me to slowly, slowly, squat onto Mike.

And I got within a foot, to grab Mike’s well-lubricated dick and then guide it into my anus as I continued my squat. As soon as I got Mike’s cockhead precisely located, I squatted just another fraction of an inch and Mike entered me very slightly. I inhaled slightly, and Steve told me to reach down to the floor and with the spread tips of my fingers to stabilize myself in the squat. Steve was very busy clicking away, mostly at the middle distance, so that the entire scene could be incorporated in a single frame. Steve told me to meet Mike’s eyes, a very easy request to accede to. From my perch above him, I gazed down at his beautiful face, and we locked eyes, keeping them locked together for the remainder of this special act. Thanks to my flexibility and training, I was able to maneuver fairly well without any prospect of cramping, and by using my fingertips to stabilize myself I had quite positive control. So I then began literally to fuck myself on Mike’s big dick. What he had done to me twice before, I now could do to myself, moving down and then up, resting, and then down onto his shaft still further, and then rising off of it, nearly to the point at which we were separated--but not quite. Then sinking down, such that his shaft penetrated me as deeply as he had ever done before. I then used my thigh muscles, rising again, and then slowly sinking again, and again, and again.

Steve said, “Okay, I’ve got all the shots I need of this. Mikey, turn [from the 45 degree angle] to face your uncle directly,” and Mike knew what to do. He seized my trembling cock that had been bouncing against my belly during all this and gave it five firm strokes and I was done! I spewed my cum all over him, and at almost the same moment, I felt his cock deep within me give one, two, three powerful twitches, and he stiffened beneath me, exhaling, “Oh, Mikey! Oh, Mikey!” And then he grinned and said, “Okay, Mikey, that’s three times I’ve fucked you. Next time, it’s you!”

The photo shoot was done. This last scenario was the only really hardcore part of the shoot, and in later years I would never stop regretting this. But it was getting very late. By now it was almost 2 am, and we had another long day planned for tomorrow.

To be continued.