Gay Erotic Stories

My grandfather had many friends that he was close to during World War II. I spent many a Wednesday afternoon listening to their stories and cooking for their lunch. When I graduated from high school, I enrolled in a cooking school in New York. I graduated after two years and my grandfather wanted me to go to Paris to continue my studies. I loved my time in New York, but I never really felt comfortable. I was good at what I did, winning many awards, but I just wanted to return to my home by the sea.

I decided to spend a few weeks at home before going to Paris. When I got there I realized that the time away had not been kind to the old man. He was frail and looked sickly. I knew I wasn’t going to go to Paris and leave him. Just before my twenty-first birthday he passed away. I sat inside my house by the sea and grieved, but not forever. All of my grandfather’s friends came by on Wednesday as usual and had me sit with them and tell stories and then listen to theirs’. It helped and somehow they have always understood how shy and quiet I am. Shortly after, I found out that the house and everything in it was left to me as well as a trust fund from my parents. I decided I didn’t want to go to Paris and decided to turn my home into a bed and breakfast so I could cook for others and still stay at home.

I spent weeks going over all that I would need to convert the house. I looked at furniture and fixtures, talked with contractors, and even an architect. When all was said and done, I hired a contractor from out of state to oversee the project. Since where I live is fairly secluded along the Oregon coast, within sight of the majestic haystack rocks near Cannon Beach, I let the man stay with me. His crew was made up of local craftsmen, but he needed a place to stay. Over the next couple of weeks, I started to decorate as soon as each new room was completed. I decided to use large, sturdy, comfortable furnishings and bright, warm colors. I wanted people who came to my home to be comfortable and relaxed.

The contractor, who’s name was Robert, and I became friends. He was a tall man, but a little shorter than my towering height. He was big and strong and often worked without his shirt. I found myself becoming tongue-tied around him. I blushed a lot and stammered when he talked to me. In truth, I was attracted, extremely attracted to him. He would smile at me and wink. About two weeks into his stay, he came to my room one night.

He told me that he had seen me watching him. He told me he wanted to see how far things could go. With that he was kissing me. I was shocked, it was my first kiss, first everything. He took off my shirt and sifted his fingers through the hair on my chest. Then he took off his shirt and pressed me to him, pulling me, melding with me. His chest was covered in coarse, dark hair, such a sensual contrast to my soft, downy fur. He was fast and a little rough. He pulled and pawed at our clothes until we were both naked, standing by my big bed. He pushed me down and pulled my face to his lap, feeding me his hard shaft. He wasn’t all that long or that thick, but it was my first time and I gagged a bit. But soon I became accustomed to his invasion. He held my face and started pounding his hips into me. His cock wasn’t long enough to go beyond my tonsils and my nose kept being bumped into his pubic bush. He then pulled away and tried to catch his breath, telling me he didn’t want to cum so soon.

Robert took my face in his hands and started kissing me again. Then he pushed me back on the bed, forcing his hips between mine, pressing forward and begging for entry into my body. But when he pushed forward, he realized real quickly that this was brand new to me. He immediately slowed and gentled. His forceful, pushing manner eased and he became sweet and loving. I realized that I had probably given him signals that led him to believe I was more experienced. The change in his attack was so different. Where before he was forceful, now he was gentle and coaxing.

He started kissing me again, but slowly, teasingly with his tongue, coaxing me to play with him. Where his hands had pawed at me, now they stroked, stoking my pleasure, petting and relaxing me. I felt my nervousness leave and I started to return Robert’s ministrations. I tasted and delved my hands over his body, skimming against his back, reveling in the contented purr he let out. He continued to stroke my body, but his hands moved lower, skimming over my ass, bunching and kneading the muscular globes. Then he was stroking my hole with his fingers, brushing against the bundle of ultra-sensitive nerves. Then he was inside me, buried to the knuckle of his middle finger. He searched and prodded inside me, looking for admittance, for acceptance. I opened for him and he pressed his advantage. In seconds he was buried inside. He waited; he coaxed and crooned, telling me with gentle words to relax. He continued to pet me, stroke my body, willing me to relax. I did. And he began to move. He rocked into me quickly and in mere moments was clenching and spurting, making noises like a braying mule. Then he collapsed against me. All I could think was: this is it?

Then Robert rose for round two. This time I understood what it was all about. He stroked and built me, having taken the edge of his own needs; he spent the time and energy finessing a response from me. When it was over, he was marveling at me, telling me how responsive I was and how good I was. It made me feel special. Our routine continued for the next few weeks while the last of the work on my house was being done. What we did in bed was mostly the same: kissing me, me sucking and him fucking me.

But the night before he was to leave, he came to me and he was different. He was kissing me, but he let me lead. He didn’t take control. After a bit of rolling around, kissing and petting, he pulled me on top of him and wrapped his legs around my back. Robert just looked at me and said “please” before I sank into him. I felt him close around me, feeling him stretch around me. I pumped and thrust into him, amazed at the turn of events. I felt him build because he kept squeezing me, crying out and pawing his fingers into my shoulders. Then I felt him release, jetting against my belly. I kept thrusting into him, keeping from orgasm by the slightest margin. Shortly after, he came again and this time I couldn’t help but follow. My breathing slowed, and I slipped out of Robert while he cuddled to me.

I knew he was leaving tomorrow. I was okay with it. I was attracted to him and I will never forget the time we shared together. But it was just sex. If he were to stay, it probably could develop into more. But he was leaving. I was lying with him, watching the colors of the sunset change through the curtains of my bedroom window when I fell asleep. The next morning, he was gone. He was my first. But this story is about my second and last…

The next few years were lonely ones. I was crippled behind walls of intense shyness. It wasn’t too bad during the long summers. My house was full of guests. But the winters were long and lonely, with nary a guest for up to three months. Those were the times when I felt it the most, an almost bone-crushing sense of loss and loneliness. I had turned twenty-five the previous summer. I was gearing up for the lonely period after Christmas when my only real contact would be the Wednesday meetings with my grandfather’s friends. I received a call from a secretary for a literary agent. She asked to book a room in my little bed and breakfast for an indefinite time, starting the second week in January. A writer wanted to stay in my house to write and do research of the surrounding area. When I asked for the author’s name, I almost fell through the floor. It was one of my favorites, Toby Hunter. He writes mostly murder mysteries with a big dash of the supernatural thrown in. I was so excited. I had read all of his books. I couldn’t wait for the next few weeks to go by.

He showed up on the 10th of January during a huge wind and rainstorm. It was dark and close to 11 PM. I was expecting him tomorrow. I answered the door and helped him grab his things from the car. We were both soaked. He stood in my front entrance while I went to get some towels. When I came back I skidded to a stop. He had stripped down to his boxers. He took one of the towels from my now dead fingers and started to dry himself off. It wasn’t supposed to be erotic, but my body didn’t care. He was a few inches shorter than me, but I would say we weighed the same. His shorter frame carried his weight in his chest and shoulders, perfectly sculpted and bulging with raw sinew. His dark hair was short and tamed against the wild curl evident. His eyes were a piercing blue. His nose straight and perfectly complimented the rest of his features. His lips were full and sensuous. His chin hard and strong and covered in dark stubble. Then I looked down to his chest. Some people don’t like hairy chests. But I find them extremely sexy. His pectorals were covered in long, straight, thick dark hair, to the point where you couldn’t see the skin underneath. The hair was in interesting whorls all along the muscular plane. The hair trailed thickly between his abdominal muscles and hid his belly button. You would only know it was there because of the swirl of hair that deepened at that point. His legs were also incredibly muscled and covered in dark whorls of the same straight, thick hair. In a word: gorgeous.

I was afraid I had started drooling. I know I lost the ability to speak rationally. So I ducked back down the hall to change my clothes, hoping I could make the erection go away. When I was dry and had everything tucked away, hopefully not so noticeably, I went back to see to my guest. He had opened a suitcase and pulled a shirt over his head and was pulling up a pair of jeans. I offered him some food and when he declined, I helped carry his bags to his room. It was in the tower, directly over my room. It was the best I had, and considering how long he was going to be spending here, I figured he needed the extra comfort and space. When he was settled, I went back to my room and crawled into bed. I was still hard, but I didn’t do anything about it. I drifted off to sleep and indulged in some incredible dreams.

The next day, Toby sat with me in the kitchen while I got ready for my Wednesday lunch. He talked to me and told me what he was hoping to find in the area. I asked if he always worked by not working and he laughed and told me that he wanted to take a couple of days and unwind, he had been on a book tour. He actually joined my grandfather’s friends for lunch. I was absolutely mortified when one of them whipped out a scrapbook and showed Toby.

I was embarrassed and escaped to the kitchen. I didn’t realize that they had kept such records of me. Every single picture and article from cooking school was there. I had volunteered my free time at a women’s shelter in New York, but I kept it private. The school didn’t know until someone from the paper came and did an article on what I did. I just hadn’t realized that my grandfather knew. It brought the pain of his death back to me. God I missed that old man!

I carried dessert back into the dining room. One of the group told Toby that they were so proud that I did so much for so many people and all without a hint of recognition. Then he told him how I spent Fridays donating my cooking talent at the shelter down the coast a bit. It was true, but I was still embarrassed. Another member of the group wondered why I didn’t ask for something or do anything to get recognition. Toby piped up and said that some people had so much love to give that they just wanted to share it and the sharing was its own reward. I actually fell in love with him right then and there. I had been fiercely attracted to him, but having him so easily define why I was motivated to help others was the last thing needed to have my feelings bloom. I actually smiled at him, full wattage, without ducking away in shyness when he returned it.

The next day I spent driving Toby around the area. I showed him a great lookout for viewing the haystacks of Cannon Beach. Then I showed him the lighthouse that the movie ‘The Goonies’ was filmed at. Then we drove to Tillamook to tour the cheese factory. While sitting in the café, eating some of their heavenly ice cream, I watched him watch the passing ladies. That kind of calmed my hopes of a returned attraction. I know it’s foolish, but I was kind of hoping he would be the one to see me for the worthwhile person I really am. That his words at lunch yesterday would actually lead to something else. But I guess not. I could still be his friend. After all, it was probably just hero worship; kind of like the silly crushes teenagers have for movie and rock stars. Though I knew it wasn’t.

That night Toby sat in my kitchen while I did my baking and prep work for tomorrow’s trip to the shelter. He was amazed at how much food I was preparing and I told him about my time in New York in which I would cook for a couple hundred people a day. What was nice was that he offered to go with me the next day. We actually had a good time. Then Saturday morning, he was shut in his room, pounding away at his laptop. I had never seen anyone work so diligently at something before. He was in total concentration. I was in awe at the raw energy that went in to his creative process.

Just watching him aroused me. He was truly beautiful. While he worked, he had steel framed glasses that he kept pushing up his nose from time to time. The total concentration seemed to make his face more angular. It was a breath-taking sight. But I stayed away, letting him work, bringing sandwiches and coffee every few hours. I would just leave it by his side and collect the used plates later. He did come up for air every couple of days or so and I would help him with a tour of the area or a description of the seasonal changes. He even asked what kind of paving the road crews used. And I gladly helped as much as I could, all the while fearing that my feelings were growing deeper and stronger, to never be returned. Toby had been working and writing for over six weeks. He seemed happy with the progress on the book. He would spend most days with me in the kitchen, saying that hearing me work added a bit of homey comfort that aided his writing. On Thursday nights, when I did the majority of my baking and preparing for the shelter, he would actually help me box up things and keep me company for the five or six hours I would spend cooking. It was a truly happy time for me. I had companionship and a caring body to share my time.

It didn’t surprise me when I so easily fell deeper in love with him. I would watch him concentrate on his writing, be so into his characterizations that he would forget to eat. I would simply make a sandwich or something in which temperature didn’t matter. He always had something to drink close at hand, whether a thermal carafe of coffee or a pitcher of his favorite cool drink of half iced tea and half lemonade. Each time I would put something in front of him or remove used plates and glasses; I would usually get a smile.

One Saturday, while I watched him work while baking an apple crisp, he caught me staring and we shared a smile that shot straight through me. I couldn’t catch my breath and I was so hard just watching his lips curve and the dimples in his cheeks form. I had it bad. But I knew he had no idea. I just enjoyed watching him. But I kept quiet about my feelings. Too shy, too scared to share them, positive that he wouldn’t feel comfortable with them. Just as I pulled my crisp out of the oven, there was a pounding at the door. I didn’t have any guests scheduled for at least two more weeks. It was late and figured it was a stranded traveler looking for a place for the night. It happens sometimes. But when I got to the door, there was a woman standing outside. She breezed in and handed me her bags and told me to place them in Toby’s room. Her attitude had me concerned, so I asked why I should place her bags in his room and she told me she was Toby’s fiancée.

I knew he was straight. I knew he wasn’t going to be interested in me. But it still hurt. So I took her to the kitchen, which she was loath to do. But I led her to Toby. She squealed when she saw him and launched herself into his lap. I could tell he was annoyed at being interrupted, but he grasped her and hugged her anyway.

“Becca, what the hell are you doing here?”

“Oh darling, I just had to see you. I’ve missed you so much.”

“Becca, I would like to introduce you to Jack. He owns and runs this place and has taken really excellent care of me.”

She didn’t even turn her head to me. She just sort of made a little ‘how are you’ sound and then started kissing Toby. I turned from them and carried her bags to his room. I straightened up the bedding and made sure the bathroom had fresh towels. I also grabbed a stray plate off his desk and emptied the trash.

I went downstairs and went into my office to make a list of chores for tomorrow. I heard Toby and Becca head out of the kitchen and go up the stairs. I decided to turn in and crawled beneath the covers. But sleep eluded me. After a few minutes, I heard the bed creak through the floorboards above me. I had heard the sound before from other guests, but I always tuned it out. This time I couldn’t stop from listening. I was absolutely green with envy, furiously jealous of Becca and her luck at being with someone so incredibly sexy and wonderful.

I was also incredibly aroused by it. I listened for several minutes, the gentle quaking of the ceiling and the incessant squeak of the box springs. I could just imagine the two of them, writhing and rolling on the bed. Then I could picture myself writhing and rolling on the bed with Toby. I felt myself tighten and quiver with repressed desire. I felt myself tingling with impending release. I wanted so badly to grasp my heated flesh in my fist and bring myself relief. But I didn’t. I tortured myself, listening to the two of them. After several heated moments, the pace of the squeaking sped up. So did my desire. Then I heard a loud bounce and the rumble of Toby’s voice as he found his release. Not that I could hear any words, just the timbre of his deep voice as he called out in pleasure.

It was too much and I found myself clenching and spurting in my own heated release. I closed my eyes and felt each pulse leave my body and drench my tight briefs. The moment the last spasm left me; I opened my eyes and felt a deep shame. I had listened in on something so very private and personal. Even worse, I got off on it. I felt horrible. I got out of bed and went to my kitchen after throwing on a pair of cut-offs and a t-shirt. I decided to work off my guilt by starting on my baking early.

I had baked three types of cookies, a cake, muffins for Wednesday’s lunch, cinnamon rolls for tomorrow’s breakfast, and was working on kneading the week’s bread, which I usually do on Sunday afternoons. But I needed to stay out of my bedroom in case they were going for seconds. And what made me truly sad: what if they went for thirds? Or fourths?

I’ve learned to hide how I feel, I always have. But I have never felt more alone then I did that night, stupidly doing unimportant work. Since Toby had come into my home, my freezer was filled with extra dishes, made while being close to him working in the kitchen, and I delivered more things than ever to the shelter. Is this all that life has in store for me? Can no one see how alone I am? Can no one find it in his heart to see me for who I am and realize how much I need someone to love me?

I placed the bread in a large bowl to rise by the oven and cleaned off my counters and washed my hands furiously, beating myself up for being pathetic and frustrated because I don’t know how to change how I feel or make my own life better. I escaped outside to my greenhouse, tending the flowers that would fill my planters and baskets and beds in the spring and summer. I always loved it in here. But tonight it was just one more reminder of how pathetically alone I am.

I went back inside, washing up again, needing to check on my bread dough. I was just putting the dough into loaf pans and putting them in the oven when Toby walked in. He was dressed in boxers, his hair was mussed and he was slightly sweaty. I could smell her cloying perfume and the raw, basic essence of sex on him. He had come downstairs looking for a snack. Ever the dutiful host, I packed a tray for him with sandwiches and fresh cookies and milk. He thanked me with one of his warm smiles and headed back to his room. When the bread had finished baking and I had resorted all the items in my refrigerator, I went back to bed, stripping off my clothes and putting headphones and music on to drown out whatever round the squeaking bed springs above me happened to announce. For the first time since my grandfather’s funeral, I cried myself to sleep.

The next day I didn’t exactly feel better, but I felt more in control. I served Toby and Becca in the dining room. Just coffee and cinnamon rolls, but it was the first time I actually gave a meal to Toby in the formal room except for Wednesday lunches when he would share in the weekly meeting of my grandfather’s cronies. I took advantage of the opportunity to go up and clean their room. It was the only time I actually wished I had someone else to clean for me. Not that they trashed it, but the evidence of the night they had shared was plentiful. But I opened a window to air it out and changed the bedding. I even dumped the trash again to get rid of the tissue wrapped bundles of used condoms. Then I tackled the bathroom. Toby always kept it simple: one towel and no crap all over the place. I don’t think Becca could use one towel if she tried and she had lotions and make-up and junk from one end of the counter to another. But I cleaned up around it then went downstairs to see if they needed anything else.

The next night, Toby was down working in the kitchen again as I prepared for the next day. It was as if Becca wasn’t even there. And boy did she pout. She was absolutely incensed that he didn’t stop working and come to her when she snapped her fingers. Hell, even I understood what concentration he put in to every word and sentence. I never chatted with him or made him do anything. I just quietly took care of him so he could work. It was all I could do for him when I would have gladly done so much more.

I was cleaning up the last of the dinner dishes and had made a pot of coffee for him. I had filled his carafe and put it in front of him when he smiled at me. I just leaned back against the counter and watched him work for a few minutes, letting the usual flush of arousal wash over me, feeling myself plump a little. But after a couple of minutes, I felt a presence behind me. I turned to see Becca looking at me. I could tell by the predatory gleam she got in her eye that she had my number. She knew that I was at least attracted to Toby if not head over heels in love.

She gave me a smug look and sauntered over to him, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing under his ear. I turned away from it and collected the kitchen towels, deciding on one more load of laundry. When I turned around, Toby was pushing Becca away, telling her ‘not now.’ I couldn’t help the slight grin. You don’t bother the man while he’s working. But she caught it and I could feel the claws come out. She was pissed. So I decided to retreat to the living room and a good book. She followed. She sat across from me, thumbing through a magazine, glaring at me from time to time. When the clothes washer was done, I got up to transfer the clothes to the dryer. When I headed back into the living room, I noticed my cat was curling itself around Becca’s legs. Now my cat is used to kids playing with it and pulling on its tail. She doesn’t mind. She keeps her claws in and is a very sweet natured creature.

I saw Becca try to brush the cat away. When it didn’t work, she pulled her foot back and kicked my cat, hard enough that she lifted off the ground and flew a few feet. She landed and scurried off. I don’t like to lose my temper. It happens so rarely that when I do lose it, it scares me in its ferocity. I walked right up to Becca; I know fire was shooting from my eyes. I don’t like to use my height or muscular frame to intimidate, but I did then. I stood over her and pushed forward and watched her retreat in fear.

“You are no longer welcome. Get out of my house.” I was shaking with rage. How dare she attack a simple animal, a sweet, gentle cat? But inside her was a backbone of steel. She got right in my face and started yelling back.

“Who do you think you are? I don’t give a fuck about what you want. This is a pretty lame excuse to get me out of here.”

“Get out of my house. I will call the police. You have ten minutes to get your things and leave. NOW!” My usually soft voice rose to a roar on the last word and she actually jumped. She was momentarily cowed, but didn’t stay that way.

“Just because you want him, doesn’t mean he will stay if you kick me out. He will go with me.”

“I don’t care. Get out.”

“You are so transparent and pathetic! Don’t even bother. He loves me. You won’t win!”

“Becca?” Toby’s voice was very distinct because of its deep baritone. He came up to us and I sat down, my fury ebbing and now that the adrenaline was wearing down, I started to shake. I hate when I lose control like that. I never know how far I will go. Toby knelt down in front of me.

“Jack, what happened?”

“Toby, he’s trying to kick us out.”

“Shut up Becca! Jack?”

“No one kicks my cat. I hate losing my temper.”

Toby turned from me and towered over Becca. He told her to go pack her things. When she left after a few sputtered arguments, Toby turned to me and asked if he had to go too. “I like working here Jack. I’ve gotten a lot done. But I will leave if you need me too.”

I felt myself weaken. I looked into his eyes and saw the pleading in them. He really wanted to stay. And like the lovesick fool I am, I couldn’t deny him anything. “You don’t have to go.” Then I looked away from him. “If it would help you work, Becca can stay too.”

With that he went upstairs and I went to the kitchen to fold the laundry. I heard them come down the stairs and out the front door. After a couple of minutes, Toby came back inside and sat back down at the kitchen table in front of his laptop. I waited for him to say something, anything.

“Toby?”

“Yeah Jack?”

“Where is Becca?”

“On her way back to New York.”

“I told you she could stay if you wanted.”

He looked up and smiled at me. “I didn’t want her to stay. She knows I hate it when she interrupts me. I can’t stand it when she shows up in the middle of writing.”

“But she is your fiancée. She probably will expect you—“

“Who said she was my fiancée?”

“She did.”

“No wonder she was so pissed when I sent her away. She has been trying to get me to ask her for a couple of months now. I told her it was just casual.”

I actually smiled at that. I left Toby alone at the table to continue working, refilling his carafe with fresh coffee and leaving a plate of cookies within reach. I turned in and actually slept better than I had in a good long time.

His work progressed over the next few weeks as spring arrived. I started getting more and more guests and Toby actually would talk with them and joke around, signing copies of his books and generally enjoying meeting a wide variety of people. He told me it was what helped him create characters, the social interaction. One night I was babysitting for some of my guests when Toby joined me in playing and entertaining the three-year-old. I actually had a lot of fun. The next day I was planting flowers in the bed lining my driveway and walkways. Toby helped me. We worked for a couple of hours in companionable silence. I really was going to miss him when he finished his book. One of my regulars, Mrs. Stein, came for her yearly visit during the first week of April. After dinner one night, I served her a cup of tea in the study across the hall from Toby’s room and she asked that I join her for a minute. We were sitting, talking about the weather and other generalities when she asked me a question that just floored me.

“How long have you been in love with Toby?”

I stammered for a minute then answered truthfully. “From the first day.”

“Does he know?”

“No.”

“Are you going to tell him?”

“Probably not.”

Just then, I saw Toby standing in his doorway, looking shocked. Mrs. Stein stood up and kissed my cheek before walking past Toby to her room. I just sat there, knowing my face was on fire. I couldn’t meet his eyes. But I saw his feet as he moved closer. He knelt in front of me.

“Why didn’t you say anything Jack?”

I still couldn’t look at him. “After the few days with Becca, I knew you weren’t interested. Sometimes it’s better to never know. You know?”

“No, Jack, I don’t know.”

I looked up at him then, his answer was curious. There was actually something interesting in his eyes. My limited experience not withstanding, I could have sworn it was desire. Just that simple, fiery look had me trembling and hard. Hope flared up inside me. And it burst out all through me when he lowered his lips to mine and brushed against them for a minute. Then he deepened his kiss, begging me to join his motions. And I did. I moved my tongue against his, playing and dodging, enjoying this simple contact more than all my other previous experiences combined. Then he was pulling me up, taking me by the hand into his room, shutting and locking his door. He pulled me to his bed and pushed me down, removing my shirt as he went. He paused and grinned at me.

“You look like a teddy bear Jack.” It was probably true; my chest was covered in a thick pelt of downy, curly golden hair. Then he reached out and touched it, running his fingers through it, sifting and tugging gently at it. I was so hard I cried out from the pleasure/pain of it. He ripped off his shirt and shucked his pants, standing before me in tented knit boxers. He was hard and he was hard for me. He reached down and undid the snaps of my jeans, pulling them off me with a quick tug. Then he grabbed the hem of my briefs and I lost those as well. Then his mouth engulfed me. His tongue laved me. And his lips made love to my swollen shaft. I was in heaven. But it had been so long that three or four bobs of his head had me exploding in release, filling his mouth with my semen. He pulled back and smacked his lips and grinned. “You taste good Jack. It’s been a while since I did it. Didn’t know if I would remember how.”

“You’ve been with a guy before?”

“Sure. A couple of them.”

“Oh. I’ve been with one.”

“How long ago?”

I was ashamed, but I wasn’t about to lie. “Four years.”

“It has been a long time for you. But I expect a fully equal partnership.”

“What do you mean?”

“I hate the roles. Top, bottom, it doesn’t matter to me. I want it all and I won’t accept less. If you like one more than the other, that’s fine, but I want to play both from time to time.”

I actually grinned. “So which do you want to play now?”

With that he dropped his boxers and I saw all of him. His shaft was so thick. He didn’t have a drop of fat on him, except for that beautiful cock. It was a truly fat piece of meat. Long, but not as long as mine, and straight, and so hard it pointed to the ceiling. He started kissing me again. Then he lay completely on top of me, pressing his chest to mine and rubbing his aroused cock into my belly gently. Every move he made from that point forward was gentle and kind. He seemed to sense that I needed him to be slow, that I wanted to savor each moment. He didn’t disappoint.

He rolled with me, gently rocking his body into mine. Then he started kissing and biting at my nipples, nipping the sensitive skin at the hollow of my throat. He reached over to the table by the bed and fumbled for a tube of lubricant. Then he smeared some on his fingers and touched me. I arched my back and moaned. It had been so long. Then he swirled around my flesh, teasing and testing the give of the sensitive ring. After a couple of minutes, he pushed into me with one finger which was followed quickly by a second, then third. After a few minutes of his ministrations, he pulled back and added some lube to his cock before spreading my knees wide and testing me with his shaft, pushing in slightly, testing the waters.

I parted for him, willing my body to accept all of him. He rocked into me, a few shallow thrusts taking him deeper and deeper until he was completely inside me. He waited like a patient groom with his virgin bride, willing me to gentle and calm before ravishing me. It didn’t take long for me to adjust, feeling myself accept him, open to him, grip him in eager passion. Then he began to move. Long, slow strokes had me feeling each divine millimeter of that fat cock against my ring, feeling the divine pressure against my prostate, and feeling more full than I had ever felt before.

The pleasure had me pulling, meeting, and writhing in joy. I met each of his lunges and moved towards my own pleasure, trying to wring his from him. I felt Toby thicken, the pressure increased and I felt my own orgasm approach. Just a few more thrusts and I would be there, releasing in ecstatic spasms. Three, four, five thrusts and I spurt against him, calling out his name. In the heated moments that followed, as he found his own pleasure, I murmured the words of my heart and told him I loved him. His answer was a long, slow kiss.

We traded back and forth that night, forgetting roles and switching back and forth with ease. We must have made love ten times that first night and each time got better and better as we learned the triggers that brought on the extra pleasures. Toby loved to have his back scratched lightly, he actually moaned when I rubbed between his shoulder blades. He loved to have his nipples pinched. He found extreme sensation when I would take him in my mouth when I had an ice cube in it. All the little things that you find in that first heated rush of aroused desire we learned those first few days. It was heaven. I still helped him when he needed it for his book. We would go on day trips to a museum or a shop, perhaps the boardwalk in Seaside. Then we would go home and retire to bed for a few hours. In the morning, in the evening, and sometimes in the middle of the day, when the passion arose in either of us, we dropped everything and appeased it. I would have been embarrassed, but I was having too much fun.

After a couple of weeks, Toby hunkered down when he figured out a scene that he got really into. During that time, I was sort of ignored and I reverted back to the caregiver role that I had played from the start. I didn’t mind. He worked almost non-stop for three days, only pausing to eat when I put food before him and sleep for a couple of hours when he was too tired to continue. But when he saved the file and closed the laptop at the end of the third day, he lifted his eyes to me and gave me a truly wicked grin.

I decided since I had been ignored, I would get to play with him that evening and set the rules. I led him to my room where I had made a couple of preparations. I had Toby remove his clothes and lie back on the bed. I took a red silk scarf and used it as a blindfold for him. I had him raise his arms above his head and lock his hands together. Then I went out to the kitchen to heat some massage oil. When I came back, I had to catch my breath. He was lying with his arms raised and the sight of him in nothing but that red blindfold nearly had me undone. He was beautiful and the deep red of the sash matched his dark hair and complexion perfectly. He was fully aroused and pointing to the ceiling as I sat on the bed beside him. I trailed my hand over his legs then belly, watching as goose bumps erupted wherever my hand had trailed. Then I poured a dollop of the massage oil in my palm and rubbed my hands together, spreading the oil evenly. I moved to his foot and started a slow, sensual massage of his body.

My goal was to relax and arouse Toby to the point of madness. I rubbed his arch and between his toes, cupped and pressed into his heel before moving up to his calf, knee, and thigh. Then I did the other foot and leg. Then I moved on to one arm, then the other. Then I ground oil into his chest, pinching and tweaking each nipple. Toby lay before me, panting and writhing in pleasure, letting out gasps and slight moans, indicating his approval. When I got to his belly, he had a slight pool of clear essence that had dribbled from him. I rubbed and stroked his belly, finding yet another secret erogenous place on his body. He was begging by this time, his cock a deep, angry purple. I took him in my hand and stroked three times before he spurted. I watched his cum shoot up his chest, across his chin, and then drool onto his belly. When he had calmed, he moved to remove the blindfold, but I stayed his hands. I lifted his legs to drape over my thighs as I poured more of the massage oil on my swollen cock before sliding deep within him. I kept moving with great speed, lost in the sensations of Toby surrounding me. Overwhelmed by the love I felt for him and the joy of the trust he had placed in my hands by remaining blindfolded, it didn’t take me long to find my own release, pushing deep within him for my final plunge. I hit something inside Toby and he grunted with a second release, scant minutes after his first. It had been an ideal couple of months. We spent a great many hours lying in bed, loving each other, holding each other. We have made love in my room and in his. We even made love one time against my kitchen counter and even in the dune grass by the gazebo at the edge of my property. I told him I loved him and often. But he never returned the feelings. He was affectionate and very caring. But he never said those three simple words. Then one day he told me his book was done and he asked me to read it.

I sat in my room and tried to go slow, wanting to draw out and savor each word, knowing that when I was done, Toby would soon leave. But his book was too good. I finished in just over five hours, devouring each and every word. I was moved and touched by what he wrote. It was almost the end of the book before I realized that he had turned me into one of the characters. The female detective, one of the minor characters from his last book, had come to Oregon to heal from her injuries. She stayed at a little inn along the coast and was nursed and loved back to health by a kind, warm, gentle man. It filled my heart to know that Toby really saw me, the person I feel I really am. I put down the last page, thrilled by the whole experience and went to find him.

I found him lying in his bed, asleep, facing away from me. I slipped off my clothes and slipped into bed with him. I pulled his warm body flush with mine. His back rested fully against my chest and I wrapped my arm around him, squeezing him to me. Then I started kissing his neck and nibbling on his ear. I was hard and thrusting lightly into his crack, gently masturbating myself into his willing flesh. I ran my arm down his furry belly and felt him standing hard and leaking against his belly button. I grasped him and stroked him slowly but hard. I nudged a leg between his thighs, lifting and separating his ass just enough that I could find him with my cock. I pushed into him slightly and rocked slowly into him fully, all the while kissing and biting at his neck and shoulder.

Toby’s arm came up and he cupped my face as I continued to rock gently into him. I shifted slightly and pushed hard into him and felt his entire body shudder, his moan loud and low and deep. I kept moving into him, deep and hard, pulsing with pleasure, throbbing deep inside him with every beat of my heart. As I had noticed before, our hearts beat at the same rate and I could feel them sync up, pulsing through us at the same time. Each tense of my body had him shiver and groan. Each thrust had me gasping in ecstasy. Then I felt him thicken and get harder in my hand. I moved my fist up and explored the flared ridge of his head and sense the slit open, readying to expel his essence. Then he cried out and I felt the muscles deep inside pulse and then his cock twitched in time to the jetting of his semen. Six, seven, eight heavy pulses and then he relaxed, limp from the pleasure. I sped up, giving myself the added tempo in order to trip and join him in sated bliss. When I came, I knew it would probably be the last time I was going to be with him and it made the strong, intense spasms poignant as well as earth shattering. As I felt my body calm, relax and soften from my efforts, I slipped out of him and pulled him even tighter to my body, hoping for just a few more hours of having my love sleep in my arms, before they became empty forever.

The next day I knew our time was drawing to a close. He spent a long time on the phone with his editor, discussing his new book and the book signing for his latest, just published opus. I steeled myself for the coming few days, willing myself to put up as good a front as I could. Wanting Toby to only look back on our time together with pleasure and never regret or guilt, I vowed to smile when I sent him off, back to his world. He found me in the kitchen and told me he would leave the following morning for New York. I don’t know how I kept from crumpling to the ground in pain, but I stayed standing, with a slight smile on my face. I just nodded and then thanked the stars for the sound of my oven timer going off. After I had pulled out my latest batch of cookies, I turned back to Toby.

“You could come with me, Jack.”

I smiled though it hurt so much. “I can’t during the summer. Maybe for a few months in the winter, or a week or two in October, but I can’t get away now.” I wanted to ask him to stay, offering him a safe harbor to work, a companion to travel with for research during the long, lonely winters. I didn’t make the offer though. Perhaps I had too much pride. Perhaps I was too afraid that the answer would be no. I do have some sense of self-preservation. Twenty-six years of shyness does provide a few defenses for my psyche.

We spent the night together in my room. Our frenzied coupling was almost desperate in our need to be together. I used every touch and caress, every kiss and moan as a beacon to remember him by, knowing that I would probably need the memories to survive the cold of winter. Eventually we slept, holding almost fiercely to each other, as if we were both loath to let the other go. I awoke before the dawn, watching the sky lighten and define the features of his face, using the last opportunity to see him, knowing that the moment he left would probably kill me.

His flight was scheduled to leave Portland at three. It takes an hour to get to the airport. He left just before lunch. I helped him pack; looking in the drawers and shelves of his armoire for any last items he might have missed. When the last of his suitcases were locked, I helped him carry them to his car. He kissed my cheek before heading to his door. But I couldn’t end it like this.

“If you ever happen to be back in the area. You are always welcome, Toby.”

“Even in your bed?” It stung a little, to swallow my pride. But I looked down for a second before looking him straight in the eyes then nodded. After a few seconds, he was gone.

I walked back inside, feeling hollow and brittle. I had a feeling I would break at any moment. But I didn’t. I spent the rest of the day cleaning rooms, doing laundry, cooking up the usual storm for the shelter, talking with and helping the guests: anything to put the gaping hole in my heart out of my mind or at least to the back of it. I didn’t sleep that night, didn’t even try.

The next day I worked in the garden. I planted every plant I had. Every pot and planter I had for the entire house was filled to overflowing with flowers and herbs. The house was covered in a profusion of color and scents. I put flowers in each room and draped the dining room in colorful blooms. And that night I didn’t sleep.

The next day I knew I had put it off long enough. I needed to clean his room. I needed to change the bedding and do what was necessary to let someone else use the room. It took a good hour before I could garner the courage to go upstairs. But I did. I opened the door and saw the rumpled sheets on the bed and the used towel lying on the bathroom floor. I sank down on the bed and pulled his pillow into my lap, hugging it to me, sniffing it lightly, and breathing in his scent. I don’t know how long I sat there, feeling my chest tighten with the loss and pain I was feeling. I hadn’t cried since he left and I vowed not to now. I lost focus in my eyes and held on tighter to the pillow, letting its slight fragrance brush through me.

“You fake!” I looked up to catch a vision of Toby standing in the door. All my resolve to not cry fled as my vision blurred with the welling tears.

“Sending me away, letting me think everything was fine. You big fake!” His voice washed over me, making the pain even greater. “You made me think that you didn’t care, Jack. Letting me believe that your heart wasn’t breaking. That you weren’t dying inside slowly. That your chest hurt so bad it hurt to even breath.” His voice broke. “Just like mine did, from the moment I drove away!”

I blinked hard and Toby came into focus. He had tears streaming down his face. He dropped to his knees in front of me and grabbed me hard before kissing me. It was a wet, sloppy kiss, filled with taste and texture, love and hurt, tears and moans. We continued to kiss as he pulled me down to the floor with him. He rolled me to my back and wedged his leg between mine, thrusting his hips hard into me, letting me feel how hard he was. He kept rubbing into me, and I could do nothing but meet him. We were too desperate to remove our clothes. We kept kissing and writhing against each other, moaning deep in our chests as first he, then I found release. We kept kissing and crying for a few minutes. Then he pulled up and looked in my face.

“Don’t ever send me away again. It damn near killed me.”

“Never. I never wanted you to go.”

“I love you Jack.”

“I love you too, Toby.”

I look back on that afternoon in the upstairs bedroom and smile. And as I lie here, holding Toby, looking out the curtains at the lightening dawn I can look back and wonder. It’s not that he takes me places to research his books. It’s not that he spends the summer writing and helping me care for my guests. It’s not that he is starting to get a little bald spot at the crown of his head (which he fiercely denies). It’s not that he wears his glasses all the time now. It’s not that he is starting to silver at the temples or that his chest is more salt and pepper than pepper now. It’s not that he dedicates every new book to me. It’s not that he has put on ten pounds and blames my cooking on it. It’s not that he makes love to me every night and each morning, sometimes even in the middle of the day. It’s not his smile even though it causes my heart to race when it is sent my way. It’s not his eyes or his hands or his caring, wonderful nature. It’s not any one thing. I just love him. And it’s true. I do. For twenty-two summers and twenty-two winters. For each heartache and every triumph--I love him.

So as the dawn purples, then grays, I pull him closer against my chest. I lift his leg over my own and part him, sliding in easily, feeling the remnants of last night’s lovemaking, knowing that if our position were reversed, he would find the same in me. So I slid home, pushing into him, feeling him waken and grip me. As I moved, he kept gripping and squeezing me, murmuring words of love and encouragement. And I kept moving, feeling his chest and belly, the smattering of hair, the smooth, warm skin, and the hard, muscular planes. I kept moving as the sky lightened as if waiting for us to find our pleasure before the sun broke out over the horizon. As the time progressed and Toby got closer and closer to his release, his words of encouragement became filthy, raw suggestions that pushed me higher, causing me to teeter over the edge, taking him with me just as the sun pierced the horizon, bathing us in its warm, heavenly glow.

As our bodies calmed, I just wondered at nature’s beauty spread out before us. I knew that we had many more years ahead of us, knowing we had countless mornings that we would wake each other with passion. But each time felt like the first, the most important, and the best.