Gay Erotic Stories

The next morning, I awoke spooned with my uncle, my back and rear tight against his firm but plush chest and belly, one of his wonderful arms draped around my waist; and my head lay upon the bicep of his other, folded arm. Leaving his left arm on my stomach where it was, he pulled the other one away, and leaned upon his elbow, and tenderly kissed my ear, and whispered, “Good morning, Little Mikey.” He had another way both of waking me and calming me and deeply gratifying me. Pulling away a little, and maneuvering, he reached over for the bottle of lube and applied a generous amount to his left hand, and he began to apply it to my anus as he had before, first on one finger, then two. And then to his penis, like mine, fully erect. I had known that, from the first moment I swam into consciousness and that the close firmness of his erection pressed against my backside was one of the many reasons for my bliss at being in his arms.

Very gently, he pressed the tip of his slick phallus against my anus, and I felt it ease in, first just a fraction of an inch, and then gradually, very slowly, another fraction and then another, and then withdrawing a little, and then reaching another, deeper mark. But it was a slow, slow, subtle action. By now my hairy legs were tangled with his, and his hands were free to caress my back and the back of my neck and my cheek and ear. I became increasingly filled as his flesh became mine. He moved slowly but relentlessly, taking us both to higher and higher plateau, on and on, and then finally I felt his penis give a great jerk as he shuddered; and then another and another; and then a great exhalation, and relaxation. We lay there, conjoined for a long, long moment, and then he withdrew, leaving me almost feeling abandoned. But of course I was not abandoned, for he couldn’t have been closer or more attentive. He rolled me over, not caring about the cream oozing out of my anus onto the sheet, and said with a smile, “Okay, Mikey, that’s two.” But he wasn’t nearly done. Again he knelt between my legs and surveyed my cock, swollen near to bursting. Yes, we were planning to get on the road early, but he wasn’t going to rush anything; at least that was his design. He said, “Get up and spread your legs,” and obeying him, I stood beside the bed. He got up and stood behind me, and began to caress and kiss my flaring shoulders and upper arms; and then gradually and gracefully coming into a squat, he kissed my fuzzy butt, and with his hands, smeared all over the backs and insides of my thighs the cum that was leaking from where he had so lovingly deposited it.

He rose, and enfolded me in his arms, pulling me firmly to his body, so that we were spooned again, the touch of his chest and belly hair onto my back sending me to a new level of excitement (if that were possible!), and his legs caressing mine. Reaching around me, both his hands were on my chest, and his now bearded chin was on my right shoulder, and he nibbled at my ear and breathed into it, as his hands worked their way down to my belly, ruffling the trail of hair above and below my navel, and he grasped my throbbing and engorged member with his right hand, while in his left hand he cupped my testicles. I began to feel something new and hard between my legs, and then pressing upwards between my cheeks.

As he murmured, “Mikey, Mikey, Mikey, I love you, I love you, I love you,” into my ear, he began to stroke. As he stroked with his right, now well-lubed hand, his left wandered from my balls up my abs to my chest, and chin, and back down. After few more minutes of firm and knowing strokes, I was beyond the point of no return, and my body stiffened, my knees almost buckled, and I shot stream after stream of cum into the air. The last jet my uncle caught with his hand and massaged it into my belly, but I was spent, exhausted, but amazed that, enfolded in my uncle’s arms, totally tangent from his chin on my shoulder to his feet planted right beside mine, that I had endured his ministrations that long . My knees hadn’t really buckled, and I was still standing, and I turned around to hold my uncle in the tightest and most intense embrace we had ever exchanged, with my right arm over his left shoulder, and my left arm circling his body on his right; and he symmetrically reciprocating. We stood there a long minute before we broke and hit the shower again.

Despite this pleasant wake-up interlude, we were still on the road before 6:15 in the morning, and we had a long ride in front of us, from the rolling hills of Iowa, across the length of Nebraska--over 450 of the 800 miles to Cheyenne would be in the Cornhusker State--and across about 50 miles of Wyoming. We didn’t stop for almost two hours, by which time we had, as before, shed our tee shirts, leaving us in only brief running shorts and our Nike’s. We talked about a wide variety of things, but mostly, oddly, about Unix systems. When Mike had gotten his big signing bonus, he bought really nice presents for his parents and his sister. And for me he had gotten virtually the best laptop in the market. It cost thousands, but it was totally amazing; it had everything you could have, and Mike had worked some sort of magic and installed both Unix and a Windows system, so that it could function as either a Unix machine or a Windows machine. There are lots of advantages to this but it’s not without a lot of complications, and so Mike gave me like a regular tutorial.

When finally we stopped, while we were pumping the gas, I did notice for the first time what Mike had said, and yes, people were swiveling around to get a view of me. All right, I was a well-developed, 6’ 1” blond, blue-eyed young guy in nothing but short shorts and shoes and with lots of golden hair on my arms and legs, and some on my chest and abs. But I compared myself to Mike, who was even better developed, and with his profoundly hairy chest and belly, and who had such an easy grace in everything he did, and I felt that when he was around, all eyes--certainly mine--were on him. And when we got back in the cab of the truck, I was regretting that the trip was nearly half over, and I didn’t care how odd it looked to passing motorists, I sat right beside him as he drove, leg to leg and thigh to thigh, and shoulder to shoulder. I tugged off his shorts, and kept my hand on his thigh and my fingers in his pubic hair the rest of the morning. At first of course he was totally aroused, but he grew used to it, and after a long interval, his erection gradually subsided, and I was even able to hold his phallus in my hand, large and heavy, but not erect. I knew I could, if I wanted, make him totally stiff again, but really what I wanted was just this new kind of extreme togetherness of a sort I knew I would desperately miss when this trip was over.

Curiously, even in this state of extreme intimacy, we talked about mundane affairs: relatives, the Phillies, his colleagues at work, and of course, the impending wedding. We had to get a bit more decent when we went through the drive-in Subway line for lunch in Lincoln. (Anyway Mike pulled up his shorts, and I sat on the passenger’s side instead of in the middle of the bench seat.) It was in a little strip mall just at the exit nearest the University of Nebraska. Mike was still driving, and as we begin to pull out onto commercial drive that led to the I-80 West ramp, I saw a kid with a sign that said ‘Laramie.’ He wasn’t big: I doubt he was more than 5’7”, if that; and he wasn’t very impressive, with a baggy U of Wyoming shirt on (with its Cowboy astride a bucking horse), a rather ratty baseball cap covering much of his face, and in front of him, a backpack with a skateboard sticking out of it. But the scene appealed to my sense of decency, and I said to Mike, “Hey, Laramie is less than 50 miles beyond Cheyenne; you wanna pick him up?” Mike shrugged assent and pulled the truck over, and I opened the passenger door, jumped out, and the kid sprinted the few feet to the truck and jumped in, flashing the biggest grin in the world. I grabbed his stuff and tossed it behind the seat . In just a few minutes, we were somewhat acquainted. He was Steve, or as it later turned out, Stephen Rutland Manners. He was a 20-year-old rising junior at Wyoming. “What are you studying?” I asked . “I’m getting one of Wyoming’s fine arts degrees. I’m studying both photography and music, but I’m not counting on any of that helping me find work,” he grinned.

“And what are you doing in Lincoln?” Mike inquired.

“Oh, visiting my boyfriend,” he said with an unembarrassed smile. It turns out Steve is on Wyoming’s gymnastic team, and he’d met Joe when his team competed against Nebraska’s, and they really hit it off.

Seated between us, he looked small, except for his surprisingly big legs, which had been hidden behind the ‘Laramie’ sign and the backpack. But glancing to his right seeing me; and to his left and seeing Mike, both shirtless of course, he said, “Hey, what am I doing so over-dressed?” And he took off his cap, and pulled his baggy Wyoming shirt over his head. What a difference that made! He may have been short, but he was extremely well built, with powerful shoulders way disproportionate to his stature, and really impressive guns, and his chest and abs were impossibly well developed and defined: the complete gymnast.

And taking off his cap revealed a strikingly good-looking face. A cute nose, a round chin with the hint of a dimple right in the middle of it, large light blue eyes, and the biggest smile this side of Texas. When he smiled, which was often, he displayed brilliantly white teeth, which were set off by his deep dark tan. He was tanned all over, but especially on his hands and arms and face and the front of his thighs and his shoulders. He had medium short spiky black hair, tipped in gold, and except for rather long and wide sideburns, he was clean-shaven. He had a good deal hair on his forearms and legs, and a nice patch in the middle of his chest, from which descended a continuous band down his stomach and belly, thickening around his navel, and disappearing into his shorts. In fine, he was the total hottie!

“Music major, huh?” said Mike.

“Voice, Steve said, diffidently. “Like I said, I don’t expect it to lead to any kind of a career, but I’ve always liked singing, so I figure, what the hell?”

“My nephew and I like singing too,” Mike said. Actually Mike had a rich baritone, and for the last few years, I had begun to sound exactly like him. On the phone, when he calls home, and says, “Hi, it’s Mike,” nobody knows whether it’s him or me. He explained that we both were in bands. (He didn’t say that he’d sung in Stanford’s glee club for all four years.) I’d always loved singing with Mike. And I loved his raunchy bar ballads. I asked him to sing David Allen Coe’s hilarious “I Just Wanna Fuck You One More Time,” and he did. But first I reached behind the seat and rummaged in my own duffle and got out my harmonica to accompany him. It was a good one that Mike had given me many years ago. Most people just think of harmonicas as just toys, or at best something to accompany plaintive western songs or maybe a Dylan oldie. Actually, they are sophisticated musical instruments, and in properly trained hands you can play “O mio Babbino Caro” or “Una Furtiva Lacrima” as easily as “Friends in Low Places.” Played correctly, you can get four octaves on a 12-hole chromatic harp.

For the next two hours we sang non-stop. Mike and I knew a lot of songs, but Steve seemed to know every song in the world, from Elvis and the Beatles to Trent Reznor. He had a beautiful clear tenor, and he had a terrific range. Mike or I sometimes took the lead, sometimes we harmonized, and sometimes I accompanied on the harp or Mike whistled. (My uncle could have been a serious concert whistler.) Sometimes Steve knew the words, but Mike and I knew the tune but only part of the lyric. Steve would “line” us, quickly giving us the lyric in pauses between each full phrase. We had a great time and laughed a lot. After we had sung Top Forty crap up through Pearl Jam and Savage Garden and even a few old hokey Tin Pan Alley things, we actually showed off for each other with a few art songs. I knew a couple of not-too-challenging baritone songs--I wouldn’t call ‘em arias exactly--from opera, and a few of the typical Italian “street songs” that everyone loves so well. Mike had one showpiece Strauss Lied that was always a stunner. And Steve sang “Spirto Gentil”, “Nessun Dorma” and a few other tenor chestnuts. The truck seat was plenty generous for two. For three guys with big shoulders, it was snug. Our arms were always brushing one another; and our big thighs were virtually always touching. It made sense for me to get my arm out of the way and it wound up partly on Steve’s shoulder. During the music-making Steve often really got into it, and bobbed and moved with the rhythm; and he would sometimes snap his fingers or slap his thighs, and he’d drum on our thighs, too. A week ago I’d have reacted pretty harshly to this gratuitous touching; but now I was strangely complacent. No, not complacent, actually I quite enjoyed it. Mike didn’t seem to object either.

After a pause, Mike said, “You’re hitching back to Laramie. Did you hitch to Lincoln?” Surprising us, Steve said, “No, I biked.” “What? You biked?” I said. “Well, it wasn’t that big a deal. Once you get to Cheyenne, it’s mostly rather flat. It’s the wind that can kill you. ‘Coupla days I had annoying crosswind out of the south, but the other two days I had a fairly stiff tail wind and I made 140 miles each day with no trouble.” With his big legs I wouldn’t have expected him to have much trouble anyway, but it did explain his deep dark tan.

“So where’s your bike now?” I asked. “I traded it to Joe,” Steve mildly explained, “for that neat skateboard.” It might have been a nice skateboard, but it was pretty beat up, and wouldn’t have fetched $10 at a yard sale.

“What’d you trade him for the board?” I asked. “Oh, it was a road bike.” Turns out he had gotten a new handmade bike with a Vanguard titanium frame, and considered his Trek 2200 to be simply redundant. We didn’t know it then, but we would find out later, that that was Steve all over. Money didn’t mean a fucking thing to him, and he was the most generous guy I’ve ever known.

“So tell us how you met, Joe,” Mike prodded.

And he did. He didn’t leave out any details, for he was a great storyteller. (I won’t repeat the details here: That’s a story for another time.) But as he went through the particulars of their first meeting, and how they went back to his room together, and what ensued the rest of that night and the rest of that weekend, both Mike and I had to “adjust” our crotches rather obviously. In fact, our little running shorts stood no chance of containing our cocks, which quite patently stuck out over the waistbands, the heads swollen and empurpled.

As Steve gave chapter and verse of what Joe looked like and what they, two totally toned and totally flexible (then 19 year old) gymnasts, did together, he slipped his shorts down and kicked them off, revealing a cock that was ready for action. Considering that he probably wasn’t 5’ 7”, he was well endowed. He probably was pretty close to seven inches long; his shaft was thick and very veiny; and his cockhead was proportionately even more flared than Mike’s or mine. The well-defined trail of black hair running below his navel lost itself in his pubic hair. I didn’t then get a good view of his balls, but I would later.

Nobody could have missed the state that Mike and I were in, and certainly Steve didn’t. With a big smile he said, “Raise up,” and I used my arms and legs to raise my butt a little up off the truck seat and with one swift motion Steve gracefully pulled my shorts down to my ankles, and I kicked them off. Since Mike was driving, it was only a little more awkward for Steve to disencumber him.

Steve sat down again, slouching a little, so that his genitals were a little freer than if he was sitting straight up. “Ready for the next chapter?” he grinned. And as he began to relate his and Joe’s next date in complete detail, he grasped Mike’s phallus with his left hand, and mine in his right. As he told the story, leaving nothing out, he slowly wanked us in synchrony. It was only mid-afternoon and we had hours in front of us, so there was no reason to hurry. In fact, he proved to be a master at alternating the slow and irregular stroke with interludes of the firm and steady, depending on the part of the story he was telling. During this, Mike had his right arm on Steve’s shoulder and across his back, and my left arm was arranged the same way, and in fact Mike’s big hand covered and caressed mine, as I stroked Steve’s neck.

When he begin to get to the climax of the story, he got up, turned to face us, and squatted in the cramped space between the bench and the dash. Though in a truck that space is much bigger than in a car, nevertheless I could never have done that. But with his remarkable grace and flexibility, he did it effortlessly. The reason he did it, however, was to get a much better purchase on the two huge erections Mike and I were sporting. From that angle he was able to manipulate them with great expertise and finesse, especially in the “pulling” strokes. Meanwhile, Mike’s right hand sought my left hand, and our fingers were tightly interlaced. A dozen of Steve’s strokes, each with pauses between them, and then--he really knew what he was doing!--two very firm climactic strokes and Mike and I both erupted at the same instant, on the same stroke. How Steve arranged that I don’t know, but he did. And of course his follow-up strokes emptied us and satisfied us completely. There was spunk all over Steve, our legs, and the truck cab.

Steve sat back down, but I pulled his right leg over mine, and Mike pulled his left arm over his own shoulder. I seized hold of his phallus with my left hand, and began to jack him. It wasn’t working as well as I’d hoped, since, well, in part my left hand is not my jacking hand, and the angle wasn’t the best. But Mike took care of that. He said, “Mikey, reach back into my duffle and find my toilet kit and grab that lube.” I did, and squeezed a generous supply into Mike’s right hand, and even though he was driving, Mike had no problems giving Steve an artful, unhurried hand job as we cruised over endless Nebraska, while I reached over and held Steve’s balls with my right hand. When Mike was good and ready, he brought off Steve--in a cataclysm-- and I swear his semen hit the truck roof, not once, but in two of his great spurts! They always say, “Good things come in small packages,” but in Steve’s case we should say, “Great things come in small packages!”

We were frankly all mentally exhausted by now, and we simply rested silent for a few miles, but this Steve’s way of relaxing was to have one hand curled over my thigh and one over Mike’s. That was fine with us.

And this was mid-afternoon on the third day of my trip.

To be continued.