Gay Erotic Stories

He got on at the Knightsbridge tube station. He was remarkably good looking, after the English fashion. Trim, close to six feet, probably about 25, with light brown hair neatly cut but falling onto his forehead, with medium-blue somewhat deep-set eyes. His Lauren shirt was rolled up just above his elbows, displaying powerful-looking forearms, covered with coppery-colored hair, similar in color to the hair that his open collar revealed. On the London Underground trains, if you don’t have a tabloid to read, your other choice is to gaze at your fellow travelers: It’s both convenient and, for a people as typically reserved as the English, surprisingly acceptable, at least on the Underground. As soon as he boarded, his eye caught my young uncle, Mike.

Mike was in town for a week’s consultation with a client of his California-based software company. His fiancée, Alice, had graduated from Stanford less than two weeks earlier, and they were able to mix pleasure with their business. Unfortunately, today Alice had a temporary indisposition and was sleeping it off in their convenient and luxurious Bloomsbury hotel, and so Mike was on his own today. It was the late spring Bank Holiday, and the Lincoln’s Inn law chambers for which he was consulting were closed . When in the clients’ chambers, Mike wore a well-cut Saville Row suit; but today he was wearing his ‘English disguise.’ It was a quite close-fitting white English football fan’s shirt, with the escutcheon of England Ancient over his heart (gules three lions passant guardant or), and across his back and emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders, the great red Cross of Saint George. He wore the casual shorts then current in England, and Nike ‘trainers’ rather more subdued than the styles worn in the U. S., with the very low-cut socks that hardly show above the shoes’ uppers.

He only wanted to blend in, but for a man like Mike, this was impossibility. He turned heads everywhere he went. Six feet tall, with a true athlete’s build, he had large and powerful arms, broad shoulders, and his torso narrowed to a boyish waist. The casual shorts could not disguise his fine butt, or his impressive thighs. His costume displayed both his forearms and his lower legs, thickly garnished with golden sun-bleached crisp hair, and his chest hair peeked over even the high round collar of the Team England shirt. With medium blond, somewhat curly hair, striking azure eyes, a square chin and killer dimples, he was, quite frankly a very strikingly beautiful man.

Unlike many men, even the sexiest, who under ordinary circumstances carry their penises in a reduced and diminished state, so that the process of erection achieves what might appear to be an unlikely miracle, Mike’s normally bore his beautiful penis rather full and fat, even under the most relaxed circumstances. When he wore jeans, for instance, the bulge at his crotch was inevitably prominent and quite manifest. Even when he wore looser clothing, anyone whose eyes dwelt upon his crotch, and over the years the number of those who had was phenomenal, in bars, classrooms, on the street, in laboratories or offices, could discern vividly with no difficulty that Mike was very impressively endowed, something that merely amplified the aura of intense masculinity that Mike effortlessly and inevitably radiated, and completed the image of the total stud.

Mike was not unaware of the reaction that his looks generated in others, but, strange to say, very beautiful men are in a no-win situation. If one is diffident and reserved, there is always the risk of giving the impression of arrogance; on the other hand if one is affable and approachable to strangers, then one can present an unwanted air of noblesse oblige, of condescension to ‘ordinary’ folk. Mike always opted for the latter course, however, and easily met everyone’s eyes, returned every smile, and generally tried to ignore the impact that his striking looks inevitably made upon others, as impossible as this was.

The handsome man who got on the train at Knightsbridge studied my uncle almost from the moment the train doors opened. He was standing only about three feet away. Mike returned his gaze with an occasional neutral amiable glance, and by the Green Park station, the stranger had engaged him in casual conversation: the excellent weather, long running plays in the West End, etc . Mike made ready to leave the train at Leicester Square, and as he left the handsome stranger also stepped from the car. “Fancy a drop of beer, would you? I know a quite nice place near here?”

Since Mike really had little particularly to do, he had just planned to walk the rest of the way through Covent Garden on his way back to his hotel, maybe killing some time watching the street performers. He saw no reason not to accept the offer. It was about 2.15 in the afternoon. The young man introduced himself as “Piers,” and led my young uncle to a somewhat nondescript bar in Old Compton Street, whose name I will not report here. They took a small table overlooking the street, and Piers ordered a pint of Fuller’s for each of them. Piers said, “Mike, I have something of a proposition for you; something that may well interest you; something that could be both profitable and pleasurable; something for which in my professional judgment you’d be a natural.” Mike agreeably bid him to continue, curious about what Piers had in mind.

Piers begin to describe an unusual business, which in fact was operated from this very pub. It was called “English Handicrafts,” but it had nothing to do with tatting and salt-glazed pottery. After they had finished their beer, Piers took Mike through an unlabeled door at the rear of the bar, and they climbed a single flight of stairs to a well-lit elegant room that occupied the entire floor. The walls were paneled in bleached birch, giving a light and clean aspect to the room. The floors were high-gloss maple, finished to a very light color. The ceiling was notably low, barely over six and half feet. At either end of the oblong room was what could alternatively be described as a stage; a theatre; a pit; or a bed. Specifically it was an x-shaped bed, built up on a platform about four feet high, and surrounded by a round, waist-high railing. Above the bed, the ceiling was open to the next floor, via a circular oculus of diameter roughly equal to that of the railing, and around the oculus there was another railing on the upper level. At each of a dozen stations located around the railings, both at the lower level and the upper, there was a small console, with jacks and dials, and earphones.

This arrangement was frankly baffling to Mike. Piers said, “Wait a few minutes and everything will become perfectly clear.” Piers took him up a small spiral staircase to the upper level and they took positions at two adjacent stations above the bed that was the focus of the rear pit or theatre, and put on the earphones of that station. If you press “1” on the keypad you heard raucous ‘’dance music; pressing “2” produced smooth jazz; three, classical music; four, classic rock, and so forth. “9” was labeled “Vox humana.”

As three o’clock neared, other men took positions at other stations at the railings above and below and at both the front theatre or pit and the rear one. The men were quite miscellaneous. Some were young, 20 or so; others were in their 60’s. Some were quite fashionably dressed and others were wearing clothes as casual as Mike himself.. Some were rather good-looking, and quite a number were very ordinary and nondescript in appearance. Mike recognized several who had been at tables in the bar downstairs. At three o’clock sharp a very handsome young well-built guy clad only in the sort of towel that snaps at the waist came in, from a rear door, leading to the rear theatre a youth of about 19 wearing a blindfold and a luxurious white terry robe. And a minute or two later, another well-built extremely good-looking man of about 24 preceded another youth of 20 or so. This young man was not blindfolded and required no one to lead him.

At either end of the room, each of the robed youths approached the bed platform, climbed up some short steps and stood upon the bed, and undid the sash of the robe and let the robe fall to the floor, standing there altogether nude. Each of them was remarkably well formed and handsome. The youth on the bed where Mike’s station was was slim, though with rather broad shoulders; well-defined pectorals, and particularly well-defined abdominals. His dark hair was cropped quite short, and his blindfold obscured much of his face. The youth’s arms were wiry and muscular. His legs were long and well made, and his forearms and well-turned calves were covered with a fair amount of hair, which grew sparser above his knees. His seven-inch cock was rigid, and standing at a 45-degree angle from his firm belly. Except for a neat patch of pubic hair, and a fine trail leading up to his navel, he was smooth.

Because the bed was on the raised platform, and the ceiling of the lower level was so low, Mike and Piers on the upper level were really only a very few feet from the subject, and the observers on the lower level were still closer. As the youth stood there, the attendant wearing the towel pressed a control button and the bed began very slowly to rotate, and in a moment or two the youth’s rear came into view from Mike’s station. He had a very fine round butt, and the breadth of his shoulders were emphasized in the view from the rear. It took about three minutes for the bed to return to its original orientation, and the attendant pushed another button and the speed of rotation of the bed diminished notably, to an almost imperceptible rate. The youth then lay down spread-eagle style, upon the x-shaped bed, which was covered by a well-starched sheet, and the attendant snapped cushioned restraints around his wrists and ankles. Mike noticed for the first time a small microphone hanging from the ceiling over the young man.

Piers took Mike over to one of the few unoccupied stations at the other oculus, looking down on the other bed. Here the scene was similar, but different. The youth here was quite strikingly handsome, with red-gold hair “strawberry blond” that hung across his forehead in bangs; large blue eyes; a rather triangular face with a prominent chin and a good, strong nose. His eyebrows were of gold, and he had across his face a very amiable smile, which he lavished on all the spectators on both levels, more or less one at a time, meeting every eye. He had a very notably athletic body, with broad shoulders and a large chest, true six-packed abdominals, and big biceps and wiry forearms. His thighs were probably the most impressive part of his musculature, as large around as some women’s waists. And for a youth of 20, it was surprising what a manly development of body hair he exhibited: It spread across his pecs, and down the midline of his torso ran a continuous trail, until it merged with his pubic hair. Its ground color was probably a somewhat light auburn, actually, which was certainly the color of his pubic hair; but he evidently had spent time in the sun (perhaps a trip to Majorca or Ibiza recently), for there were glints of golden highlights on his chest and on the strip of hair above and below his navel. His hands and wrists and forearms were thickly covered with glittering golden hair. In fine, he was remarkably beautiful, one in a thousand. And it was his fantastic smile that ‘sold’ the entire package, as he, like the youth at the other bed platform, rotated slowly through the action of some unseen motor.

At this end of the room, too, the youth gracefully reclined on the sheeted bed, and the toweled attendant fixed similar padded restraints on the wrists and ankles.

Mike and Piers put in the buds of their earphones, Mike tuning into Mahler’s Second on channel three, and Piers to the jazz channel, and the attendant reached to his waist and unfastened the snaps of his towel and cast it aside, now as nude as the spread-eagled youth on the bed.

The attendant was himself a truly remarkable sight. Perhaps five foot ten, he was a blue-eyed blond with a major gym-rat body, almost perfectly developed, and perfectly smooth to show off his highly defined muscle groups. He looked like one of those Chippendale’s dancers. The attendant at the other end of the room was strikingly good looking in quite a different way. He was lankier, taller, and darker, with a considerable amount of dark hair on his torso, arms and legs. His round butt was smoothly fleeced with dark hair. He had a stubbled chin, and prominent eyebrows: almost, but not quite, a mono-brow. His penis, now erect, was waving in the air, and Mike judged that it could not have been less than ten inches long. ‘Chippendale’ was more normally endowed, and when he became entirely erect, he displayed between six and seven inches.

By now most of the spectators had shed some of, or all of, their clothing. At each station there was a ‘valet stand’ upon which spectators could hang jackets, trousers, shirts, etc. Some wore terry robes similar to those the subjects on the beds had worn upon entering, and some were entirely nude, but almost all were wearing their earphones. The attendants were not “attendants” at all but masseurs, or actually, “full-body” masseurs, and they began to ply their trades on the subjects in restraints on their beds. Each had a different approach.

“Chippendale” began by massaging the strawberry-blonde’s arms, legs, and chest. At his first touch, his subject’s penis, which had been extended and fat but not really totally erect, came almost instantly to a state of complete rigidity, even though his masseur had only touched his right upper arm. It would take the masseur several minutes before he came anywhere near the subject’s genitals, concentrating instead upon his amazing abs, his huge thighs, and ruffling through the hair on his chest and calves and forearms. Eventually however, he would approach the youth’s cock, which now towered over his hairy lower belly. Though they were on the upper level, Mike and Piers were not much more than four feet away from the youth’s straining penis, and it was easy to discern its every detail: The longitudinal veins popping out on the top and sides, the smaller ones in more random-seeming patterns, along the seven-inch shaft. The hood of the cock was flared, with a diameter noticeably larger than that of the shaft, with a very sharply defined ridge. The cock must taper very slightly, since the very veiny root was evidently fatter than the main portion of the shaft. The youth’s balls were large apricot-sized and held rather loosely close to the body. Mike had on occasion seen his share of manflesh, but this guy was a beauty.

What Mike only gradually realized was that the other spectators at his theatre were constantly adjusting the dials fixed on the rail in front of each of them. They were constantly rating the experience on a scale of one to ten. The current average was being relayed to the masseur through his earphones, and according to the spectators’ rating, he knew whether to delay and extend the subject’s session, or to bring it to a business-like conclusion.

The strawberry-blonde was quite evidently a crowd-pleaser. The masseur used a professional’s arsenal of dilatory techniques to slow down and extend the process. With well-lubed and very slippery hands (there was a lube dispenser at his workstation), he grasped the subject’s shaft and gave it three or four long, slow, strokes, from root to tip, with each stroke terminating in his fist coming completely off the cockhead, and each new stroke starting by forcing his fist slowly over the cockhead on a new downward stroke. (Piers nudged Mike and pointed to the sound control number 9, “Vox Humana,” and when Mike selected this one, instead of orchestral music he heard what the microphone suspended above the subject picked up: with each stroke a somewhat choked gasp, and moans of pleasure.)

Then the masseur abandoned for a while the raging cock, and moved to the side of the bed and leaned down to kiss and tease the subject’s left nipple, causing him to flinch and jerk and emit a cry. The masseur stroked the subject’s face and neck, and kissed his mouth. And then, artfully trailing his hands down the subject’s torso from his big hairy chest to his rippling abs and hairy belly, he regained his phallus and applied another series of very deliberate strokes, before again he receded from the subject’s cock and stroked and hefted his balls, using both his hands on the two balls, and then licking them, and eliciting from the subject another great gasp.

It was about at this point that the first stream of semen came jetting from the upper level onto the subject’s chest. There would be many more before the session was over. Piers explained quietly to Mike that the typical subject’s session was about twenty minutes, and in an hour, the spectators would see three different sessions. Under extreme circumstances, on the basis of spectator reactions as reflected in their ratings, the masseur would extend the subject’s session to forty minutes, but this was rare. In these cases, a spectator would see only two subjects’ sessions. There were complex but well-understood procedures for dealing with extended sessions. Typically if an early session were extended to half an hour, then the next two together would be shoehorned into about half an hour or a little more.

In the case of the strawberry blond, at 25 minutes past the hour, the masseur began a strategy of eventual culmination. Abandoning the teasing, dilatory approach, he put both hands on the beautiful phallus and began very slow, but regular and irresistible stroking. The youth’s breathing became deeper and deeper and more regular and easily heard on the audio pickup. Several more jets of semen fell on different parts of his body from the spectators during this intense stage and eventually the masseur began a slightly faster stroke, and then, with a series of four or five very firm and deliberate strokes, the subject’s body stiffened and jerked and his back arched quite off the table and a rope of his cum jetted onto his chest hair, mingling with that of spectators?. And then in the expert hands of the masseur, another and another, before he fell into something like a swoon. The spectators clapped loudly, and though still seeming exhausted, the subject managed to open his eyes and look around to each face on each level and smile and acknowledge their applause. Still in restraints, he could acknowledge them no other way. The strikingly handsome masseur also took a small bow and turned first in this direction and that to acknowledge the crowd’s appreciation.

Mike now recalled that several minutes ago there had been a round of applause from the other theatre, but he had been so engrossed in the events right before him that it had hardly registered.

There was an interval during which the masseur loosened the subject’s restraints, and wiped away the semen from his body, and, very gracefully, the beautiful youth rose from the bed and strode to the dressing room for a shower, to still further applause. Piers took Mike aside to a quiet table in the bar area of the second floor and began to explain more of the details of the business. “English Handicrafts,” also called “English Crafty Hands” by the regulars, was a profit-making business operated as a club, in full compliance with all relevant laws and regulations. It opened each weekday at 3 pm, and continued until 2 am on weekdays and later on weekends. Members paid a 1500 pound initiation fee, and for each hour-long session they attended, a 20 or 30 pound fee. The 20 pound fee was for the rear theatre, the “Pitt Pit”; the fee for the “Beckham Arena,” in the front, was 30 pounds. There were significant differences between them. The subjects appearing in the Beckham were specially select. Within the railings of the Pitt pit, there was a clear plexiglass screen, so that no ejaculate could fall upon the subject, unlike the case of the Beckham, where this was a regular and much-beloved feature. The masseurs of the Beckham were also, in general, the more select of the staff both in appearance and skills.

From 3 pm until 6 pm, the subjects were 18 to 20, but from 5 to 6 pm they were often drawn from the ranks of central London’s bike messengers, even if older than 20. The typically trim, buff, tanned and ballsy bike messengers were very popular with the spectators, and since they had generally modest incomes, the fees the messengers received were typically very welcome. The messengers were actually a very significant element in the club’s business plan. In the course of their day, the messengers often found themselves in posh offices, and they had opportunities to distribute the club’s business cards to likely clients who may have looked at them hungrily. If they recruited a new member in this way they could earn a nice bonus.

From 6 pm to 10 pm, the subjects were selected from those 21 to 26 years old; and from 10 to closing from subjects 27 to 33 were included in the mix. Management had learned that in London there was a notable demand for Arab and Iranian subjects, and Thursday was devoted to that specialty all day long. Blonds appeared frequently in the rotation every day, but especially on Monday, when Poles and Russians and other Slavs resident in London were often found on display. And all Tuesday’s subjects were toward the hairy end of the spectrum, many of them handsome young Jews. On Sunday mornings, the club opened at 10, and until 2 pm, subjects older than 33 were featured, including particularly well-built men in their 40’s and occasionally even older. Management had found that there was a distinct custom for this particular niche. There was a discreet door onto a tiny lane off Old Compton Street used during times in which the bar downstairs was closed in accordance with the archaic British closing time” laws.

The ratings that the spectators registered on their dials were automatically entered into a database and they determined the both the compensation of the subjects and the masseurs. In general, the best-loved subjects received a 40-pound payment per session; less highly rated subjects got 20 pounds. There was also 10-pound scale, and for a fair number of subjects, there was no payment at all. And at the end of the scale, subjects could be charged 10 pounds to participate, or dropped from the program.

The subjects were termed “Players” by the management (but most often “studs” and “honeys” by the Members). Recruiting Players was one of the most critically important features of the management of the enterprise, and the staff were always on the lookout for highly eligible subjects. It was not easy to find Players who were very good looking, willing, and reliable: Reliable in the sense that they would appear on a reasonable schedule, and even more importantly that they would “perform” in a highly satisfactory fashion. Nothing disgusted the spectators so much as a Player who could not get it up, keep it up, and come to conclusion in an orderly fashion, neither too quickly nor too slowly.

The masseurs were highly skilled and reasonably well compensated, and they could adjust to a certain extent for the occasional inadequacy of a subject. They all were skilled fellators, but fellation was generally considered to be an expedient that sometimes was necessary to “fluff” a weak erection, or even bring a subject to conclusion who otherwise might fail. Fellation was, after all, not as visual an art as hand work except from certain angles, and for spectators on the upper level could be somewhat frustrating if the technique were used more often than as an occasionally necessary expedient, or as an occasional fillip in an extended session. And in every case, of course, the “money shot,” the culminating ejaculations, had to be manual, for all to view.

Because it was important for the masseurs to maintain a firm erection during their entire program, they normally worked only forty-minute shifts before being spelled by colleagues. (At the end of their workday, masseurs often took a turn as a Player, for they were very popular with the members, and for that they earned an additional bonus.) And there was always an ongoing need for new Players as old ones became jaded with the enterprise. Strange as it may seem, even something as dramatic as exhibiting oneself to a crowd of admiring strangers with every eye on you, your sexuality, and your most intimate functions can, after many visits, grow to be somewhat routine and lack the excitement that is really, in the long run, a necessary component of producing a truly excellent show. And the regular customers liked to see new flesh, too.

Finding extremely handsome and perfect -- subjects was especially important to the business. An otherwise highly satisfactory subject could be judged unsuitable because of a something as minor as a temporary rash, or an erection that bent too much to the left or right, or a tooth that was not pleasant looking. In fact, the blindfold that was sometimes used in the Pitt theatre was partially to enhance the fantasy of the exhibition, or to ease a new and shyer subject into the routine, but also to minimize the effect of slightly irregular features, or to obscure some slight wen or blemish.

About the names of the two theatres: The club made absolutely no representations about who their Players were, but the club was located right in the middle of the West End of London, and there were persistent rumors that celebrities from many walks of life had, for a thrill, taken a turn on the x-shaped beds, their features masked by a large blindfold. Occasionally the club actually used a sort of hood that completely masked the identity of the Player: whether it was because the subject had, perhaps, bad teeth, or on the other hand he was a hugely famous backfielder for Arsenal, no one except the management would ever know.

Piers then made an explicit offer to Mike. Mike was, quite obviously, an extremely, extremely handsome man, with a great body; and if undressed he looked the way Piers thought he would and Piers was a damn good judge. Mike could be an exceptionally popular Player. And Mike could well enjoy a pleasant auxiliary income from what would very likely prove to be a very pleasing experience. “Like to give it a try, Mate?” he asked. He said that the enterprise had numerous resident Americans on its roster, and that they were often among the most popular Players.

Mike explained that he was only in London temporarily, and that moreover, his fiancée was with him, whom he would not wish to shortchange sexually, and so he must decline, though he found the proposal amusing and in fact intriguing.

Piers then said, “Mike, you nevertheless seem likely to be a real natural. I’d really like to be able to present you to our customers even if it’s just a single appearance. This is what I’ll offer: An appearance in the Pitt pit “no spectators” cum could possibly fall on you there; a one-time 60 pound honorarium, which is one and a half times the fee paid to our very best Players; and while I’m in management and I rarely do it any more, I’ll personally be your masseur. It would just be a bonus for our customers.”

Mike said, “Well, to tell the truth, my fiancée is in fact sleeping off an unpleasant stomach disturbance, and I’m not likely to get any loving tonight anyway, what the hell, you’ve laid your cards on the table. I’ll do it. It’ll make an interesting story to tell back home. And how about a videotape of the whole thing? And hey, if I’m doing it, I’ll do it in the Beckham arena.” That was so like Mike: kindly, obliging, and experimental.

Piers said, “Great, it’s a done deal. You’ll be on at 5 pm, okay?”

Almost at the stroke of five, Piers exited the door in the rear, like his colleagues clad only in the towel. He was an imposing-looking specimen, with notably square shoulders, with a trim, not bulky build, but with elegantly defined pectorals and abdominals. The coppery colored hair so prominent on his impressive forearms, and peeking over his collar when Mike first saw him was only a foretaste of the spread of hair on his chest, quite over his midsections generally. It tended to lie flat against his skin and did very little to obscure his refined and defined musculature. In a few minutes he would unsnap his towel and toss it aside to reveal slim hips, and thighs whose long muscles were as defined as those of his forearms, and a very sexy lower belly. From his well-tamed shapely bush, more coppery hair rose in a sort of herringbone pattern in a broad strip upward to lose itself in the more generalized hair of his midsection. Removing the towel also revealed an erection that was in effect at an almost terminal stage of rigidity, standing upright and trembling with his every small motion, and with every move his balls swayed between his thighs.

Somehow a small buzz of a rumor had circulated throughout the room and the bar below and well before five pm all the stations at the railing above and below were occupied before Piers led Mike from the dressing room. Mike, like the other subjects before him, strode into the exhibition area dressed in a perfectly white robe, and twenty-five pairs of eyes followed him with sharp anticipation as he mounted the oddly shaped bed, and studied his face and head, chest, calves and feet, the only portions exposed by the robe. From years of sports and training, and the good fortune of great genetic endowment, his California-tanned calves were particularly full and round, and thickly covered with crisp, almost-white golden hair.

Everyone who has read “Cross-Country with My Uncle” knows in detail what a strikingly handsome character Mike is, with his loosely-curled thick medium-blond hair, which only with effort he kept off his forehead. His frontal ridge carried golden eyebrows, glistering in the special lighting of the Beckham Arena. His strong, straight nose gave imparted a powerful masculinity to his face, a masculinity underlined by his big square chin and smooth and regular jaw, but moderated by a soft-seeming mouth, and dimples that magically appeared when he flashed his frequent smiles. The spectators later reported that they all had felt the power and amiability of his azure eyes. During the exhibition, somehow they had each felt that he had granted them not a casual glance, but had locked eyes with them. After all, few of them were more than four feet from where he lay. They felt that he had acknowledged them, somehow validated them, by the kindly and direct look he bestowed on them, and the friendly smiles he directed at each of them. Like the others, he loosened the sash of the robe, but instead of letting the garment drop loosely onto the bed about his feet as the others had done, he rather show-boatingly tossed it ten feet away, and stood there, his legs wide apart, in his glory. The spectators gasped and applauded at what they saw, and could not resist whistling and whooping, for this man was sex on legs.

Readers of the earlier stories will be familiar with descriptions of Mike’s broad, powerful chest, with its beautiful mat of thick dark, blond hair, extending right up to, and even on, his lower neck. Descending from his chest along the midline of his very powerful abdominals, was a thick strip of dark blond or light brown crisp hair, that, below his navel spread into a wider and wider and thicker and thicker tangle of belly hair that graded into his luxuriant pubic hair.

Inevitably, as the robe loosened, every eye coursed to Mike’s genitals. He was Adamic in his beauty, but to the disappointment of most, he was not erect. Mike’s penis was fat and long and handsome, easily six inches in length and maybe closer to seven, even flaccid, and his large, and though he was carrying his large and shapely balls carried low and loose, the end of his penis extended slightly lower than his left ball (the one he carried just a little bit lower than his right). Taken as a whole, he was truly gorgeous, fulfilling the real meaning of that oft-abused word.

The bed began to rotate, to the pleasure of the spectators--every part of Mike was exhibited. He did not flex and preen vulgarly as some of the subjects did, but gracefully stood with legs far apart, and, for the convenience of his observers, extended his arms like an anatomical model, or like a loving parent welcoming home a dear child. This unusual-seeming, but natural posture was uncommonly gratifying to the spectators. How had he known it would be? They drank in his masculine beauty, expressed in his perfectly proportioned body, with his big shoulders and chest, his rippling torso gradually narrowing to his boyish waist and narrow hips, his very well developed upper arms, and formidable forearms, and his large thighs and calves. Everything perfect, sublime, without the grotesquerie of the “body builder” with its unnatural and strange distortions. As the course of rotation brought Mike’s backside into view, the spectators almost gasped to see the manly proportions of his broad and well-muscled back, which dramatically narrowed to his waist; and his butt was perfect in its round fullness.

From the rear, viewers saw that his lower limbs were remarkably thickly covered with golden hair -- his lack of a dramatic tan line went unexplained. Unlike the hair on his calves and lower thighs, which tended to stand in crisp golden curls, the hair on his butt was much finer, and lay flatter against his skin, growing in a discernable pattern, toward the centerline of his body, so that his crack was something of a tangle where the two growth patterns converged. Except for a small patch in and just above the small of his back, his back was smooth.

Piers pressed a button and the rotation slowed to an imperceptible creep, and Mike, the natural athlete, sank to a one-kneed kneel, still extending his arms, and impressing everyone with his control, his abs were visibly flexing --he gradually reclined onto the strange-shaped bed, and assumed the spread eagle posture it dictated.

Piers, now having discarded his towel and entirely nude and wholly erect, stepped to the end of the bed and fastened the cushioned restraint around Mike’s left wrist, and gently stroked his hairy forearm. Those whose eyes were glued to Mike’s genitals instead of the action at the head of the bed, could see the beginnings of the dramatic changes that would occur in them in a matter of seconds. On his way to the right arm, Piers paused and stroked Mike’s forelock off his forehead, and bent down to Mike’s face and gave him a kiss right on the mouth. Mike’s right arm was not yet restrained and he gracefully lay it upon the back of Piers’ head, and there was another ripple of applause. The crowd was well primed.

Piers broke the kiss and took Mike’s big, strong right arm in his and replaced it upon the bed and snapped his wrist into the fitting. As Piers made his way to Mike’s ankles, with his right hand, he continuously but lightly maintained contact with Mike’s body, from his forearm, to his bicep, to his chest, down his abs, to his upper thigh and down his big calf to his hairy ankle, effectively giving Mike one long, delicate stroke with his fingertips.

It was during this brief period that Mike’s penis began to thicken even more, and now, with each beat of his heart more and more arterial blood pumped into his cock and it took another quite noticeable step toward full erection, filling, expanding, lengthening still more, the fat veins beginning to pop out on its surface, and soon, too full to lay any longer on his big fat balls, it rose, flopped onto his right thigh and then. Mike clearly flexed some muscle centered itself, and then rose off his hairy belly to stand rigid an inch or so above. His cockhead had undergone dramatic changes as it filled and expanded, and in the bright and focused lights of the Beckham Arena it shone; its coronal ridge flaring well beyond the diameter of the now thick and turgid shaft. Viewers correctly judged that his phallus exceeded eight inches in length.