Gay Erotic Stories

This wasn't the typical 'motel,' but a 'motor hotel,' and our room was on the third floor, and its easterly windows faced a large pasture; we had not pulled the drapes closed and morning sun filled the room and slanted across the bed--and across me, still safely in the arms of my dear uncle, my face buried in his fuzzy chest. The raking rays brightly picked out his manly, but angelic face, and his powerful chest. I slowly and gently unfolded his powerful hairy arms, sat up, and enjoyed studying this portrait of masculine beauty. His tousled blond hair picked up the sun, and glinted, even the locks falling onto his forehead. His fontal ridge featured sun-bleached eyebrows, and his closed eyes yielded an excellent opportunity of appreciating his long lashes, also golden. His beard, now beginning a third day, was now distinctly gilded stubble, very thick on his cheeks (so readily dimpled) and square chin. His powerful neck was punctuated by a prominent adam’s-apple, and curls of the dark-blond hair that so thickly covered his powerful pectorals impinged on the lowest part of his neck. (Even when he wore a crew collar tee shirt, these curls were always visible.) The hair ran in a dense but defined trail down the middle of his washboard belly to his navel, and there the trail widened into a dense tangle that merged into the his very thick dark blond, or almost light brown, pubic hair. His magnificent legs were splayed apart, emphasizing the boyishness of his waist and hips. Between his legs hung his balls, loose and large, but his penis was lying on his belly, erect, yes, but not oaken. His feet were those of an athlete, and the hair of his calves continued down onto them, only gradually thinning out toward his toes.

He stirred; and opening his beautiful eyes and smiling very widely, he looked right into my face and, without a word, reached up and putting his right hand behind my head, pulled me down to him for a profound kiss, thrilling me to my roots. Then we broke; and he rose up and rather suddenly, he effortlessly flipped me over onto my back, and pinning my arms almost behind my head with his hands as he straddled me, he leaned down and begin a long series of butterfly-like kisses on my face, my eyes, my ears, my nose, my chin, and then my neck. He said, "Relax, Mikey: Don't move," and his hands moved from my wrists to my neck and then body, caressingly, as he continued moving over my chest and then belly, and then, moving further down, he ran his tongue through my prolific public hair, and then kissed my rock-hard penis on one side and then another. I was in transports as he knelt between my widespread legs.

This was the beginning of an elaborate lovemaking to my penis. It was masturbation, yes; but much more than that. It was fellation, yes, but far more than that. It was delicate; it was firm; it was deliberate; it seemed capricious. He seemed never to let go of my erection with his two hands -- they seemed always clasping, grasping--but somehow he was also kissing it, swirling the head with his knowing tongue, and then engulfing it in his mouth, with his wet lips moving up and down and his tongue ever busy. And then suction and release. Hands, then mouth, then hands again, then mouth again. And sometimes when my phallus was in his mouth, he delicately hefted my balls with his fingertips.

"Uncle Mike," I said, "I can't stop; I'm coming." He nodded, and I jetted again and again deep into his mouth: and with suction and firm, artful handwork he intensified the orgasm far beyond any I'd ever experienced before. As a real high school stud, at least in my high school, I'd dated several girls, and, by my count -- how could I have forgotten any of them! -- I'd been sucked by six of them. But frankly, most high school girls are no damn good at oral sex, and only my long-time high school love, Cassie, with my patient training, learned to be a fairly talented fellatrix. But Cassie was never anything like this! It was my godlike uncle, the idol of my life, fellating me! And it was the first time any male had ever come close to anything like this kind of intimacy.

Mike, my cum slightly leaking from his lips onto his bristly chin, moved up my body and, holding my face in both his hands, again gave me a deep and passionate kiss, his tongue and my cum invading my mouth. When we broke, my own cum dribbled out of the corners of my mouth, and at that point I was the happiest man in the universe.

I reached up and touched his cheek, and with both hands he stroked my forearm and said, "Get up, man, let's get some breakfast."

Right over our bodies crusted with cum we pulled on tee shirts and running shorts and our Nikes, and went down to the coffee shop, where we took a booth in the corner with a view of the highway. Mike sat opposite me, as often before, but we had entered a new world, a whole new sphere of existence. This time, under the table, he very deliberately and precisely positioned his hairy right leg so that it was just barely tangent with my hairy left leg, and his left ankle gently caressed my right, while he looked more deeply into my eyes than ever he had before. He said, “Mikey, though you know I have always loved you, this is something entirely different. I think we will always have something very special together for the rest of our lives.” He maintained a constant slight contact with both my legs, when I extended my hand partway across the table, he gently placed two of his fingers on mine, for just a few seconds, as he held my eyes, giving me still another frisson of passion, though I felt I was already overcharged.

It was another beautiful early summer day, and soon we were back in the truck and on the road. But now it was different. Much of the time as we drove, his hand was on my thigh, or at least on my shoulder, or perhaps running through my hair; or my hand was on his, resting on the gear shift, or on his thigh, and often our legs were touching, but somehow, every minute we were somewhere tangent. It was easy in the roomy cab of the truck, with its generous bench seat.

Of course we had everything in the world to talk about. School, work, women, sports, books, politics, music, you name it. Mike played keyboards and sometimes was featured on brass in a raunchy bar band that had a certain following in the Palo Alto area; I played bass and dobro in a little C & W band I got together with some guys at school. We’d gotten a few gigs in the area, and I loved it. Though our bands were very different, we both seemed to like some of the same Indie groups, and we both loved Brahms, Buxtehude, and Berlioz. Sometimes I wondered whether our tastes and preferences just happened to run in the same directions, or whether I was intensely influenced by Mike even more than I could have imagined, in matters great and small. But in any case, there was a great deal of commonality. But we both were men of opinion, and both natural leaders, used to having our own views attended to by our friends, classmates, and colleagues, so we had a certain space for contention; and when it came to matters of fact and taste, friendly dispute was one of our preferred manners interacting.

Midmorning passed very pleasantly in this fashion. But much of the time, our shorts were tented, especially when a hand on a muscular hairy thigh would move up and into the loose leg opening of the running shorts of the other. Because we were riding higher than all but semis, no one in cars could see into the cab of the truck; and because we had chosen to avoid the interstates for smaller, two-lane more scenic routes, at least part of the time, essentially no one could see in. So it wasn't long until we had shed our tee shirts, exposing our chests and rock-hard abs; and the passenger, by turns Mike or I, had dropped his shorts too (keeping them around one ankle for a fast recovery), and spread his legs, so that his pole, in all its glory, stood free. And some of the time, the driver had his right hand gently but firmly grasping the other's phallus.

And it was still just midday of the second day of the trip. -- To be continued.