Gay Erotic Stories

This continues the account of the five days and nights that studly 18 year old Mikey spends together with Mike, the 24-year old uncle he idolizes, and Mike's fascinating and beautiful 22-year old fiancée Alice. The beginning of their story is told in "Cross-Country with My Uncle," and continued by "Alice, My Uncle, and Me," day 1 and day 2, and Day 3, parts 1 and 2, and "My Uncle's Bachelor Party," parts 1 and 2, wherein Jeff, Mike's old college roommate and lover, is introduced.

Jeff and I arrived at Alice's house, and let ourselves in. We had anywhere up to three hours to kill before the wine dealer's delivery would arrive. I said to Jeff, "Hey, guy, pick up the story where you left off on campus, how you met Mike and how you guys like, got together."

Jeff said, "Sure, Mikey. But it's a kind of long story, so let's get comfortable," and he flopped onto the big king-sized bed, and rolled onto his stomach. I sat down on the bed beside him, and I thought I'd pick up where I'd left off too. As Jeff resumed his narration, I idly stroked his big, broad shoulders.

Jeff started:

"Until I arrived, I didn't even know who my roommate would be. At Stanford, the coaches decide who's going to room with whom in the first year, and there had been somebody who had at the last minute not shown up, so all I got was a call from the coach's office the day before I left telling me that I had been switched from one room to another. When my taxi dropped me off at the dorm, I was issued my key, I went upstairs, and I saw a label on the door, "Mike Burlington, Jeff Jackson," and I walked in. Nobody was there, but Mike had already moved in. I only had a couple of suitcases of stuff to unpack, and it was a couple of hours until the first team meeting.

"So after I'd settled in, I kinda looked through Mike's stuff. He'd brought about half a dozen books with him, just a few inches on a bookshelf, and even today I remember what an impression these few volumes made on me. There was a handsome translation of Vitruvius, inscribed by his father; volume one of the Bury edition of The Rise and Fall; a small edition of The Prince; a Java manual; a well-thumbed cheap edition of the Phaedrus; Gensler's classic Symbolic Logic; and two things that deeply surprised me: Michel Foucault's The Use of Pleasure, and, in the original German, Die Leiden des jungen Werthers. Not even 12 inches of books, but boy, did they impress me. I had to figger this Burlington guy, whoever he was, was not the typical freshman jock. He had to be someone pretty interesting. I mean, reading Goethe for pleasure in German. That is, if you can judge a kid by his books, which I'm sure you can't. All I'd brought with me was a small collection of 'graphic novels,'--comix if you will--and a German dictionary.

"He had brought about 30 CD's too. I wasn't surprised at The Cure, Blues Traveler, The White Album, a Stones catalog album, and a bunch of Indie groups I'd never heard of. And I was gratified to see Ten Strait Hits. I wasn't particularly surprised to see Mozart's Gran Partida and Purcell's Trumpet Voluntary, but what really pleased me--hell, it charmed me! I gave a little whoop to myself--was Widor's Symphonie gothique. It's not every 18-year old kid who has a taste for French organ music! During my stay in the Suisse-Romand I'd become addicted, but I knew it wasn't a widely shared teen craze, to say the least! But even so, there are ten Saint-Saens fan for every Widor fancier. So again, I figgered, hey this kid could be interesting."

(As Jeff was saying this, I was thinking, "Hey, I love Widor too! Even more than Cesar Franck and Louis Vierne." But I didn't want to interrupt Jeff's narrative.)

"I snooped in his closet too. He had an axe case and a trumpet case. As for me, I loved music, but I never played anything. There was a bunch of brand-new designer clothes, too, most of it with the tags still on them. And there was some fancy electronics gear. Hell, his fuckin' clock radio was one of those Bose things. So I figured that this kid might be interesting, but he could well be a really stuck-up rich kid who'd just be a pain in the butt.

"Well, of course, I couldn't have been wronger if I'd tried. It was Mike's mom who'd bought all that designer stuff (and most of it he never wore, sticking with jeans and shorts most of the time); and Mike couldn't have been more sweet natured and generous of spirit. In fact, one thing that I had noticed was that this kid (whom I hadn't met yet) might be book-smart, but I sniggered to myself that he couldn't be too smart after all. At first glance, the room seemed symmetrical: each side of the room was identical, or almost. But because of the placement of the main stairs on the floor, however, the closet on the side he'd picked was easily two feet shorter than on other side. Of course, you and I both know that it was just Mike's way to pick the worse side for himself, leaving the better one for his as yet unknown roommate. He was the most considerate kid you could imagine, the most generous."

As Jeff said this, I pulled up the bottom of his shirt, and pushed it up to his shoulders, exposing Jeff's remarkably well-muscled, smooth back, and I systematically stroked it in fairly large circles. It was deeply satisfying to me just to touch his skin.

Jeff continued:

"And on his desk he had two pictures. One was of his mom and pop, and the other was of this cute 12-year old blond kid, who I assumed was his brother. Of course it was you. You may or may not know this, but all through our years together he kept a picture of his parents and you on his desk, yours replaced each year as you grew and changed."

When Jeff told me that, it warmed my heart. Of course I had kept a picture of him on my desk too, and one in my wallet, too. And I took every chance I could to tell my friends about Mike and show off his picture. They all had met him and knew I wasn't lying about what a wonderful guy he was.

Jeff continued his story. "So in about an hour I showed up at the first team meeting. It was a get-to-know-one-another thing. I scanned the room wondering which one was this Burlington guy. We were all wearing nametags, but I didn't spot anybody sporting that name. I do remember, however, in the crowd of good-looking, athletic kids, one guy who caught my eye across the room, who was particularly striking-looking, who moved with unusual grace, blond, with deep, deep blue eyes and a persistent smile. And after several of the coaches introduced themselves and gave their usual speeches, they eventually asked us new guys to stand up in turn, and one of the coaches read out a potted biography of each one, and that's how I finally found out that the blond beauty was in fact Mike Burlington. "And that he was a second baseman -- for a short-stop like me, by far the most important teammate. It's not too much to say that the way the short and second baseman work together is the most critical element in baseball defense.

"From the team meeting we immediately changed and hit the field for a practice, and instead of a lot of drills, we had an inter-squad game, just for fun. Believe me, bringing together so many kids from all over, we were really a fucked up mess. But there was something almost miraculous about the way Mike and I worked together, right from the first. It takes a lot of drills and practice for an infield to come together as a team, to make plays work halfway smoothly. But with Mike and me, we never needed to say a word, it was just something unexplainable, ineffable. He was always at just the right spot at the right time; and he could fire the ball over my way and somehow I'd just be in position. It wasn't something we had to work at, to practice, it just happened. As I said, it was, like unexplainable. But we both knew that something very special was happening when we were on the field together. It was as if we were looking at the field of play with the same eyes. And it started before we hardly even knew each other's name.

"I admired his defensive play enormously. And of course I could tell just from his grin that he liked my action too. And when I got in a lucky swat and whacked a fastball right out of the park he was there at the plate to high-five me with a real wide smile. It was the first time we'd ever touched. We hadn't even shaken hands before."

I tugged at Jeff's shirt, and he held his arms up over his head to facilitate my pulling it off, and I straddled Jeff's middle, and I begin a more orderly massage. It was even more satisfying to me to be in more extensive contact with him, such that my bare legs lay alongside his hips.

Jeff went on: "My hit was the game winner, and despite our multiple errors our team was thrilled, whooping and shouting as we filed into the locker room. My locker was on the same row as Mike's and as we undressed I noted what a really great body Mike had. Big shoulders, beautifully balanced musculature, rippling abs, all that golden hair on his belly and chest and his big arms and legs, that big fat cock, those swinging balls. (By the way, Son, it's amazing how much you remind me of an 18-year old Mike.)

"Billy Pelham, the captain of the team, and huge star in right field, strode into the locker room, whacked a bat against a locker a couple of times and said, 'Listen up, you new guys. We have an old and honored tradition on this baseball club. It has two parts and they are both important. You don't even want to think of breaking either one. The first part is that nobody, get that, NOBODY who is not on the varsity will ever beat off in the shower here. Ever. Any time, whether you are alone, or otherwise. If you ever try it and you're found out, believe you you'll be very sorry, and we're not kidding here. The other part is that if you do win a spot on the varsity, you will be issued an invitation, which you will accept, to be initiated. And thereafter, you will not only be permitted to jack off in the team shower, you will have the solemn responsibility to do so on every occasion. (Way it works is that the tradition permits guys with a hot date within three hours to take a pass, but otherwise, the tradition is absolutely honored. Iron clad.) Now we know that we cannot stop guys from getting boners; but any fancy stuff, like excessive soaping up, or standing so that a the shower is focused on a boner, that's the sort of trick that can get you in big trouble. I don't need to tell you what happens when a guy tries to break this rule, but I can tell you that nobody who's tried it has made the varsity here in as long as anybody can remember.'"

Jeff went on: "All of us new guys had been on ball teams for years, and we had never heard of anything like this, but it was obvious that Pelham wasn't hoaxing us. As we filed into the gang showers, it was, like, a very strange experience. The varsity guys were remarkably, amazingly, unselfconscious. Habituated from months, if not years of following the tradition, quite as a matter of course as soon as they'd gotten wet, they soaped up and got hard and whacked off."

But of course it wasn't as simple as that. As it happened Mike and I were showering side by side when Billy Pelham himself came in and took the spot right next to us. Pelham was fucking awesome. He was six-four, perfectly built, and frankly gorgeous. His torso was a fucking amazing thing, with chiseled musculature: big, defined pecs, incredibly cut abs--eight-packed, I'd guess you'd say--and his arms and legs were perfect. Big round biceps, imposing quads, ropy forearms and his calves were really defined. Big veins popped up along his arms, and one along each side of his lower belly, framing his perfect abs. His fine blond hair was full and longish, cascading over his forehead, so that his golden eyebrows were almost obscured. His deep-set eyes were china blue. His features were a rare combination of feral and refined. It wasn't just us who were impressed by Pelham.

He was a part time model already, and he'd been featured in an A & F catalog, in a Lord & Taylor newspaper ad that had run wherever they had stores, and his biggest coup was actually in France: He had been featured in an "Eminence" underwear ad. The previous season you could have actually gone to Paris or Bordeaux and see a dozen posters one after another pasted up in a row in Metro passages or along walls featuring him and his incredible body in quite astonishingly skimpy briefs. He would soon be elected "Mr. Stanford," and when he graduated he was recruited for the Dodger organization. But after two seasons in Triple-A ball at Vegas, he sustained some sort of injury, though he did get 'a cup of coffee' in the Bigs for about 4 games. Anyway, he's the same Bill Pelham whom you may have seen in a couple of films recently, playing small roles opposite Paltrow and McGuire.

"Well, with Billy in the shower, jacking wasn't just a by the numbers kind of thing. He very definitely took his time. And yes, he knew full well that he could draw the attention of a crowd. He stood under the nozzle and got himself wet all over. This had the effect of dramatically changing the look of his prolific body hair. The dense golden hair of his arms and legs, once wet, lay flat against his skin, darker and denser-seeming than ever. And likewise his chest hair, which grew in great whorls over each pec, and extended up onto his upper chest as far as, and even beyond, his collarbones, and somewhat up his powerful neck, wettened, it too seemed darker and denser. From either side of the middle of his belly somewhat darker hair--still blondish, but darker--grew together into a thick track that ran from the point of his sternum down across his abs; only below his navel did it widen out more and more until it seamlessly melded with his pubic hair."

Jeff's story was getting me really, really hot. I got up and unlaced Jeff's Nike’s and then tugged off his little Cardinal shorts, leaving him absolutely nude. From the rear he was astonishingly good looking. His legs were so exceptionally well formed and muscular, and covered in that dark silky hair. It ran thickly right up onto his butt. I quickly pulled off my own shirt and shoes and shorts, and I too was nude, and I resumed my position straddling Jeff's thighs. This time, though, my cock was absolutely erect, nearly cleaving to my belly, and I continued to rub Jeff's back. Now, however, every time I reached up to his shoulders, my balls dragged over his powerful butt, covered with silky dark hair, stimulating me almost beyond bearing. I took care that when I stroked down onto his butt I also ran the edge of my hand along my cock, too.

"Ahhhh," said Jeff. "Man, does that feel great, Mikey," and shortly, Jeff returned to his narration:

"When Billy turned under the spray, he exposed his broad back. In general, he was economically built, for all his perfection, but his back was a bit more heavily muscled. It narrowed down dramatically to the boyish waist that so dramatized the tiny Eminence briefs on so many posters in France. His butt was proportionate to his big thighs and his upper back, and like his thighs, well-provided with hair, though finer there than on his legs.

"As I said before, Pelham was fucking awesome, quite intimidating, astonishingly good-looking.

"He soaped up, under his arms, between his legs, up his crack, over his arms and legs, across his broad chest and rinsed off. In no haste, he took a squirt of shampoo and worked it into his thick golden hair, and thoroughly rinsed. And only then did he again take the soap to his genitals. Under the warm spray, his large balls were relaxed and hung low; but his big cock was neither relaxed nor low hanging, for almost as soon as he had entered the shower, his cock had begun to thicken and lengthen. And by the time that he had first soaped up between his legs, his cock was fully erect, and stood at attention at like a 45-degree angle from his powerful lower belly. He knew full well that we new freshman players were watching him with awe, and at only a casual glance he could tell that he had our full attention. As soon as Billy's cock began to expand, Mike's cock and mine did likewise, and when his was absolutely erect, so were ours, under his direct influence. All the upperclassmen knew the kind of effect they had on the new kids; that was a large part of the fun."

Meanwhile, as Jeff was relating his story, I was getting hotter and hotter, and dragging my balls over his hairy butt, and touching my cock intermittently as I stroked him, just wasn't enough. I was stoked. Actually it was almost a torment being so intimate with this beautiful man. I thought how odd it was that only yesterday I thought I hated and feared Jeff, and now, only about 24 hours after he arrived, I knew he liked and respected me, and, as for me, I thought maybe I actually loved him. Certainly I admired him excessively, and it was infinitely pleasurable to touch him, even in the least way. And now there I was, naked, athwart his bare body, slowly and sensuously massaging him, and every point of tangency was intensely pleasurable, but also produced in me an anxiety, impatience, an inward demand for more, more, more.

Jeff continued his story:

"But when Billy finally turned all his attention to his cock, we were helpless to do anything about our own erections, as our attention, too, was riveted on him and his action. He luxuriated in our gawking amazement as he slowly, generously, began to stroke himself. Cupping his big balls in his left hand, he grasped his soapy shaft in his right, and gave himself a few very slow and deliberate strokes. Then removing his left hand from his balls, the Apollonian beauty let it wander over his chest, as he closed his eyes and tilted back his head somewhat, in a rather languid display of careless luxury, as he continued to stroke slowly, slowly, his big balls loosely dancing up and down between his wide-spread beautiful legs.

"Despite the absolutely mesmerizing display that Billy was putting on, I could not avoid looking over to Mike, like me, absolutely erect, but totally prohibited from so much as touching himself. As striking as Pelham was, I was thinking to myself, God, is this Burlington kid incredibly good looking! He wasn't as tall as Pelham, nor as broad across the shoulders, and maybe not yet quite so cut as Pelham, but he was close. And if anything, his arms and legs were even hairier, his face absolutely as beautiful, even more so. He had a certain softness that his frequently displayed dimples only emphasized that made his face never seem hard-edged like Pelham: his face was always warm and friendly, a perfect field to represent to the world the kindness and sweet nature that I would come to learn were his essential qualities.

"Mike's cock, standing there untouched, throbbing, was, if anything, bigger than Pelham's, and his balls just as impressive. I had already been amazingly impressed by Mike, first from his possessions that I had inspected in our room; then his general aspect and mien in the meeting room; then by the near-magical qualities of his play at second-base, coordinating so eerily with my own play; and now, this amazing body revealed in all its glory.

"But fundamental to my future life as my appreciation of Mike would prove to be, right then and right there, it was Pelham who engrossed almost all of our attention, with his now quite sybaritic masturbation. Up and down his veiny shaft he ran his big hand, slowly and patiently; now with a bit of a twist, now with something more rococo. For instance, for a while, he grasped his shaft with his left hand, and used the specially soaped palm of his right hand to smooth and tease his cockhead.

"Finally--I don't know if Mike and I could have stood it a minute longer--but we damn sure weren't going to leave either!--Billy proceeded to a somewhat steadier stroking, then steadier and faster and then faster and harder, and finally to almost brutal final strokes, and suddenly, with a great shout of "Oh, yeah, guys!" he shot a long stream of cum onto the shower wall; and, with a broad smile upon his preternaturally handsome face, finished up with half a dozen concluding strokes, squeezing out still more semen.

"Shaking his arms all around, he stationed himself once more so that the spray blew away the remaining soap in his crotch, and gave an additional quick soaping and rinsing to his pits. Only then did he really focus his attention on Mike and me. And, oddly, ran out his right hand, so recently engaged elsewhere, smiled and said, "Hi, I'm Billy Pelham."

"This the way it was going to be for months and months of amazement and frustration. Of course much of the time the freshmen practiced--and showered--alone. And then the tension wasn't so high, the frustration minimal. But often enough we had inter-squad games, or sometimes we were wound up our practice at the same time as the varsity, and the shower room was a scene of ongoing torment as the varsity men, each and every one of them, beat off, every time, as we freshmen stood witness at these events celebrating maleness and athleticism, team spirit, and the camaraderie of youth and beauty.

"And let me tell you, that while Pelham may have been exceptional--not everybody winds up an underwear model--and quite a number of the guys on the team had quite ordinary faces -- but every player on that team had a great body. You don't get to that level of performance without the good fortune of great genes granting you a powerful mesomorphic frame. And then it takes years of training and practice to hone your skills, work that is unambiguously reflected in your musculature; and then endless hours in the weight room and on the track tone the body, bring it near to the peak of performance. And finally, since the players were all 18 to 22, they were all in the freshness of youth, long before age takes its toll on the body of the obsessive athlete.

"The varsity players, for whom the team shower was a daily event, had a wide variety of approaches. Quite often they kind of paired off, and it was easy to see that these pairs were not accidental and casual, but regular things. Often two guys would stand facing one another, only a foot or eighteen inches apart, and slowly jack, and eventually come on each other's belly; sometimes one would steady himself by putting a hand on his partner's shoulder, and they would often speak to each other, "Yeah, do it, Joe," or "I'm gonna come, Phil," or "Shoot on me, buddy!"

"Some preferred to stand in a circle of three or four or five, and of course it could be a contest of who came first, or on some days, who comes last. Either way it's fun.”

Listening to this hot, hot story, I desperately wanted to see and touch Jeff's phallus. I just had to. It was not a desire; it was a compulsion. I told Jeff to roll over. He said, "Sure, Mikey." I moved to his Jeff's side, and he rolled over, languidly--and I even thought a little shyly. But when he exposed his front side, it was clear that he was as sexually engaged as I was. His cock was absolutely as stony hard as mine was. It was totally fascinating: its thick root, its corded shaft, and its flaring glans.

I resumed my station straddling his middle, my balls now resting on his very hairy lower belly, my rigid cock now hovering just a fraction of an inch above his abs, as I began to stroke his big chest, while Jeff shone on me one of his trademark radiant smiles, the smile that was capable almost entrancing me.

At the same time, as I moved forward and backward as I was slowly, systematically massaging his neck and chest, the head of his impossibly firm cock was in turn massaging my scrotum, which hung just in front of it. I could hardly bear it. As he carelessly smiled up at me, almost paralyzing me with pleasure--he was so fucking handsome, and so extremely loveable--he interlaced his fingers behind his head, thus exposing his very hairy pits; and the air around him was perfumed by an intensely male, pheromone-rich vapor that had the effect of almost stupefying me as I drank it in. And he resumed his story, which he was in no hurry to conclude.

"What was almost the hardest to bear in that freshman year were times not after team practices, but when I'd been working in the weight room or running laps or taking individual practice with the infield coach, and I'd wind up the shower alone, and then just one varsity guy would enter. Sometimes it was not so difficult. A guy I had had little to do with, maybe, who was otherwise distracted anyway, and who just quickly soaped up, rinsed off, and jacked in a businesslike manner, really in a matter of just a few moments, maybe, and quite possibly almost privately, legs wide apart, of course, but facing the wall. Knowing exactly what my teammate was doing, and seeing his broad shoulders, and watching his big arm working, and maybe his firm butt flexing a little, it was always, at the very least, an interesting, and usually quite stimulating event, but little more, but not a torment.

"But quite often it was an entirely different kind of experience, when, say, it was a matter of a teammate whom I knew well and who may have taken a personal interest in me and my play; or someone who had a particularly pronounced streak of exhibitionism, or who was particularly narcissistic. Then the experience could be extremely powerful, if rather odd, as my teammate would quite deliberately station himself right before me, and slowly and generously worship his own body. Believe me, when guys put as much work into their weight training and exercise programs, and get the kind of results that young guys can get, some can come to be overweening in their pride in their bodies, fascinated by their own fabric, loving every detail of it, and greedy of any opportunity to display it. So some of these guys were delighted to have a captive audience of one, especially a freshman who would be unable to compete in any way with his exhibition, or even collaborate. Guy could look you right into your face, only inches away, as he's using every reasonable means to pleasure himself.

"For some reason I remember one particular time--though there were several of the same nature--when FitzAlan De Ros came into the shower just after I had finished with a long series of wind sprints. De Ros -- I think probably only his mother ever called him FitzAlan--was barely 5'7", and most of his classmates called him Big Al, in ironic tribute to his amazing athleticism, despite his low stature. His teammates, though, called him Midget, or even more commonly, Midge. But that little guy was a terrier at third base. He totally dominated the Hot Corner, and despite his size, nobody, ever, intimidated him. And he had an amazing eye at the plate. He wasn't as powerful as the really big men, but he connected for at least a single an amazing proportion of the time, and he was the coaches' favored leadoff man.

"As a very canny third-baseman, De Ros was intensely interested in my play at short and Mike's at second. Since he was a lordly senior and I was a lowly freshman, De Ros and I would only play in a handful of games together, but when we did, it was like hydromatic gears, remarkably smooth and silky. "De Ros was roughly half a foot shorter than I was, but he had a singularly beautiful build. He was a real, true gym rat, and he worked on every muscle group in turn. Nothing to excess, mind you, but he was the image of perfect athletic development. Overdevelopment, any coach will tell you, is the kiss of death for a baseball player, since that extra muscle mass merely slows you down and reduces your flexibility, and De Ros, I think, just hit the perfect point. And he was remarkably good-looking. He had longish fluffy black hair, and notable dark and thick eyebrows; and on his cheeks and his square cleft chin there almost always was a thick stubble. His eyes were large and light blue, his skin comparatively pale, despite his endless hours of practice under the California sun. It was a highly dramatic combination, and whenever he walked into a room, every head turned. Most people, I think, considered him one of the handsomest guys they'd ever seen.

"His size, I think, contributed to his rather arrogant manner. When he entered a room, even just a chem lab, he, well, swaggered, a little bantam rooster. But his message was definitely, 'Don't even think of fucking with me.' And you know, I don't think anyone ever did. But despite his arrogant manner, I eventually came to know that, in reality, he was something of a fraud. He was in fact, he most sentimental and softhearted guy on the team. Late in the season, for instance, he learned that Kip, my 16-year-old terrier-dachshund mix back home had recently died. He looked me up and spent almost two hours with me, while I told him stories about Kip and me exploring all over the Big Thicket. I actually could not remember a time in my boyhood when Kippy was not at my side. When De Ros left there were tears welling up in his eyes. Today he's an attorney with the Oregon SPCA.

"But it wasn't the softhearted De Ros who strode into the shower room back in October of my freshman year, it was the arrogant, swaggering De Ros. We were alone, and De Ros takes the station immediately next to me. He stands in the warm spray, and closes his eyes for a few seconds as the water courses over his essentially perfect chest, and down his rippling torso, through the dense hair of his lower belly and pubic bush. It's only a matter of seconds until his arterial blood has pumped his cock full and then to overfull as it rises and stands rigid and upright. It may have only been six inches in length, but it was a thick sucker.

"Standing now only inches from me, he puts his hands on his pecs, and slowly lets them wander down his torso to his lower belly and then his cock, which he grasps with his right hand, his left hand cradling his surprisingly big balls. "Tauntingly, he goes, "Oh, Jeff, man does this feel great! Gonna take slow and easy this time!" as, say, he'd tease his nips and caress his chest with his left hand and stroke his rock-hard cock with his right. And I'd just stand there under the spray, my cock like iron, sticking upright, forbidden so much as to touch it really, but fascinated, mesmerized by my teammate's Dionysian antics. De Ros, in his arrogance, drew nearer and nearer to me, until we were only the merest inches away, and he stared me right in the face: or more precisely, right up into my face, since I towered over him. But, fascinated as I was by De Ros, I could not turn my eyes away for even a second, as I waited patiently--or would that be impatiently--while he played with himself in a half-dozen different ways, slowly and inventively, until finally, finally! He eventually began to stroke for final results. And then, with a deep, profound sigh of satisfaction, he'd shot onto me. Actually most of his cum shot onto my thigh, only a small bit splattering onto my cock, since due to our height difference, it was several inches higher than his. Times like that I'll never forget. They were deeply exciting; though much more deeply frustrating, I can assure you. One thing is certainly true, however. That shower tradition really definitely went a long way toward building and maintaining a spirit went far beyond teamwork: It built brotherhood of the most profound kind."

Listening to Jeff, I could no longer sustain the tension of his cock massaging my balls as I stroked him. I scooted downward, so that I was now straddling Jeff's knees, and then, in the interest of comfort, I raised up my right knee and Jeff slipped his left leg out; and then I raised my left knee, and Jeff slipped his right leg out, so that I was now kneeling between his widespread legs. And I now knew that I was going to focus all my attention upon the great cock rising right before my face.

To be continued.