Boys Will Be Boys - Their First Time

by Mickey Erlach

  The clock clunked. It was an industrial piece of electronics, circa 1953, and it was far too retro to simply tick. Eight fifty-nine. He turned around and looked at the piles of clothes that had accumulated during his shift. Time to fold up the ugly returns and punch his timecard.

  Forty-two years old and punching a time clock. Kenneth tried not to spiral down into a haze of self-pity by distracting himself with another thought, since his brain was so insistent on thinking.

  Flat screen monitor. Bluetooth keyboard. Relax. Breathe.

  The sharp ring of a call bell sent images of new computer systems scattering to the edges of Kenneth’s mind. He looked up at the return desk, startled, and found a man in a leather jacket with spiked blond hair leaning over the counter on both elbows, chewing gum. He smiled at Kenneth. More of a devilish smile than an expression of actual happiness.

  “We’re closed,” Kenneth said. “They’ve shut the lights off.”

  The customer peeked back over his shoulder, as if something had snuck up on him while he was trying to get Kenneth’s attention.

  “Sure,” he said. “But look, maybe you can do me a favor.”

  Kenneth resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He couldn’t imagine what would prompt him to do a favor for a total stranger, particularly at this purgatory of a job and especially at 9:01 pm.

  “This shirt,” the customer said, swinging a plastic bag onto the counter. “I need a large.”

  Kenneth sighed through his nose and reached into the bag. He had a big enough pile of returns. If he had the shirt in a large, he could scan them, swap them, and send the gum-chewer on his way.

  He pulled the shirt onto the counter. It was, in Kenneth’s opinion, the only decent shirt that SaverPlus carried. He owned three, himself.

  “Whoa,” said the customer, pointing. “You’re wearing the same one.” He levered himself up onto his palms, leaning over the countertop, into Kenneth’s personal space. “That’s pretty wild. Don’t you think?”

  “We haven’t got this in a large,” Kenneth said. “Not in black, anyway.”

  “But I need black,” he said. “The shirt’s from my mom. And she’ll get all weird if I don’t wear it the next time I see her.”

  “I’m sorry, sir ...”

  The customer snorted, “Call me Crash.” He squinted at Kenneth’s name tag. “Kenny.”

  Kenneth composed himself. Bluetooth. DVD-RW. Five-hundred gig hard drive.

  “These shirts are sold out in black large. They have been since November. If you’d like the shirt in mocha, I can do the exchange, but ...”

  “Gimme yours.”

  Kenneth blinked. “What?”

  Crash leaned farther still over the counter. He was tall and slim, and he had a very long reach. He stared hard into Kenneth’s eyes and then reached up, fingering the collar of Kenneth’s shirt. He had amazing eyes, pale, pale green. “Your shirt,” he said. “It looks like a large. I would make it worth your while.”

  “You can’t have my shirt.”

  Crash cocked his head to one side, and ran a tongue stud back and forth over the top edge of his lower teeth. “Everyone’s got a price, Kenny. What’s yours?”

  Kenneth swallowed hard and got ready to tell Crash to go to hell – not a very festive SaverPlus farewell, but Kenneth was just a seasonal temp, after all – when Crash got a knee up onto the counter and started clambering over it toward Kenneth.

  “Are you crazy?”

  Crash grinned wide and flashed his tongue stud.

  Kenneth almost called security. Almost. Except Crash wasn’t particularly threatening. He crawled across the return desk like a stripper, his pale green eyes fastened on Kenneth’s face the whole time. And when he oozed over the far edge of the counter, he kept on going down, sinking to his knees right between Kenneth’s feet.

  “What’s that shirt worth to you?” he said, unbuckling Kenneth’s belt.

  Kenneth grabbed the edge of the counter and tried to will his knees to stop shaking. Before he could even register what was happening, his slacks pooled around his ankles.

  “I can’t believe you’re just going to ...”

  Crash ran his palms up Kenneth’s thighs. He had silver rings on every finger, and the metal felt smooth, gliding over Kenneth’s skin, hot from its contact with Crash’s fingers. “What, no one ever ambushed you before? You’re a good looking guy.”

  Objectively, maybe. But Kenneth had always managed to put a “don’t bother me” vibe out there that resulted in him being left alone more often than not.

  Crash tugged Kenneth’s boxers down to his knees.

  “And you’re totally hung,” he said, face so close that Kenneth felt the warmth of Crash’s breath ghosting along his balls.

  Kenneth meant to get another hand on the countertop to help hold himself up before his legs gave out from under him, but instead he found himself cupping the side of Crash’s face, running his fingers over the crunchy spikes of hair and tracing the line of silver studs and hoops in Crash’s ear.

  Crash had a hand on each of Kenneth’s thighs. He leaned in and pressed his face into the crease of Kenneth’s groin, and Kenneth felt his cock throb, getting hard, fast. It brushed Crash’s cheek, standing away from Kenneth’s body in no time flat.

  He gasped at the touch of Crash’s hot, wet tongue. He swore he could feel that tiny metal stud playing along the veins on the underside of his shaft. Kenneth’s fingers fanned over the side of Crash’s face, tracing the sinew of his jaw as his hot, wet tongue stroked its way up, and down.

  “You wanna feel the inside of my throat?” Crash asked teasingly, looking up from his crouch with his face nuzzled alongside Kenneth’s hard-on.

  Kenneth had a hard time forming a reply. Even a single-syllable word.

  “You gonna give me your shirt?”

  Kenneth nodded.

  Crash raised one eyebrow. “Then take it off.”

  Kenneth looked out over the counter. The return desk faced a hallway, mostly, a dingy hallway that hadn’t been painted in years, or redecorated in decades. He could see some of the sales floor if he craned his neck. And the guards had never bothered him in the past as they made their closing rounds, other than to yell, “See you later,” as they passed the hallway entrance.

  Crash’s tongue darted between Kenneth’s balls, and Kenneth had to clench his jaw to keep from yelping. “Your shirt,” Crash said, forming the words against Kenneth’s scrotum.

  Kenneth peered out over the counter again, toward the darkened sales floor.

  “What do you care if anyone sees?” said Crash. “It’ll be totally hot if they do.” He tilted his head back and fit his lips around one of Kenneth’s balls, cradling it with his mouth and teasing at it with the tip of his tongue.

  Kenneth squirmed. His cock was so stiff now it almost hurt, and his balls were tight. If he was so turned on already, how amazing would it feel if he were buried deep in that wicked mouth?

  Kenneth pulled his shirt off with one quick tug, and let it fall to the floor beside his foot.

  Crash smiled up at him, then reached into his mouth and pulled out the wad of chewing gum. He twisted around and stuck the gum beneath the counter. “Good choice,” he said, and turning back to meet Kenneth’s gaze again, he wet his lips with a long, slow swipe of his tongue.

  Crash’s hands slid up the backs of Kenneth’s thighs, grabbing his ass, squeezing it, pushing Kenneth’s hips forward so his cock sank deep, deep into Crash’s hot, slick mouth.

  Crash just held him there for a moment. Good thing, Kenneth thought, both hands clutching the counter so hard that his knuckles went white. He was in the midst of a giant head rush that threatened to leave him sprawled on a pile of ugly, poorly sized, or just plain unwanted holiday gifts.

  Crash’s tongue moved, an unhurried slither that dragged the smooth ball of his tongue stud tantalizingly over the bottom of Kenneth’s stiff dick.

  “Oh, God.”

  Crash grunted a reply. Kenneth th
ought he sounded pleased with himself.

  Crash began to suck, and Kenneth’s world tipped on its axis. His legs started to quiver, at first just a slight trembling, and then a full-on shake. Crash held his ass more tightly, sinking his fingers deep into the flesh, driving Kenneth’s dick deeper still into his throat. Kenneth felt the softness at the back with his sensitive cockhead, felt Crash hum, and swallow, and use every trick in the book to make him explode.

  Kenneth’s hips started flexing, rocking his dick in and out of Crash’s mouth, the root sinking deep and then revealing itself again, over and over, shining with spit.

  Kenneth took a deep breath, and even though he wanted to just grab the back of Crash’s head, feel a handful of that stiff, spiky hair as he crammed himself in as far as he could, to fuck Crash’s face until that dam burst and he was coming straight down that talented throat – even though he wanted that more than anything else, Kenneth stopped. He held himself very still.

  Crash pulled off Kenneth’s cock with a slurp so loud it practically rang through the sub-basement. He poked his head up above the edge of the counter to see if somebody was watching. “What?” he whispered.

  Kenneth’s eyes darted back toward the entrance to the sales floor to make sure there wasn’t a guard listening in. “Show me your dick.”

  The sly grin spread over Crash’s face again. He grabbed Kenneth hard by the waist and pulled him down onto the floor behind the counter. The carpet was threadbare and dirty, but there were enough piles of clothing there to cushion them.

  Crash’s jeans were so old and tight that they hugged his long legs and slim hips perfectly, with no need for a belt. He faced Kenneth, kneeling, as he yanked the fly open.

  Crash grabbed Kenneth’s hand and stuffed it down the front of his pants. It was too tight in there to feel anything specific, yet just the thought of it, having his hand on some total stranger’s hot, hard cock, made Kenneth’s breath catch.

  Crash eased his tight jeans down over his hips and his dick fell free, perfectly stiff. He wove his fingers through Kenneth’s, and they stroked it together as Crash stared into Kenneth’s eyes.

  It was too intense for Kenneth. He needed to look away. He stared down at his own hard-on and took it in his other hand, stroking it alongside Crash’s.

  Crash pulled his hand free, leaving Kenneth with a stiff dick in each fist, one wet, one dry, stroking them both. A bottle of cheap hand lotion was tucked beneath the return counter. Crash grabbed it and shot a generous squirt of lotion on both of them.

  The sensation changed from good to incredible as the lotion oozed through Kenneth’s fingers. Crash draped both of his arms around Kenneth’s shoulders and pressed their foreheads together. “That’s right,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “Jack me off.”

  Somewhere on the sales floor, a guard’s keys jingled as he made his first rounds of the night. The lights were still on over Kenneth’s desk, which wasn’t so uncommon. Sometimes he had a little trouble shutting down his register.

  “Have a good one,” the guard called out on his way past the hallway.

  Kenneth’s eyes peeked over the top of the counter. He’d stopped stroking momentarily, though of course the situation would be compromising enough if he were to be caught, whether or not his slippery hands were moving up and down.

  He blanked out what he’d normally say for a horribly long moment, and then shouted, “You, too,” thinking that his own voice sounded alien.

  He looked back at Crash’s face, eyes almost too close to properly see. Crash’s grin was a mile wide. He tilted his head to the side and fit his lips to Kenneth’s. “Get me off,” he said against Kenneth’s mouth.

  Crash’s closeness was overwhelming. Kenneth wanted to back up, but there was nowhere to go. And the feel of Crash’s mouth on Kenneth’s lips made his dick even harder. Kenneth’s hands moved faster, and Crash gasped. It felt good to wrest control from him, even in that small way. Kenneth concentrated on his strokes, making them even and regular, focusing on the way Crash breathed against his face. He wanted to make that breathing go ragged. He wanted to make Crash moan.

  Kenneth gripped Crash’s cock just a little harder, and Crash seemed to melt into him. Their mouths crushed together, and Crash’s pierced tongue parted Kenneth’s lips. Crash sighed a spearmint breath into Kenneth’s mouth as the muscles in his thighs tensed.

  Crash pulled his mouth free and buried his face in the crook of Kenneth’s neck. His breath was hot on Kenneth’s collarbone as he squeezed their bodies together, murmuring, “Yeah, oh yeah, mmmm, yeah,” into Kenneth’s shoulder.

  Crash gasped and his hips jerked. Kenneth felt the wetness of cum, hot and sticky on his belly. Kenneth slowed his strokes on his own dick, concentrating on making them perfect, and basking in the feel of this man draped against him, breathing hard and making satisfied noises against his shoulder.

  One of Crash’s hands fell from around Kenneth’s shoulders, slipping between their bodies to cradle Kenneth’s balls. They pulled tight to his body, and the steady climb to the brink turned into a sudden rush. Kenneth felt the first crest of pleasure surge down to his groin, and Crash’s mouth covered his again.

  Kenneth bucked against Crash, their hands, wet with lotion and sticky with Crash’s semen, tangling together to milk his pulsing dick. Kenneth came hard, his fluids mingling with Crash’s between their bellies. He let himself moan into Crash’s mouth, and Crash welcomed it, clasping Kenneth to him tight with his free hand, grinding their bodies together in a moaning, writhing mess of lotion and come.

  Crash held Kenneth against him until Kenneth’s hips stopped thrusting, and then he pulled away and sat back on his heels. His lips were swollen and his T-shirt was spotted with dark blots of lotion and telltale ropy strings of ejaculate.

  He grinned and stood, offering Kenneth a hand up.

  “I had a feeling you’d be fun,” Crash said.

  Kenneth had no idea how to reply. He was naked, except for the slacks around his ankles and the sticky mingling of cum growing tight as it dried on his skin.

  Crash hitched his fly shut and turned to leave. “Wait a minute,” Kenneth said. “Your shirt.”

  Crash looked down at the black ball of fabric on the floor. “Oh, that. I just wanted to make you take it off.”

  “But ... your bag.”

  “I pulled that one off the rack on my way in. My mom would never buy me a black shirt. She thinks I need more color in my wardrobe.” Crash winked at Kenneth, and treated him to one more grin. He whistled to himself as he made his way down the dingy little hall and out onto the dimly lit sales floor of the lowest sub-basement of SaverPlus.

  Kenneth waited until the whistling faded away then looked around at the sad piles of unwanted clothing on the floor as he zipped up his fly and buckled his belt. He’d need to work at least another hour to get the return desk to the point where he could close up. And he’d have to “accidentally” throw away anything that might be splattered with lotion, or worse. He tried to conjure up images of a gorgeous, flat-screen monitor and a printer/scanner all-in-one to take his mind off the time, but found that hardware wasn’t doing a very good job of capturing his imagination at that moment.

  Pale green eyes, spiked blond hair and a tongue stud were another story entirely. Kenneth picked up his black shirt from the floor, held it to his cheek, and sighed.

  Morningwood – A Novella

  By R. Forestier

  The Prologue

  In the fertile mind of a twelve-year-old boy, adventure is only a split second deviation from reality. A slapped-together “fort” in the backyard becomes a castle, a cowboy bunkhouse, a spaceship cockpit or simply a place to hide-out, a place to get away from the prying eyes of parents and neighbors. I enjoyed such a sanctuary, which I shared with a few of my closest boyhood friends. Its rustic nature made it no less precious to us than the elegant country clubs our parents loved to frequent. So, when my dad announced his intention to build a log cabin in the forest on
a lake called Morningwood, it seemed to me to be a perfectly reasonable undertaking. He and four of his closest buddies, all long-time friends of our family, would form a partnership that would assure them the complete privacy of their get-away place.

  It would be six years before I learned the truth about Morningwood.

  One

  Birthdays are always supposed to be special, sugar-coated events in our lives that mean we have advanced to a higher plateau of maturity. As I awoke this morning, the first thought to enter my mind was that this day, the beginning of my nineteenth year was going to be one that changed my life forever. Never mind the cake, cards and presents, this was going to be the day that I would be made privy to the secrets of Morningwood.

  The cabin at Lake Morningwood had always been somewhat of a mystery to me. Why didn’t Dad ever take me and Mom up there? After all, he spent a month there every year. There were also those many extended weekends.

  His explanation was that he and his four partners, my “uncles,” Jack, Bruce, Russ and Marc, had an inviolate rule: “No wives, kids or girlfriends allowed at the camp.” It was promised that once I had achieved sufficient maturity, I would be welcomed at Morningwood.

  As plausible as that had been, it never did much to calm my juvenile longings to be “grown up” and to be included in something slightly forbidden – something only adult males could be a part of.

  Picturing my life as a banquet, once I was mature enough to form such an analogy, where each course was a new experience to be savored, Morningwood would be my dessert, and I had a very powerful sweet tooth.

  Dad always came back from these trips with tales of the fish he and the guys caught and how they roughed it by cooking their catches over open campfires and how afterwards, they would sit around drinking beer and playing poker or bridge and just totally unwinding from the rigors of earning a living in the city. Mom never seemed to mind these periods without Dad. She probably enjoyed her own brand of solitude.