gay for cash xxx

I had Steve strip and placed leather cuffs on his wrists and ankles.
I secured either wrist to a flange at either side of the tailgate using
spring clips. Stepping back a checking things out I get two tent spikes
and drive them into the ground just about one foot behind Steve’s out
stretched legs. Using short nylon ropes I tie either ankle to a stake.

Anticipating the traffic going home on Monday, we stayed Monday night and
would head home Tues morning. The weekend was set. We could party with
the crowd s through the weekend and enjoy the slowed pace on Monday night.

The bars were considerably less crowded on Monday evening, mostly a nice
mixture of local people. After about midnight the Woods began to wind
down from the all weekend pace. We decided to take a detour on the
way back to our camp th rough Armstrong Woods.

We stopped and parked soaking in the darkness and the silence. There were
none of the campers from the weekend left in the park. We decided to get
out of the truck and look around. The darkness was soothing and the
silence was calm ing. Steven grabbed me from behind and held on to me
tightly. I could feel his cock growing as he rubbed it against my shorts.
I had a pair of tight 501 shorts and my chaps over them. I lowered the
back of the truck and laid back as Steve started licking at my shorts.
He started at my boots and licked my leather all the way up my leg
to my crotch. He worked the buttons open with his teeth until he had
his prize. Steve licked at my balls, just the way he knows I like it.

Jeff removed his underwear. Reaching gently into Peter’s underwear,
Jeff squeezed his supple penis. It was very hard, and Jeff couldn’t
wait to feel it deep within his mouth. Removing Peter’s underwear,
Jeff fondled Peter’s penis. He couldn’t wait another second. Placing
his head right over Peter’s penis, he took his entire cock deep into
his mouth. It tasted wonderful. It filled his mouth with warmth and
love. Rhythmically moving his head up and down on Peter’s cock, Jeff
was in ecstasy.

Jeff told him to forget about school for the weekend, and that he was
here to enjoy and help relieve some tension.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” he told Jeff. “I’ve missed you so
much!” Jeff couldn’t help glancing down at Peter’s cock. He could see
that it was beginning to get hard, and he wanted so desperately to
chuck the pizza’s on the floor, grab Peter, strip him naked, and make
passionate love to him all night long.

Jon was skittish around Mr. White from the start, manic even. For
about a week he joined the other boys, raving about what a fruit and a
faggot the new teacher was. But by the end of the second week of school he
had arranged to join three extracurricular clubs — the Thespians, the school
paper, and a modern novel study group — so he could be near him.
On any given day Jon could be found before class, after class, and
often at lunch in Mr.White’s room. I knew that because I was in the habit
of dropping by at those times myself. Of all the students who clustered
around the new teacher, I was the closest to understanding just why he
seemed so odd. He was so completely different from any other man I’d ever
known, in his eccentricity so sweet and strange, that of course I began
cruising him almost right away. I was just learning that having sex with
a person could teach me things about them and about myself, and I was sure
Mr. White was a wealth of things I wanted to know.
But he made no responde to my attempts to interest him. Not a
negative response — just *none*. He didn’t even seem to notice. He
took flirtation as another indication of friendliness, and was friendly
in return. I didn’t feel rejected, exactly, because it dawned on me that
Mr. White would never want me the way he wanted Jon.
I watched Jon become a golden boy as the teacher gentled him like
a wild thing. He went from edgy and defensive to a secure position as
Mr. White’s sidekick. He starred in the plays; he was ace reporter; he
grew handsomer and more confident as he was courted.
Our town was so small and so remote no one saw it for what it was,
not eve, at first, Jon himself. Everybody thought they knew what a faggot
was — it was practically synonymous with “stranger” — but after they got
to know Mt. White he turned out not to fit the ideas they had, the faggot
baiting ceased and was forgotten. Only I knew that a careful dance was
being done between Jon and Mr. White — I knew it because I had wanted to
do that dance myself. I was their witness first in secret, and later I was
the only one either of them trusted to talk about the other. So in the end
I danced with them, a sometimes-awkward third, as Jon gew more golden and
Mr. White grew hungry for him.

It was late in our senior year. One night after a play rehearsal
ended early we got in Mr. White’s old round Volve and drove to his house.
Neither Jon nor I were expected home for a couple of hours, and it was
not the first time the three of us had stolen time so we could hang out
together away from school. Mr. White had no friends in town expect those
few pet students who weren’t put off by his eccentricity, and Jon and I liked
to escape our student roles and pretend we were grownups who could spend
our time as we liked. Besides, befriending Mr. White had made us feel less
like we belonged in our community, and all year long we’d spent as much time
with him as we could — a support system had formed between the three of us
to the exclusion of everyone else.
There was a massage table set up in the living room, although I was
sure it was hardly ever used. As far as I knew Mr. White rarely had guests
of any kind. But when Jon saw it he insisted that he wanted a massage; he’d
never had a real one, he wanted to try it.
“I can’t do it through clothes,” Mr. White said, and I really think he
was trying to put Jon off. But Jon replied, “I’ll take them off, then,” and
began shucking his t-shirt. For a split second the man looked panicked, but
when he glanced over at me, for help or permission, I held out a joint I had
fished from my bag. I had a feeling I was supposed to be there for this,
that maybe Jon wouldn’t have been so forward it he and the teacher had been
alone. “Go ahead, I’m occupied,” I said, pulling a couple of Mr.White’s
art books off the shelf, opening ‘The Collected Aubrey Beardsley.’ I didn’t
look at it, rhough. I watched Jon’s body emerge, watches the golden hairs
on his arms and legs catch the low lamplight. And I watched Mr.White’s eyes
follow his movements; Jon was turned away so he couldn’t see how both of us
lapped up his beauty as he revealed it. He was slender, just beginning to
muscle, and his skin looked so soft that I wondered how Mr.White would be
able to touch it. My panties felt slick. I squeezed my legs together and
watched as Jon got on the table. All nonchalance, he lay back with his
head on his hands like a boy in an Eakins painting, like it was a century
ago and he’d just crawled out of the swimming hole to lie in the sun, his
cock lolling on his thigh, but I saw him trying to control his too-fast
breath, I saw he had put his hands behind his head to hide their shaking.
“I feel funny being the only one naked,” he said, and he wasn’t
addressing this to me. Mr.White’s eyes went wide, he pretended not to hear
as he hunted in a heavy old cabinet for massage oil, but Jon insisted: “Take
your clothes off too. I feel silly like this.”
I tried to disappear into the cushions. I was afraid Mr. White
wouldn’t do anything with me there; I wanted to watch his hands carressing
Jon, and I wanted to see *him* naked, too. More, I wanted something to happen
to give Mr. White pleasure — I thought abot how lonely he must be, his bed
as empty as his massage table. He desires Jon, and I wanted him to have him.
I hid behind the big volume of Beardsley, lowering my eyes in intent study
of the fey young dandies sprouting huge cocks, and watched my two friends
through my lowered lashes.
For twenty years I have marveled at Mr.White’s courage in the face
of the fear he must have felt: stripping his clothes off in front of a
woman (I don’t think he ever had), exposing his body so like the naked
androgynes in the Maxfield Parrish prints that decorated his walls, and
reaching to touch a boy who, by the laws of the state was only just barely
old enough. That night I marveled at the way he looked, even naked, like
he had landed in the wrong time, and how looking at them filled me, choked
me with lust, and the excitement summered in my without boiling, for I
was only there to witness. The man warmed a pool of oil in his fine, slender
hands and touched the boy, just lightly. “Here, turn over,” he said.
Jon lay on his stomache on the table, head turned toward me, eyes
half closed. Mr. White held his shoulders for an instant and Jon sighed,
giving up a bit of his fright to the warmth of the man’s hands on his skin.
Then Mr. White began sweeping strokes down Jon’s body and I realized I didn’t
have to pretend not to be there, not to see: my presence had not prevented
their touching, it wouldn’t stop now that it had begun. I let the book
fall and watched openly, watched Mr.White’s cock rise, growing with each
stroke as if hands were stroking it to fullness. I watched him grow
mesmerized, his hands on the young body he had wanted for so long. I learned
how to watch that night, for I could feel the strokes of his oiled hands
on me as I watched as if they were on my own flesh, and I could feel Jon’s
tender boy-skin under my hands as if I were the one touching him. I stayed
curled in the corner of the sofa, wanting to be just there, one hands on my
pussy squeezing tight and the other holding my breast, realizing I could
make love with both of them just with my eyes.

Mr. White was making love with his hands, and Jon was moving his
body subtly into them, responding to the touch in a way I knew was sexual –
it was the way I moved when someone touched me. He let out an occasional
little sound, and his breath was even now, but beginning to quicken again,
not in fear this time. No one has ever touched him like this before, I
thought, and another jolt of arousal coursed through me, thinking that Jon
was a virgin. The man was exploring him, every inch of skin oiled now and
gleaming in the light, every muscled traced and kneaded, every curve of his
body voluptuously stroked. Each time he stroked up Jon’s thighs and over the
muscles of his ass Mr. White brough his hands closer together, testing the
boy’s response as he came neared the cleft of his asscheeks. I could feel my
cunt frankly wet through my panties now, and Jon squirmed in an encouraging
way each time the hands neared, raising his ass for more pressure. Mr. White
responded by stroking harder, pulling the cheeks apart each time; I couldn’t
see the puckered anal ring from where I was sitting, but I felt sure that
if I could, I would come. I wondered if Jon had never had anything in his
ass — when I masturbated I sometimes slid a finger into mine, or fucked
myself with a candle, and I thought about him sliding a slick wax taper
up his ass in the secrecy of his room, getting used to the feeling and pumping
it in and out, and I thought of him fucking himself in the ass and thinking
of Mr. White’s long, slim cock sliding up into his soft hotness there –
and I did come.
I didn’t make much noise, but enough for them to hear me. Jon let out
a real moan then, and I saw that he had begun to thrust, stroking his cock
against the table. Mr. White stopped him with the pressure of a hand. “Turn
back over now, Jon,” he said, in a voice I had never heard him use, low and
sexual and almost enough to make me come a second time.

Jon’s cock was hugely hard, an incongruous man’s cock jutting up from
his boy’s body, and seeing it I wanted to climb onto the table and lower
myself down on it, take him, be the first, almost as much I wanted to watch.
I could scarcely believe Mr. White had the self-control not to reach
right for it, but he teased Jon — or maybe he was intent on giving him a
good massage in spite of himself. He stroked up and down the boy’s body,
missing the cock each time, but attentive instead to nipples and belly, until
Jon started to buck again with desire. A beaded strand of pre-come gleamed
in his downy belly-hair like a spider’s dewed web, and I wanted to lick
it off, but thought if I waited maybe I’d get to watch Mr. White do it.

During the next near-brush with his cock Jon lifted his hand, and for
a moment I thought he was going to touch himself in frustration. But he
reached for Mr.White and took the man’s cock, which leaped and strained
at his first tentative touch, and began to stroke it. Mr. White gasped,
then said, “Jon…” Jon tugged on Mr. White’s cock, pulling the man
closer. “Your mouth — please…” Jon said. “Your mouth, I want it…
I want to feel it…”
Mr. White moved closer, all semblance of massage gone with the boy’s
request, and stroked Jon’s cock a few times, taking its measure, getting
the full feel of it in his hands. Then he bent to run his tongue up and
down his length — Jon started gasping immediately — and then sucked the
head into his mouth. I thought Jon would come righ taway, but the man knew
what he was doing. He remained still until the boy’s orgasm ebbed, and
then began sucking his cock in earnest, pulling it all the way down his
throat, drawing back to just tongue the tip, keeping the rhythm just uneven
enough that Jon could keep from coming. He held the boy’s calls clasped
in one hand and squeezed them — whenever he squeezed them harder I
heard Jon gasp.

I had pulled my panties aside and had three fingers deep in my cunt.
I was dreaming about kneeling next to Mr. White and taking his cock deep
down my throat, maybe wetting a finger and sliding it up his ass, but I was
afraid. I was sure he had had his cock sucked by plenty of men. I hadn’t
done it very much, and I didn’t want to do it badly in comparison. I
contented myself with watching him, trying to figure out what exactly he was
doing to Jon. Whatever it was, he was responding like it was an angel whose
lips were wrapped around his dick, not just his teacher’s.
Jon had begun to murmur: “I want it, I want it…” rhythmically,
entranced. He was twisting his torso, trying to reach Mr. White’s cock
with his mouth, trying to suck him in return. Mr. White finally knelt over
him on the table, obliging him, and Jon went for his cock with the hunger
of an overripe virgin. He held the man by the waist and tried to bring him
down closer, tried to get more of hic cock, and Mr. White swallowed all of
Jon’s cock and, with a moan, began thrusting into Jon’s mouth. Jon took it,
moaning too. His oiled body still gleamed in the lamplight, golden, and he
fucked up into his teacher’s throat.

I had been coming for five minutes by the time they finally came, Jon
shooting with a last hard thrust and what would have been a yell if his mouth
hadn’t been so full, and Mr. White with a long groan, in immediate response.
The boy took the man’s come like he’d sucked cock before, but I don’t think
he ever had. He lay whimpering a little after his blast, suckling at the
man’s softening cock and breathing hard. After a while Mr. White turned
around and held him, and Jon buried his head in his neck and hugged him
close — once again I saw the young boy in him, and wondered what would
happen now that that boy was playing tug-o-war with man.
Mr. White came to me and kissed me, once, lingeringly, before he
took Jon to the shower to scrub off the oil, letting me have the scent of
the boy’s sweet cum. I rose and went to the empty massage table, running my
fingertips on the warm oily surface. At my feet the Beardsley book lau
open, a black-haired young fop sprouting an enormous erection, fondled by
a man much older than he.

What was he going to do? How could he possibly not know who he was
or where he came from? If he knew what amnesia was (and he recognised
the word as soon as the doctor used it) how could he not know anything
about himself? It seemed so strange… to know things you were taught
in school, mathematical formulae and historical facts and figures,
that Paris was the capital of France and that Margaret Thatcher was
the Prime Minister, and yet not know your own name or even if your
parents were alive or dead!

“I’m sorry I can’t say something which sounds more hopeful,” the
doctor had said, less than an hour ago as Adam had been discharged
from the Infirmary. “I can understand how lost you must feel, but rest
assured that most amnesics do recover some of their memory if not all
of it.”

Adam smiled wryly. “And some never get their memory back at all,
correct?”

The doctor nodded. “I’m afraid so, but the percentage is very
small. Usually their relatives identify them from the newspapers or
through the police, and once the patient is back in their home envi-
ronment little day to day things keep jogging their memory.”

Adam wasn’t encouraged. He’d been in the hospital for over a
month, ever since the police had found him, dazed and bloody from a
head wound, wandering through the streets late one night. The media
had latched onto his case, and for several consecutive days his face
had been on more newspaper covers than Princess Diana’s.

But nothing had come of it. No-one came forward to claim him, the
police drew a complete blank, and, mysteriously, he had no form of
identification on him.

After a couple of weeks the media got another more interesting
story to keep their readers happy, and Adam’s fate was quickly forgot-
ten. Depression set in. Deep, black depression. Luckily he had made at
least one new friend in hospital, a young male nurse called Stan who
always had a cheery word to brighten him up.

“Come on, sunshine,” Stan had said one day as he dispensed his
drugs. “Things could be a lot worse.”

Adam scowled at him. “Really? How?”

“Well, just look at yourself. You’re a good-looking young guy, and
at the risk of making you big-headed I’d even say handsome. You’ve got
a good body, even if you have a cracked skull, and I’ll bet you won’t
be on your own for very long even if no-body turns up from your past.”

The flattery had made Adam feel a bit better, but not much. He
dreaded the day when, inevitably, he would have to leave the hospital
and begin to rebuild his life, but where would he start? He had spent
many sleepless nights, just lying in his bed and listening to the
other patients snoring, wondering about his predicament. He had very
little money on him when he was brought in, just a couple of °5 notes
and a bit of change, no idea where he came from and no idea what his
profession was. His accent was also bland and unplaceable. At least if
he’d had a Brummie accent he would have known he came from Birmingham
or the midlands.

It had been Stan who had christened him ‘Adam’. After long days in
his bed he had felt stale and unclean, and would have killed for a
bath. When the doctor arrived to do his rounds Adam asked him if he
could have a shower, not a poxy bed bath, something to lift his spir-
its and make him feel human again. To his surprise the doctor had
agreed, as long as there was a nurse on hand in case he needed help.
Stan had been the nurse.

There were a couple of small private shower units just off the
ward bathroom and Stan followed as Adam made his way to one and
stepped inside. Adam would have closed the door and left Stan to wait
outside, but Stan held the door open and followed him in.

“Don’t I get any privacy?” Adam asked, as he undid his robe and
slipped it off.

“Sorry,” Stan shrugged. “Doctor’s orders. Anyway you haven’t got
anything I haven’t already seen.”

Adam hung his bathrobe on a hook and removed his pyjama jacket,
hanging that on top of the robe. Feeling more than a little self-con-
scious, Adam untied his pyjama pants and let them fall to the floor so
that he was naked. He was aware of Stan’s eyes on him as he bent to
pick up his pyjama pants, and after the initial flush of embarrassment
he was surprised to find being naked while someone watched was
strangely exciting.

He was quite proud of his body. He had no idea if he’d ever done
anything to get in such good shape (that part of the past was miss-
ing), but he certainly liked the way he looked. Long legs, thick and
muscular at the thighs, with pert tight buttocks, tapering to a slim
waist and flat hard stomach; broad back and powerful shoulders. Maybe
he’d at some time played sport professionally? He didn’t know.

He felt Stan’s eyes burning into him as he turned on the shower
and stepped under the hot steaming jet. It felt so good, the water
running over his smooth flawless skin, forming rivers which ran into
the curves and hollows of his body and seemed to wash away his prob-
lems. He felt hot water trickle into the deep cleavage of his but-
tocks, swilling over his anus and then down the inside of his legs.

He reached for the soap and began to work up a lather. Still aware
of Stan watching him, Adam began to rub lather across his chest, ca-
ressing the hard round pectoral muscles and tweaking his nipples gen-
tly. God that felt good! His hands slid down over his belly, to the
dark curly bush of pubic hair in his crotch and he buried his fingers
in the wiry hair, sliding his right thumb around the shaft of his
large uncut cock and cupping his balls in his palm.

As he smoothed soap along the length of his flaccid cock, his left
hand moved around to his behind, parting his hard buttocks, a finger
probing for the lips of his anus. Stan shuffled his feet nervously as
he watched Adam, but Adam was oblivious to him now. His prick was re-
acting instinctively, swelling up to its full seven inches, the fore-
skin peeling back to reveal the throbbing silky purple head.

Stan cleared his throat. “I’ll just nip outside for a smoke,” he
said, as he disappeared through the door. “Be back in a minute.”

Adam hardly heard. His finger had now located his anus and was in-
serted up to the knuckle, gently moving in and out in time to the
rhythmic wanking of his right hand. It felt so good, so alive. He
couldn’t remember ever having wanked himself before. Surely he must
have? It seemed so new and exciting that he was shocked by the feroc-
ity of his sudden climax. His knees buckled and he arched his back
forward as he came, thick milky cum shooting in powerful spurts from
his cock, splattering on the tiles of the shower floor and being
washed away by the cascading water.

By the time Stan reappeared Adam had finished his shower and was
standing in the cubicle towelling off, his body red from the hot water
and the rubbing.

“So how do I look?” he asked, tossing his thick blonde hair back
from his forehead, his blue eyes sparkling.

“Like Adam in the Garden of Eden,” Stan grinned, admiring the
young man’s naked form.

And that was how he got his new name. Everyone, doctors and nurses
alike, thought it seemed somehow appropriate, as though no other name
would have fitted the good-looking mystery man quite as well. Even
Adam himself took to it, but, after all, he had nothing better.

Eventually the day he’d been dreading arrived, and he was uncere-
moniously discharged from hospital, thrown out into the real world to
stand or fall on his own merits. He’d drifted around the town aim-
lessly for a while, heading no-where in particular, until he had found
himself in the park, sitting here on the hard bench watching the
ducks.

“I thought it was you,” a familiar voice said. He glanced to his
left to find himself gazing at Stan’s smiling face. “What are you do-
ing here? Taken a fancy to ducks, have you?”

“Where else have I to go?” Adam asked, without self-pity.

“Still no lodgings, huh?” Stan sighed, seating himself next to
Adam on the bench. “What about that church hostel thing the hospital
social worker told you about?”

Adam shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’d just rather not go
there.”

Stan stood up. “Then there’s only one other alternative. You’ll
have to kip on my couch for a few nights until you get fixed up.”

“Won’t your family mind?”

Stan shook his head. “I live alone. I have a small flat, nothing
fancy, but big enough for me.” He smiled again, and Adam realised for
the first time what a pleasing smile Stan had. “You’re quite welcome
to the couch, if you want it.”

Adam smiled back. “Thanks.”

Stan’s flat was nicer than he’d let on. The lounge carpet was
thick and soft, and the decor was more tasteful than Adam would have
expected from his new friend. The couch was a large 3-seater job, eas-
ily long enough to accommodate Adam’s six foot frame.

Stan spent the rest of the afternoon settling his guest in, fuss-
ing over the young guy like a mother hen. His next shift at the hospi-
tal wasn’t until six the next morning, so they had plenty of opportu-
nity to talk, something they had never really been able to do on the
ward. Stan was warm and friendly, and, Adam noticed, quite attractive
in a bland, unexciting kind of way. He had dark curly hair and equally
dark eyes, and his complexion was duskily smooth.

The day passed quickly. In the evening Stan phoned for a pizza,
which they put away along with a bottle and a half of sweet white
wine. Adam couldn’t ever remember having had wine before, but he took
an instant liking to it and downed so much of the stuff that he became
a bit merry.

“Come on, mate,” Stan muttered at just after midnight. “I think
it’s time we both turned in. You’ve only just got out of hospital, and
I have to be up at the crack of dawn.”

He brought a large bundle of sheets and a couple of pillows from
the bedroom and expertly made up Adam’s bed on the couch. “There you
go,” he said. “I’ve a spare toothbrush in the bathroom, the red one’s
mine, so help yourself.” Adam nodded unsteadily. The wine had really
gone to his head. “I’ll say goodnight then,” Stan said. “If you need
anything, just shout, okay?”

“Okay,” Adam replied, “‘night!”

Stan headed for the bedroom, glancing back just once to catch
sight of Adam wrestling with one of his socks. Then he closed the
door, undressed quickly, and slipped naked into his bed. It was late
and it had been a long day, and to say Stan was tired was an under-
statement. He fell asleep almost the instant his head touched the pil-
low.

He awoke again with a start after what seemed just seconds. The
luminous clock on the bedside cabinet read 3.35 am. Something had bro-
ken his sleep, some kind of noise loud enough to disturb him. Stan
threw back the covers and clambered out of bed, creeping across the
room and gingerly opening the door.

The lounge was in darkness save for the shaft of moonlight which
was shining in through the large window. Standing in front of the win-
dow, one hand resting on the pane and his head leaned on the back of
his hand, was Adam. He was naked, the moonlight causing his skin to
glow an eerie silver, the deep black of the shadows accentuating every
curve and hollow of his muscular torso. He looked the epitome of sor-
row.

Stan opened the door wider and quietly crossed the lounge to where
his friend was standing. He placed his right hand on Adam’s shoulder.
“What’s wrong?” he asked tenderly.

Without looking up Adam spoke. “I just feel so lonely,” he said.

Stan squeezed his shoulder in a gesture of affection. “You don’t
have to be lonely,” he said. “I’m here.”

Adam looked up, and in the moonlight Stan thought he saw the glint
of an odd tear. “Hold me,” Adam said, turning towards Stan and slip-
ping his strong arms around Stan’s waist.

It was at that moment that Stan became aware of his own nudity.
Their bodies touched, Adam’s large muscular thigh brushing against
Stan’s leg. Like a child, Adam laid his head on Stan’s shoulder, nuz-
zling his face against the nurse’s neck. His breath was warm and
moist.

Stan pulled him closer, until their stomachs lay flat together. He
could feel Adam’s hard nipples against his chest, and lower, much
lower, he could feel the hot softness of Adam’s large and magnificent
cock pressing into his own pubic bush. As he held the guy, he wondered
if Adam even knew or cared that he was getting an erection, his prick
throbbing and pushing against the soft fluttery skin of Adam’s belly.

Stan let his hand slide slowly down Adam’s back, his fingers glid-
ing over the smooth flesh. His first finger traced a line along the
furrow caused by Adam’s spine, and Adam flinched just a shade, his
hips jutting forward so that their cocks rubbed together. Stan allowed
his hand to continue on its downward path until it came to rest
lightly on Adam’s tight hard buttocks.

Pressed together, Stan could feel that Adam was beginning to re-
spond. The huge prick was growing bigger, swelling to its full size,
throbbing against Stan’s thigh. Encouraged, Stan slid his hand into
the cleavage of Adam’s buttocks, his fingers exploring, searching,
then finding the rough tight lips of Adam’s anus, which he stroked
lovingly. For Adam it was an experience he had never known the like
of. The warmth of another human body next to his, the pure pleasure of
being touched as intimately as Stan was touching him at that moment.
Somewhere, deep in his mind, he was vaguely aware that what they were
doing was “not right” to the majority of people, but frankly he did
not give a fuck.

Stan was caressing his buttocks, taking care to rub his anus gen-
tly. Adam’s prick was now fully erect, as was his lover’s, two thick
hard rods rubbing against each other. Adam felt Stan let go of his em-
brace slightly, then felt the warm wetness of Stan’s mouth on his
smooth, hairless chest, licking the nipples, nipping them lightly with
his teeth. Stan’s tongue traced a silvery line of saliva down Adam’s
body, taking a slight pause while he licked at the hollow of his
navel, then continuing on it’s path towards the most sensitive of re-
gions. Adam gasped as Stan kissed the tip of his dick, then closed his
eyes and allowed the sensations to flow over him as Stan took his full
seven inches into his mouth.

He was a master of cock-sucking, his tongue working marvels which
drove Adam into fits of ecstasy. Stan ran his hot tongue around the
swollen silky glans, curling it behind the fleshed back rim of Adam’s
foreskin, exploring the dark little piss-hole which was already drool-
ing salty pre-cum which mingled with Stan’s saliva. Stan took the hard
cock deep into his throat, pulling on Adam’s buttocks and pushing his
face deep into the boy’s pubic hair. The wrinkled sac of Adam’s scro-
tum nestled in the cleft of Stan’s chin, and he became aware of a
change in it’s form, a tightening, the flesh drawing in to enclose the
large heavy balls, and he knew Adam’s climax was near.

Stan worked harder, drawing the long shaft of his lover’s prick
almost out of his mouth completely, then closing down on it quickly,
tickling the thick veined underside with his tongue. The boy was now
breathing heavily, almost gasping, until, with a groan that the whole
town must have heard, Adam came. Spunk, thick and warm and salty, be-
gan to spurt from the head of his dick, filling Stan’s mouth and slid-
ing down the back of his throat in a river of cum. Adam grabbed Stan’s
hair and rammed his cock into his mouth with force, almost causing
Stan to gag and choke. And then the climax was over. Adam dropped to
his knees in front of Stan, exhausted, shattered by what had taken
place. He sagged forward, into Stan’s arms. Stan’s erection stood up
almost vertically from the forest of curls at his crotch.

“Why did you do that?” Adam gasped, genuinely shocked by the fe-
rocity of their passion.

Stan smiled. “Because I wanted to. I’ve wanted to make love to you
ever since that day in the shower.” Stan leaned forward and kissed
Adam on the lips. He was pleased to feel the pressure as Adam kissed
back. “Stay here with me,” Stan said. “Let me take care of you, at
least for a while.”

Adam smiled. “At least for tonight,” he said, slipping his hand
between Stan’s hairy thighs and caressing his erect prick. “What you
just did was incredible… I don’t think anyone’s ever done that to me
before. I can’t remember, anyway, so I guess it’s the same thing.”

He began to pull slowly on Stan’s cock, teasing the foreskin back
over the wet head then allowing it to retract again. “Don’t be angry,
but I don’t know if I could do the same to you… not yet, at least,
but maybe soon…”

Stan smiled. “That’s okay,” he said, closing his eyes and enjoying
the feel of Adam’s strong grip as he wanked him slowly. “Just keep do-
ing what you’re doing and I’ll be happy enough.”

Stan didn’t take long to come. Like Adam he was highly excited,
and it was mere moments before his cock exploded in a fountain of
spunk, covering Adam’s hand and dripping in thick goblets onto the
carpet. Then they lay together, in each other’s arms on the couch in
the moonlight.

“Stay with me,” Stan repeated. “Stay here forever. Put the past
behind you. We can be happy, I know it.”

Adam sighed. “I’ll stay for a while, but I have to know who I am,
where I come from.” He kissed Stan tenderly. “I’ll stay until I can
please you just like you’ve pleased me, but then I have to go.”

Stan remained silent. Eventually they slept, and before long morn-
ing had come with a vengeance. Stan left Adam asleep on the couch as
he washed, dressed and got his things together ready for his shift at
the hospital. Taking one last lingering look at the blonde Adonis on
the couch, he let himself out of the flat and went to work.

Two hours later Adam sat at the kitchen table, a blanket wrapped
round him, and studied the contents of the battered leather wallet
which belonged to him. Eleven pounds and seventy-three pence, a dog-
eared bus ticket, and a crumpled piece of paper on which was written a
number… a phone number! Adam’s heart leaped.

Why hadn’t the police or hospital staff noticed this? It seemed so
obvious. He picked up the paper and walked across to Stan’s phone,
lifted the receiver and dialled the number. Nothing. Only the constant
tone that told him the number was unobtainable.

Replacing the receiver, he picked up the telephone directory,
turned to the front and started searching. After a few seconds he
found it… 091, the area code for Newcastle-Upon-Tyne. At last he had
a starting point. It was not much to work from, but it was a start!

He sat for a long time, staring at the phone number, wondering and
fantasizing about it. He did some serious thinking that day, and he
made up his mind. He would stay with Stan for as long as he had agreed
to, but no longer. He had to find out the truth about himself, he had
to. He really had no alternative.