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o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
o  	This part of my collection offers a very wide variety of  o
o  stories. They have been submitted by people from all over the  o
o  world.  Also from alt.sex.stories (Newsgroups).   There is no  o
o  particular  order  other than offering them to you in  alpha-  o
o  betical directories.                                           o
o  	I don’t believe in categorizing things. "I don’t want to  o
o  be typed therefore I don’t type things myself."  I think it’s  o
o  a lot more fun to browse around and find  'little'  surprises  o
o  that you might not have even thought of looking for.           o
o   	Lest we forget!!!   This story was produced as adult en-  o
o tertainment and should not be read by minors.   Kristen         o
o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o

Bunkin With Barry (MM)
by janus znaiu (janus@sos.on.ca)
(c) 1989

***

I'd only been awake for an hour but I was already exhausted,
utterly drained. And drenched. Two streams of my own sperm
trickled their parallel way to the mattress between the
xylophone keys of my heaving, skinny-kid ribcage. Another
rivulet dribbled along one side of my neck and was beginning to
dampen the pillow. That one came from the spot where my first,
most pent-up jet had caught the bottom of my upturned chin. Had
it not, it would have sailed past my head and decorated my
headboard, as primary spurts of mine had been doing for more
than two years. A viscous puddle of white, some the
accumulation of subsequent shots and some of it Barry's, not
only filled the hollow of my belly button; it hid the fact that
I had one at all. I stilled Barry's jacking hand. His job was
done, for now.

Our sunrise orgasm ended just in time. Moments later, I heard
my mom's slippers shuffle along the carpet outside my room as
she headed downstairs. By the time she'd finished with the
coffee grinder, my brother Nils could be heard shaving next
door in the bathroom. He'd be getting ready for church. Me, I'd
already had all the sacrament I needed-- the blessed ooze of
Barry's earlier load still lay thick on my tongue.

"Wow! I counted seven fuckin' shots that time, Jens." Barry
whispered, as much in awe as from any effort to be quiet. He
spooned in beside me and smeared my ejaculate across my torso,
"Seven. Shit, that'll be something to put in your diary!"

My diary? Oh yeah. I'd told him about it that first night we
slept together.

I used to keep a detailed jackoff diary throughout most of my
early teens. Well, not one exclusively dedicated to the
practice exactly; it took the form of a daily addendum in the
more conventional journal I kept. At the bottom right-hand
corner of each page, I would draw a little box. In it, I'd make
cryptic notes of the previous twenty-four hours' one-handed
diversions.

A small "x" meant a perfunctory wank, one indulged in purely
out of transient teenaged stress or simple boredom. If it was
followed by an "s", that meant it took place in the shower, as
"b" stood for "bed" and so on, to define location. A real
boomer of an orgasm, one with many spurts, or one of
exceptional velocity, merited a larger "X", with one "!" tacked
on for each distinct volley of cum over my average, which was
four. If another guy was involved, two "x"s would be placed
next to each other. 

I know how absurdly fastidious all this sounds, but that's the
kind of kid I was. It's a Capricorn thing, so they tell me.
From the previous year's diary, I could tell you that my cock,
when hard, grew from precisely 4 7/8 inches to 5 3/4 inches
over the fifty-two weeks from my thirteenth birthday to my
fourteenth. But its real growth spurt happened during the year
Barry and I were buddies.

For the three months prior to the first time Barry and I
masturbated together, my jackoff log consisted mostly of xs and
xb notations, with few X or ! to be found. Also rare, were
symbols indicating that I'd had company in my relentless
pursuit of temporary ego-loss. One could deduce, from an
overview of that summer's record, that I averaged between three
and four orgasms a day of so-so rating, that they usually
occured in the shower or the barn, with one or two of them
being occasionally memorable ones in bed at night. I'd guess I
was probably an average wanker for a horny fourteen yearold.

But from August 28th, 1964, a week before I was to start tenth
grade, there begins at the corners of my diary pages such a
profusion of upper case XX and multiple !!!! notations that,
looking at them now, I have to suspect that I must have been
bragging to myself in code. I see also, by the other things I
wrote among my normal day-to-day prattlings, that I was
beginning to fall in love with my brother Nils' former best
friend. Previously, I might have entered something like: "Barry
and I cycled out to the mill and then we went to his house to
work on the rigging to his Cutty Sark model", and that would be
it. But all entries after that magic day also include curious
minutiae about him that document the progress of my
captivation-- things like a quarter-page description of Barry's
new haircut, or what he was wearing that day, or a quote of
something he'd said that struck me as clever.

We'd only been chumming around full-time for a few weeks when
we found ourselves beating off together in a portable outhouse
off a two-lane blacktop. Not only had he brought me to a bona
fide X!!! orgasm in that smelly sweatbox of a john, slipping
and sliding my dick against that herculean loaf of his. No,
he'd also done it to me inside his own briefs-- while he was
wearing them! I'd have followed him off a cliff from that
moment on. Turns out, that incident and the ones that followed
it laid the foundation for a huge part of what I consider
erotic today.

Before that day, underwear was a pretty much a no-brainer
thing-- you put on a clean pair in the morning after your
shower and you didn't think about them again until bedtime,
when you took them off, put them in the hamper, and put your
pajamas on. At least that was the routine for me until I became
buddies with Barry. He might have been nearly as inexperienced
and confused as I was about the broader spectrum of man-to-man
possibilities; but he already *knew*, at barely sixteen, that
whatever else it might entail, underwear was going to be a part
of it. Since I was the one with whom he first explored many of
those possibilites, I suppose was natural for his preoccupation
to influence me the way it has.

Another reason I fixated on the whole underwear thing might
stem from the fact that it was a prominent element the first
time I ever got it together enough to display open affection
towards another guy. Barry had seemed so natural nuzzling and
licking me that my Nordic self-control had been completely
undermined. Not only was it the first time I'd kissed a guy; it
was the first time I'd kissed anybody, and meant it. But I sure
thought about it a lot. Visualized it. Jacked off to it.
Arranged my pillows into a vaguely human facsimile and
practiced it on the decidedly un-mouthlike crook of my elbow.

My problem had always been one of available targets. I was far
too reserved to try kissing any of the guys I occasionally
wanked with. It had become almost like they were jacking off
with me as a kind of favor anyway, as though it were some
prerequisite way of thanking me for my hospitality during
sleepovers. Like any ritual we observe purely out of
sentimentality or with an air of resigned politeness, the
experience usually left both of us unfulfilled, each for his
own reasons. Still, it was always a welcome foreign hand
coaxing my load-- and something I wasn't about to fuck up by
laying a big slurpy one on the kid in bed beside me. Now, with
Barry, I'd no longer have that to worry about. He claimed I was
the first guy he'd ever kissed on the mouth, but he sure was
good at it.

We arrived back at my place several hours after our outhouse
tryst. It had been a long ride home, but mostly downhill or
easy flats. The shadows had grown long and it was "date night"
at our house. My brother had just driven off to a prayer
meeting or somesuch with Sheila: the rat-faced frumpette he
called his girlfriend.

My folks thought she was "a little too religious", but they
seemed to accept her. I hated everything about her. Her
rodentine features aside, she also behaved like a shrew. Very
occasionally she'd pass her arm around Nils' neck, seemingly
out of affection, but I suspect she was simply sizing him up
for a collar. After only six months of her steady company, my
brother had mutated from a mildly toxic Goody Two-shoes into a
morally superior prig. I only go into such detail because it
serves to demonstrate what a moron Nils had been for dumping
Barry as a friend in favor of Sheila's henpeckery.

My mom and pop were avid ballroom dancers. Saturday was also
the night they drove into the city for their weekly infusion of
canned Count Basie, waxed parquet flooring and nursed drinks.
Once the obligatory parent-to-parent phone call was made
concerning his spending the night, everything was set; Barry
and I would be left to our own devious devices until whatever
time Nils came home. The folks wouldn't be back until 1 am or
later. We waved them goodbye and tried to contain our smirks
when my mom said to make sure we got to bed at a "decent" hour.
I, for one, was planning on an early night.

Apparently, so was Barry. Their car was still spitting gravel
down the laneway and we both smelled like ditchdiggers, but
Barry pinned me to the wall of the laundry room the instant we
were inside the house. He gave me such a needy, passionate kiss
that it just about took my breath away.

"I've been wanting to do that for the past hour," he admitted,
when he finally let up. "I'm real glad we don't have to wait
until later to mess around again."

As was I, but my sense of hygiene was running neck-in-neck with
my libido, threatening to overtake it any minute. Whatever
happened between Barry and me next would have to wait until
after a shower and a much-needed encounter with a toothbrush.
"Strip," I told, him with a smirk and a cocked eyebrow.

"All the way? Right here?" he shot me a confused grin, but he
started to pull his t-shirt over his head anyway.

"There's nobody else home but you and me. And you're standing
next to a washing machine," I told him, "Just put your shit
inside and then you can go have the first shower."

"First shower? I was kind of looking forward to us having one
together," Barry said with a theatrical pout. "Where'll you
be?" 

"I'll be..." I trailed off. We hadn't eaten since lunchtime. I
meant to tell him that I'd be warming us up some food. But just
then, Barry stepped out of his shorts and briefs in one
graceful swoop, leaving him suddenly, splendidly, naked.  Blood
instantly drained from my brain at the sight of him and rushed
straight for my prick. Barry's cock hung soft, pale and hooded.
Even flaccid, it looked anything but innocent: thick as a
knackwurst and as long, it curved heavily before his fuzzy
nuts. His foreskin seemed to sneer. He tugged at the flap of
extra skin with his thumb and forefinger a few times, absently
stretching it into a hollow pink sheath, extending it nearly an
inch beyond the tip of his dick.

Barry's shorts and underwear sure were a sight. He threw them
into the machine without even separating them; for all I knew,
they were stuck to each other from all the cum we'd hosed into
them.  The breeze generated by our ride home had dried all but
the most saturated places in his beat-up old Stanfields. Still,
large greyish blotches bore witness to our excesses of that
afternoon.  Barry removed his socks and added them to the
washer as well.

"Now you," he said, pulling my t-shirt out of my jeans and
gathering it upwards along my sides. I started to undo my
pants. Barry's dick suddenly started to pulse and widen, as if
the mere sight of my flat, hairless abdomen and my
count-the-ribs chest were sufficient to arouse him. But I knew
he was thinking about the evening before us. I was too. Before
I'd added the last of my stuff to the washer, I was thoroughly
boned, standing near-vertical and stiff as a pump handle. Barry
nuzzled the back of my neck and reached around me to give my
cock a few friendly tugs while I tried to concentrate on how
much soap to use. His hot, spongy dick prodded the back of my
thigh, causing my own to surge in Barry's loose fist.

By the time I'd put the casserole my mom left us in the oven
and joined him in the bathroom, Barry was already rinsing off.
I handed him a loaded toothbrush and stood scouring with my own
while I took in Barry's sexy, dripping form. God, he was built;
broader across the chest than even my brother, who was two
years older and lifted weights. Barry's most conspicuous
feature, however, was his downward-pointing, but fully-aroused
cock. I was happy to see his ardor hadn't diminished since we
parted. Nor had mine-- my cock stayed hard all the time I was
busy in the kitchen, even while I wrote out a phone message
from one of my mom's stupid friends.

Once I stepped into the shower Barry had me turn around and
began soaping up my back. My eyes closed in a euphoria only
true cleanliness junkies can know, I shampooed my hair while a
spare pair of hands roamed my body with a washcloth and a soap
cake, from my neck to the very bottoms of my feet. But Barry
saved the good parts for last. He knelt in front of me and
treated himself to a close-up, dog's-eye view of my soapy dick
and balls. He'd pull my cock down to the horizontal and then
let it go, over and over, just to watch it spring back by
itself. Humming to himself, as if in wonder of its rigidity, he
murmured, "Fuck, I wish my dick did that," more to himself than
to me.

"Yeah, and I wish my dick was half the size of yours." I
gurgled, still chewing on my toothbrush. Barry took his time
applying more soap to the insides of my thighs and my bag.
Having finished rinsing my hair, and since Barry was taking
care of the rest of me, I turned my attention to my cock. I
skinned it all the way back and meticulously cleaned behind the
ridge of my glans. My fingertips could discern precum blending
with the soap and I couldn't resist spreading that along my
shaft, working it in with squishy strokes that made Barry
giggle.

He ran a set of washcloth-covered fingertips along the crack of
my ass. I immediately clenched my cheeks in automatic recoil,
spitting his hand out of my soapy rift, but somehow retaining
the washcloth. Barry tittered and pulled it out with a playful
yank. "Hey, I'll wash there!" I told him. It wasn't just
because I was ticklish that I'd balked.

"What? I just washed ninty-five percent of you, Jens. And it's
not like I don't know how to clean a butthole-- I even have one
of my own. See?" Impishly, Barry bent over, head to knees, and
flashed me. Traces of suds clung to his raven-toned butt hairs
and his squinting, bronze-edged anus. To give me a "better"
view, he spread his cheeks grotesquely with clutching,
outstretched fingers.  Except for the fact that his his fat,
partially skinned bone and nuts showed below it, I found the
sight of Barry's asshole singularly unerotic.

"Yeah," I told him, "and you'll be washing it yourself too." In
my head, any and all buttplay was queer.  (As if my swapping
spit and semen with Barry in that port-a-potty hadn't been.)

I got the same inadequate sex education from my folks that Nils
got, that a lot of kids in those days got. It consisted
entirely of the distilled wisdom to be found in two
advice-for-teens books, tactfully left on our beds one day
while we were at school. Mine was by Dear Abby and Nils' was by
Pat Boone. I suppose we were supposed to read them and then
trade or something like that, but Nils and I never confided in
each other about anything, least of all about sexual matters. I
only read the Boone epic by sneaking it out of Nils' room while
he was away at Scout camp. Neither book mentioned homosexuality
in a very positive light. And there had been no follow-up
discussion with my parents concerning any of the information
they contained; I sensed immediately that giving us those books
had been their way of avoiding the issue.

Supplementary information was to be had in abundance on the
playground however, where lurid descriptions of what homos
really did with each other were sniggered over and reviled. I
knew that a lot of the things I wanted to do with another guy
were high up there on the official list of queer shit, but I'd
somehow convinced myself that if I just didn't do too many of
them-- most especially not "corn-holing"-- I'd be okay. In
effort to preserve my dodgey definition of normal, I managed to
completely de-eroticize anything anal. It had been fairly easy
actually, given the fanatical attitude toward personal
cleanliness my parents had already instilled.

Barry stood up and draped the washcloth over my upstanding pole
with a playful grin. "No sweat,Jens." he said affably, "Fronts
are where it's really at anyway." He pulled the wet cloth off
again as though he were unveiling a statue. Then he backed up a
step. Hands on his hips, Barry eyed me up and down, as if he
were inspecting a calf he might buy. His toned, cyclist's legs
were spread wide, his feet against each side of the tub.
Accentuated by the slight bend of his knees, his bloated dick
hung at about four o'clock, skinned back and dripping more than
just shower spray.  Barry locked my gaze, tweaked his knob and
ran his tongue across his lips. "Damn, I'm going to have to
kiss you again."

We groped and necked and traded Pepsodent-flavored spit against
all four walls of the stall until the hot water tank finally
bled. Barry didn't appear to be at all concerned about the
sudden change in water temperature, but I sure was. It was my
back that was getting the full brunt of it. I thought we'd
better opt for a change of venue before my nuts headed north
for good. "Let's get out of here," I told him, as I shut off
the icy spray.

Barry clutched me playfully about the waist from behind, just
as I was raising a foot to climb out of the tub. "Nothin'
doin', Slim," he chuckled, "You don't get outa' here until I
squoink." He rubbed my belly vigorously with one palm, bumping
the head of my upstanding boner with his knuckles on each rapid
up-and-down swipe. Again, the heat of Barry's fat cock pressed
itself into the back of my thigh like a fleshy branding iron.
Again he twiddled my stiff nipples. His transitional stubble
rasped along my cheek, lightly, just before he drilled the tip
of his tongue into my ear. That pinned me. If I had a thought
in my head to insist on a move to the comfort of my bed, Barry
found it and erased it with his tongue.

I turned to face him, but instead of locking him in another
embrace, I dropped to my knees in front of him-- assisted by
the downward pressure of his hands on my shoulders. "Pound it
for me, Jens." he pleaded in a throaty whisper. I began a
series of long, slow tugs at it, underhand, right next to my
shoulder.

He hummed quietly and bent his knees a little more. "That's
nice, Jens. But go faster and grip it tighter. There! That's
it, just like that. Now faster." I began slamming his dick like
I was shaking some obstinate ketchup bottle and my very life
depended on getting the contents out. His balls were rattling
forward and back, bumping the heel of my wanking hand with each
clenched and frantic downstroke. Soon the muscles on the front
of Barry's splayed thighs began to tighten rhthmically, as did
the ripples of his abdomen. He began a lot of erratic forward
thrusts into my palm. "Oh Jesus! Tighter!" he gasped. I grabbed
his twitching thigh for better leverage, bit down on my lower
lip and gave him everything I had.

Abruptly, his thrusting stopped and he went perfectly rigid. I
continued my flogging of his pole though; I was determined not
to stop skinning until I saw jizz. I looked up at Barry's face
after a few more seconds. No sound or breath escaped his open,
laughing mouth, yet his beet-red brow was knit as though he
were about to cry. Then I felt the moist heat of his first jet
on my shoulder. He laid a broad, creamy epaulet of sperm across
it, so close to my ear that I actually heard it splat. Then
Barry bent forward slightly with a great, explosive exhalation
and grabbed his cock away from me.

"Lean back!" He practically shouted it. I grabbed my heels and
lowered myself backwards, reclining until my back met cold, wet
tile. I looked down at my neglected boner. Its exposed pink
knob was fairly glimmering in the harsh, almost surgical
lighting of our bathroom. Though quite wet already with my own
preseminal juice, my dick was about to get a lot wetter.

Barry's second spurt went to waste on the floor of the tub near
his foot while I was busy repositioning myself, but the next
two, impossibly long and thick, landed right on my pole,
causing it to twitch and thump against my belly. I grabbed for
it and started wanking. Barry drained the remains
of his load into his palm, stripping the last drops off his
gathered foreskin between two fingers. He fell to his knees
with shudder of fulfillment and he held his spunk-filled hand
in front of me. Three long, white puddles filled the spaces
between his fingers, joining where they met the larger, deeper
pond in the middle of his palm. Barry brought it to my face
with a probing look. I nodded. Yes.

I watched his beaming face as he fed me his wad, slowly tipping
his palm to my lips. I gripped his wrist with both hands,
abandoning my cock once again, so as not to lose a single drop
of him. Once I was down to licking the final, sweet-salty
remnants off his palm, he drew his hand back and leaned in to
embrace me. Most of his first volley had trickled into my
armpit by now, and Barry lapped at it lightly before finally
docking with my parted lips. As soon as our tongues began their
dance, he gripped my cock and began jacking it slowly between
our pressed abdomens. Time kind of hovered there for a while.

"Your turn," Barry said at last, pulling off me and squatting
back on his heels. "But you have to tell me what you want."

"What I want?" I wondered out loud. His pulls on my cock
dropped off to gentle, infrequent tugs, as if he wasn't going
to proceed without express instructions. "I just want to get
off," I told him, "What else?"

"Yeah. I know that. But how?"

"The usual, I guess," I'd never really had choices. I only had
a rough idea of what most of them could be.

"Jens," Barry chuckled, "we've only done this shit once before.
We don't have a *usual*."

"Well, you know, jack it. Like I just did to you." I suggested,
climbing off the floor of the tub and standing up before him.

Barry put his fingertips on my slimey knob and twiddled it
absently. "That's it?" he asked. He was still wearing that
ever-present grin, but his eyebrows lent a note of incredulity
to his face now, as though I were blithely passing up some
great opportunity without properly thinking it through. I
suspected, of course, that he was trying to find a way to tell
me that he'd be willing to suck my dick.

That was an extremely gutsy thing to do in those days. Getting
the rep of "cocksucker" at school meant suffering the most
irrevocable pariah-hood. Every highschool seems to have had at
least a few kids who got tarred with the epithet, deservedly or
not. At my school, a single ill-fated boner in the showers
after phys ed meant you ate lunch with exchange students and
the math club until college. But the possibility that Barry
would be inclined to blow me opened a far bigger can of worms
for me.

With all the other kids I'd grown up messing around with, there
had always been a strict code of reciprocation. You did to the
other kid as he did to you. Even at that, you stayed well
within our admittedly restricted repertoire of exclusively
genital fiddling. Now, as the citadel of my masturbatory
orthodoxy was beginning to crumble at its very foundations, I
was fairly certain that if I told Barry it was okay to blow me,
the implication would be that I'd blow him in return. I wasn't
so sure I could do that. Of all the things I fantasized about
doing with my jackoff buddies, giving head was the item off the
"queer shit" list that disturbed me the most. That's because
for the past couple years I'd been convinced that I'd tried it
on a friend while he slept.

That is, I woke up one morning and the sight of Danny Fenske
asleep on the other half of the bed caused me to flash on an
incredibly vivid recollection. In it, I had the longjohn
bottoms he slept in pulled down to mid-thigh and I had my mouth
on his cock. His dick had started out soft, but it soon filled
out in my mouth and I slimed it up and down for what seemed to
be a very long time. The vision/memory evaporated before he
came, but I don't remember him as capable of ejaculating at
that point. When Danny awoke, he gave up no clue as to whether
it had actually happened. And I certainly wasn't going to ask
him outright. To this day, I don't know if I'd been recalling a
dream I'd just had, or whether it was a memory of something
that had actually transpired in the mist of half-sleep. It
doesn't matter a fig to me today either way, but standing in
the shower, with Barry on his knees in front of me, it mattered
the world. It mattered because, real or imagined, I'd *enjoyed*
doing it-- and that was unquestionably queer.

"I said...." drawled Barry, until he had my attention, "is that
it?" He was still wearing that same smirk of disbelief. "You
sure whackin' you off's all I can do for ya'?"

He let his gathered fingertips pass along the rim of my
cum-coated, unsheathed dickhead and slid them downwards along
my shaft until the tip of my knob bumped hard against the heel
of his palm.  The similarity of his caress to a mouth going
down on a dick wasn't wasted on me. (Even if I hadn't
experienced the genuine article, I'd simulated it myself
countless times, and in precisely that way.) Barry pulled his
fingertips back up to the head, thumbed it lightly a few times
and then quickly slid them back to the root. He knew exactly
how rocked and confused I was just then, how malleable.  He was
teasing me, pure and simple.

"If you were me, what would you want?" I asked him. There. That
would put the ball back into his court.

Barry responded without hesitation, "Oh, I'd want somebody to
lay me out and lick me all over, no question about it-- but I'd
want a pair of jockeys on."

"You mean if I put a of jockeys on, you'd lick me all over? Or
just the parts you could see?" I wasn't merely being coy. I was
beginning to catch a glimpse of a possible comprimise. I was
anxious to try the sensation of Barry's lips on my tits again
and his fascination with my armpits intrigued me somewhat. If I
could indulge those things without having to reciprocate beyond
that, I'd welcome the chance.

"What you wear is up to you, I'd just lick around it." Barry
said resolutely, but with great humor. He stood up and pecked
me on the lips. He kept his face close to mine and stared into
my eyes for a few seconds. Gripping the outsides of my thighs,
he became very businesslike, but there was an unguarded sense
of need in his tone, "I REALLY want this, Jens. We've only got
so much time alone, let's not piss it away."

He had me by the bag literally as well as figuratively. I was
horny beyond measure; all Barry had to do was grab my shaft. He
knew I'd shuffle along behind him as he pulled me back into my
room. His cock started to fattenen up again at the prospect of
more action. "There's probably not enough hot water yet, even
for a quick rinse," I lamented, looking back over my shoulder
into the bathroom.

"Never mind that! I love you this way: clean, but cummy. "

That shot me for a loop. He said 'I love you'. It had been
qualified, of course, and tossed off in the way one might say,
'I love bagels'. Still, it made the small hairs on the back of
my neck bristle with something like pride.

"None of these will fit you," I told Barry as I mussed the
meticulous rows of uniformly folded white jockeys that were my
underwear drawer. "Even the ones that used to be Nils'. Do you
want a pair of his nowadays ones, or a pair of my dad's boxers?
Nobody'll mind."

"Your dad's BOXERS? Yech! These ones right here'll do just
fine." Barry said. He snatched the pair I had in my hand and
stepped into them. His dick wasn't even fully swollen, yet it
threatened the very structure of those poor briefs. The
waistband didn't pinch him as much as I thought it would, but
he was forced to wear them way low on his hips. Even so, the
pouch was full-to-bursting-- in spite of his having tucked his
meat down between his splayed balls, the total package expanded
the peehole of my jockeys to a yawning rent that revealed a
dense thicket his blue-black pubes and the thick vein that ran
along the top of his cock. I was having no small amount of
trouble cramming myself into my own briefs. I opted for comfort
and allowed my dick to lie on an upward diagonal with my
dickhead throbbing just below the ridge of my pelvic bone. Most
people take their underwear off for sex. Barry and I put a
fresh pair on instead. That was to become a pattern of sorts.

Barry yanked the quilt off the bed and had me lay flat on my
belly. Then he straddled me from behind. Keeping his packed
crotch a respectful distance off my butt, Barry covered my
upper body with his and began by drawing wet circles with his
tongue across my freckled, knobby shoulders. That was how he
began. For the next twenty minutes or more he licked every bit
of exposed skin he encountered. I discovered the true erotic
nature of parts of my body I'd taken completely for granted
until that night-- the backs of my knees, the soles of my feet.
I found out why we have earlobes.

I had jammed one hand under me and was giving my drooling knob
a good fingering while Barry lapped away, humming and slurping
shamelessly as he went. At one point he'd stuck his probing
tongue under the legseam of my jockeys near my ass and he
pulled downwards at their waistband with his teeth a few times,
but otherwise he seemed to be okay with our half-struck
bargain. That is, it seemed that way, until he told me to roll
over. When I did, the head of my dick and and an inch
of slender shaft stuck out beyond the waisband.

"Hey! I'd call THAT outside your drawers!" Barry said, pointing
at my exposed cock and smacking his lips lustfully. I reached
down to tuck it back in, but Barry had already spun around so
that his face was lined up with my crotch. He let out a wistful
sigh and returned my cock to its home in my briefs. Then he lay
his cheek on the inside of my nearest thigh, staring at the
foreshortened view of my bulge and caressing the flat of my
belly with an open, roaming palm.  "You look so cool up close,
boned in your jockeys like that, Jens."

So did he. He'd arranged himself so that his own package lay
less than a foot from my face. I spread my hand on the mountain
range of bulges that loaded the pouch of the briefs I'd loaned
him. That got him licking again; the insides of my thighs this
time. I thought it might not hurt to try it on him. I lapped
tentatively at the front of one thigh and felt it tense under
my tongue. I groped until I could make out the head of his cock
through the cotton and began fondling it while I flattened his
thigh hairs with my tongue. Barry moaned his consent, cocked
one leg and thrust his hips forward slightly.

As before, when I'd been on my stomach, Barry limited his
licking to exposed flesh, but at the terminus of one long, wet
nuzzle upwards along my inner thigh, I felt his mouth capture
one cotton-encased ball. His spit bled through the fabric
almost instantly. I groaned and my dick pitched excitedly
inside my shorts at the moist, migrant warmth when he switched
to the other nut.

"I don't know about this, Barry," I told him in a wavering
tone. That's when his hand, which had still been palming my
belly, went inside the waistband of my Jockeys and gripped my
yearning shaft. Barry said nothing, his mouth never left my
sodden balls. All he did was rearrange his meat so that it lay
more sideways and defined in his briefs.

I don't know if he did it so it would present a more appealing,
edible, package, but it did. The long, fretful crossing of my
oral Rubicon began that very moment. I leaned forward and
started to mimic the slurping and sucking Barry was treating my
balls to. Then, with eyes closed, filled with pent-up lust, and
without a conscious thought of accelerating the proceedings, I
wantonly clamped my mouth onto the drooling, veiled head of
Barry's oversized cock. I heard his muffled, "Oh fuck, yes!"
Again his hips pitched forward, this time mashing the length of
his log against my cheek.

In spite my passion, I meant to pull off it as soon as I
realized what I'd been mouthing, but even before I could, Barry
rushed to reciprocate in kind. His hot mouth descended on my
knob and he sucked noisily at the precum that was straining
through the fabric where it pulsed.

I froze. For a split second I felt absolutely nothing, in full
knowledge that Barry had just gobbled my cockhead. Then the
wave broke. It was literally like that-- a warm, moist glow
spread from the tip of my dick and traveled up the length of my
torso, gaining heat and momentum as it came. Then, with a
mighty, wet ka-THUNK, it enveloped me totally, just like the
rib-crushing smack of a curling, two-meter breaker. I unleashed
my wad with an urgency that even took me by surprise, not to
mention Barry, who was hastily slurping my seed through the
front of my briefs as fast as I could pump it to him. In sheer
orgasmic abandon I reattached my mouth to Barry's knob,
suddenly determined to tap Barry's load of cream the same way.

I didn't have long to work on it. Before my spasms abated
completely, Barry began a series of "oh"s that rose in pitch
and tempo until his glans began swell in my mouth. His sudden
silence and several erratic throbs signalled his climax. A
single layer of underwear cotton doesn't make a very resistant
seive, I found; not when a guy's piss slit is pressed tight
against it and there's a sucking mouth on the other side.
Barry's hot load blanketed my tongue almost instantly,
accompanied by much groaning and pitching about from him. He
rolled from his side onto his back in exhaustion, separating my
mouth from his cock. But I could see he was still pumping. At
the spot where his palpitating dickhead was outlined in the
saturated cloth, a single milky drop grew and grew until its
surface tension finally broke and it drizzled down the outside
of his briefs. I lapped at it while Barry panted and tried to
regain his breath. When I was satisfied I'd gotten it all, I
curled my lips to return to his knob. He shuddered and grabbed
the back of my head.

"Oh, Jens! For chrissakes back off a bit. At least for a few
seconds," he half-chuckled, nervously, pulling away from the
onslaught of my suddenly insatiable, cleaving mouth. I was
always like that: it took forever for me to get up the nerve to
actually do a thing. I'd have to weigh all the pros and cons
first; fret over all the details and possible ramifications.
But once I finally gave in to an urge, I tended to approach
things with the fanaticism of a true convert. Jacking off with
the neighborhood kids had been just like that. I stared at the
profile of Barry's ebbing, cloth-covered bone and tried to
calculate how long it might be before he'd be ready to do that
again. He stroked my inner thigh lightly as he gradually
returned to the here and now.

"Jee-zus! That was the most righteous fuckin' squoink I ever
had, man." he drawled lazily.

"Me too," I told him.

Barry rolled himself off the bed and headed for the bathroom,
his firm butt amply filling my jockeys with alternately
clenching cheeks as he padded to the toilet. I could see him in
profile as he hauled his sticky prong out and skinned it back.
"Hey! No fair peekin'!" he joked. I snickered and interlocked
my fingers behind my head, listening to Barry piss with my eyes
closed.

When Barry came back to bed we sat cross-legged, face to face.
We talked for a long time, occasionally reaching out to fondle
the other or leaning in for yet another kiss. Barry said he
could use a neck rub, so I had him lay on his stomach and knelt
beside him. I was just beginning to massage Barry's neck when
the door to the bathroom from Nils' side suddenly burst open.
Nils appeared, carrying a towel and wearing only his corny
pleated, cuffed Bermuda shorts. Barry and I had been so
engrossed with each other that we hadn't even heard Nils' car
pull in.

He was looking downward as he entered the bathroom, but did a
classic double-take at my open door. His eyes momentarily
bugged out when he saw Barry and me on the bed. Barry remained
flat on his stomach. When he heard Nils open the door he'd
snatched up a Fantastic Four comic and instantly pretended to
be absorbed by it. I sprang off the bed and turned away from
the bathroom to hide my soaked jockeys from Nils. I called "hi"
to him over my shoulder. I wasn't boned exactly, but my dick
looked almost naked from the way the dampened cotton adhered to
it.

"Uh, Hi Jens. Barry." He said "Barry" like it was a question.

"Sure is a hot night, eh?" I blathered, as if a superficial
comment on the humid evening ought to be sufficient to account
for our undress. But I was instantly sorry. I wondered if he'd
think I meant it in some flaunting manner. It was going to be
awkward talking to Nils with my back to him. I wished he would
just pull the bathroom door closed and leave us alone. That
would give me time to put my room back in order, but most
importantly, it would give me time to put on a dry pair of
jockeys.

"Yeah, hot night," echoed Nils in a trailing voice that told me
his thoughts were on something else. "uhm, excuse me, Barry.
Jens, can I talk with you for a minute? In my room?"

"Sure, alright," I said, sounding artificial, far too chipper
for the occasion. I turned, facing Nils, momentarily forgetting
all about the state of my briefs. I quickly turned away again,
panicked that Nils had seen them, if only for an instant. Then
I noticed that the mirror above my dresser was reflecting my
frontal image to Nils even then. In it, I saw him glaring down
at Barry who was still steadfastly pretending to read. "I'll be
right there." I told him. I snatched my bathrobe off its hook
and hastily threw it on, but he'd already stepped back into his
bedroom by the time I turned around again.

Barry didn't look up from the comic, but he said to me, as I
headed through the bathroom to Nils' room, "Boy, if looks could
kill..." I knew he was trying to sound lightly sarcastic, but
his tone betrayed a distinct unease.

I found Nils standing with his hands on his hips just inside
the doorway. He closed the door to the bathroom and pushed me
into a sitting position at the foot of his bed with one
prodding index finger to my solar plexus. "Hey!" I growled in a
low, threatening tone.

"There's a burnt cassarole in the oven," he spat.

"Call the Fire Department. Is that all?" I started to get up.

"The bathroom looks like a war zone." he spat again,
punctuating the vitriol with another stiff-fingered prod, to
my shoulder this time.

"I'll pick up later. Who made you towel monitor anyway? Fuck
Nils, lighten up!"

"That's not what I called you in here for." Nils paused, but
not for effect. For all his uncharacteristic aggressiveness, he
suddenly took on the look of a person who can't make up his
mind whether he's about to put his foot in it or not.

"Spit it out, Nils. I have company,"

"Your 'company', yes. Well look, Jens, it's like this..." He
paused again. The exhalations and stuttering false starts of
nerve being marshalled filled the silence. "That is, I don't
like the change I'm seeing in you lately. Mom and pop just
think you're going through some phase. But I know better.
You're always acting like twerp because you're well on your way
to becoming a pervert, if you aren't one already." Nils said it
with his legs spread and his hands on his hips again, posturing
like John Wayne chiding some tenderfoot ranch hand. I hoped he'd
more or less shot his bolt with that, that his sergeant-major
caricature had taken most of what passed in him for bravado.

Nils was a big guy at eighteen. Though he hadn't actually hit
me in years, he stood eight inches taller than me and
outweighed me by more than twenty pounds. He could have laid me
out with an effortless backhand. Even so, I hated righteous
indignation at the best of times; I sure wasn't going to take
any of it from my brother. He knew that from old.  If he'd
prodded me with his fingertip one more time, I'd have
sucker-punched him without a second thought. I think knew that
too.

"Save it, St. Peter," I told him, "Go practice your missionary
work on somebody who gives a shit. You don't know what you're
talking about." Again, I started to stand up.

"I'm not as stupid as you imagine, you little pig!" He almost
yelled it, but he lost steam and quieted right down right after
he said it. "You think I don't know you and Barry were...
abusing yourselves in there?" Nils could barely get the words
out. He looked down at his bare feet and he actually blushed.

"There's nothing good on TV. We're just hanging out on my bed.
You're the one with the perverted mind, asshole."

"There are wet marks all over your bed,"

"Soda." I offered.

Nils wasn't letting up. "I KNOW that smell, Jens."

"Oh yeah? From where? Your fingers in the morning? I can't
believe what a fucking hypocrite you are."

He shrugged that off without comment. "What do you think mom
and pop would think if they knew? Never mind what the Lord
thinks!"

"What the Lord thinks can kiss my ass. And you won't say
anything to mom and pop because you wouldn't even know how to
bring it up. You don't have the vocabulary, or the balls.
Listen to yourself! You can barely talk to ME about it, for
chrissakes. And that reminds me. Just why ARE you talking to me
about it? Why not just keep your big fucking mouth shut and
we'll all get along swell." I stood toe to toe with him.

"Stop swearing," admonished Nils, and backed up a step. He
squinted in exasperation and ran his fingers through his
butch-waxed military haircut. He still had a little fight left
in him.

"I HAVE kept my mouth shut about it, Jens. For years, and you
know it. I hear you at it all the time when you have those
delinquent friends of yours staying overnight. Most people
would say it was a little odd for guys your age to still be
having sleepovers in the same bed, you know. Anyway, your
friends are noisy and don't watch how loud they... talk. I
really AM concerned about you, Jens. I even hear you doing it
by yourself at all hours of the night. You actually wake me up
with it sometimes." He paused and eyes went to the ceiling, but
he was looking for help from beyond it.

"You know it's wrong Jens," he said finally. "Doing it with
someone else only makes it worse."

I'd had enough. If Barry and I were caught, we were caught. And
if Nils could somehow summon the moxie to bring the matter up
with my parents, I figured I had bugger-all to lose.

"Okay, now you listen to me." I gripped his throat with my
gaze. "You wouldn't know this, Poindexter, but doing it with
someone else makes it BETTER, not worse! And YEAH!  Barry and I
DID do a bit of wanking tonight.  And we'll probably do some
more! So fuckin' what? It's none of your business, that's what!
Go ahead and just use yours for pissing. That doesn't give you
the right to tell me what to do with mine! God connected this
one to me." I flounced the front of my robe at him lest he
mistake what part of me I was talking about. I'd long been in
the habit of telling Nils to fuck off whenever occasion
warranted, but I rarely sounded on him like that. And I
certainly never brought God into it as an ally before. I wasn't
done.

I lowered my voice to a more conversational level, "Or maybe
you're a bit jealous, huh Nils? Bit of the old 'dog in the
manger' goin' on here?" I was deliberately cutting deep. I
remembered what Barry told me about how he'd tried to get Nils
to mess around a zillion times when they were still hanging out
together, but Nils had always turned him down. He'd come
awfully close though, Barry had said.

Nils knew exactly what I was talking about. Naturally, I'd
neglected to mention that what Barry and I had been up to went
a step or two beyond simple weenie rubbing, that there was an
emotional element to our relationship Nils couldn't possibly
understand.  I knew for certain he wouldn't be able to
understand it, because I didn't understand it myself.

"When we're tempted," he intoned, "it's our duty to resist it.
It says in Ephesians..."

"Oh goody, here comes another bible verse. Well, I know THAT
smell well enough. And I'm not listening to any more of this
shit.  Just piss off and quit bugging me about it, okay?"

Nils grasped my upper arm in a fraternal way and went for a
change of tack. He tried trowelling on the smarm. Smarm
veneered with counterfeit compassion, the very worst kind. He
made a gimace, as though I were deliberately misunderstanding
his "real" motive for interferring. "I'm only trying to be a
brother."

"Very convincing, Nils. Now try being an only child," I spun on
my heel, walked through the bathroom and slammed the door
behind me. I locked it from my side.


Barry lay belly-down on my bed, just as I'd left him. He folded
the comic and tossed it onto the floor, "So. Do you think he'll
rat us out?" he looked concerned, maybe even a little afraid.

"You heard all that?" I asked, wearing a hole in the carpet
between my bed and the bathroom door.

"Didn't have to. Will he?"

I couldn't put the picture together: Nils sitting my folks down
to have a heart-to-heart about my compulsive masturbation and
inverted tendencies. It didn't jive. Still, his Dutch Uncle
routine had been more than a little unsettling. Normally, we
just stayed out of each others' way, lived entirely separate
lives. We always had, even as little kids. "Not likely." I told
Barry, fairly certain in that.

"Do you think I should go talk to him?"

That worried me. I'd never seen Barry pissed off or scared
before; I had no idea how he'd be. "What would you say?" I
asked him, still pacing off my anger.

"Nothing you didn't say already, I guess. Hey, let's forget it.
C'mere."

I slipped out of my bathrobe and lay down beside him, leaving
my soiled jockeys on, in mute defiance of Nils' 'best
intentions'. I rolled Barry towards me until we lay on our
sides, face to face. We stared into each others eyes for a long
time without speaking. There was the click of the glass door
and the rush of water through the pipes as Nils began his
shower. He wasn't singing gospel songs, as he usually did.

I clicked the bedside lamp off. Barry and I melded under the
topsheet. And for the first of what was to be all too few
times, we fell asleep in one anothers' arms.

END


Comments heartily encouraged, flames cheerfully ignored.
janus@sos.on.ca







