Date: Sun, 13 Mar 2005 12:54:10 -0800 (PST)
From: T Chase McPhee <survivalgame@yahoo.com>
Subject: Long Distance Love 02

The following story is a work of fiction set in the
format of reality. Any resemblance to real people is
entirely coincidental in nature, and is not meant to
accurately reflect persons in towns, cities, or
governmental areas, in which the story is staged. If
sexual scenes involving male to male relationships
offends you, then you should not read this story.
Additionally, if you are under 18 years of age, in
most states and countries, you are not allowed to read
this by law.

"Long Distance Love" 02 (M/M oral 'bdsmdar')
WriTtenby T. Chase McPhee

%

Bubbly flowed on stage that night, as Clay Hawkings,
lead role in 'Long Distance Lover', became the most
honored guest of the evening. For a while he shared
the spotlight with Robert Palmieri, his equally
talented understudy, until Fess became tired of
waiting to add special accolades. With no time to
spare, being caught off guard by the back stage crew,
orchestra members and some patrons, with backstage
passes, Clay and Rob still flaunted their defined abs.


Two hours rolled by in no time. Soon Clay sat on the
sofa, the prop taken off stage, prior to the last act.
Some of his close associates hung around with him.
'This has got to be out mystery guests', Clay thought
to himself, as two men headed in his direction. One in
particular, struck his fancy.

"Mr. Hawkings, I presume?"

Directly in front of Clay, an older gentleman stood,
with a younger one. Older, not in the  elderly  sense,
but perhaps five to eight years beyond his
twenty-seven. His younger, sidekick, seemed to be of
Clay's generation.

"Yes, I'm Clay Hawkings," he tried to stand up from
the sunken piece of furniture, obviously utilized for
many a production.

"Marc Ambergini and I'd be honored to shake your
hand."

"Honored?" Clay called out, standing. Even though
Clay's final outfitting of the show called for lack of
the top half of his costume.  He had been reduced to
rubble, except for  the dress slacks, shoes, minus the
tie. Somewhere along the lines, he donned his white
dress shirt.  However, it lay open, unbuttoned,
showing the center of his body from neck to navel.
When he rose up off the sofa, Clay started from the
bottom of the shirt, buttoning, to tidy himself up.

"Oh, don't worry about that. It 'is' quite warm in
here." Mr. Ambergini didn't mind the partial view of
Clay's delightful pecs and the trail stretching down
his stomach. "I would like to present to you my
associate and nephew, Francisco Caramallo."

Clay smiled. Francisco returned it. When their hands
met, a slight shock reinforced the gaze and the
bystanders all stood with the two for a few frozen
seconds.

"Francisco and I hoped you would join us for some late
evening dining at the Maquamat's?"

Michael thought Clay had blew it, when he replied,
"Sure. I think that would be very nice, but I'll have
to decline."

"Oh, then perhaps another time, if you have plans."

"Sure. Why don't you leave your number, Mr. Ambergini
and I'll call if I have a spare moment."

"I beg your pardon?" 'Mr. Moneybags replied, a bit
shocked at Clay's audacity. Francisco smiled,
thinking, 'It's about time somebody gave it back to
uncle, both barrels!'

"Yes, you see, if it wasn't for my crew and and this
great understudy, I wouldn't have been the success I
am this evening, nor any other evening."

"So, what you're telling me is that you would rather
give up an evening with the benefactor of the show
that poured out millions to have you star in this
lavish production, Mr. Hawkings, so that.....?"

Clay, a bit perturbed at the manner in which Mr.
Ambergini put the response, cuts him off and at point
blank tells him,"Stop right there Mr. Ambergini,"
Clay's finger poking him in the chest,  "I don't much
care for your pompous attitude, nor your reference to
your big bucks. None of these men are any less of
players in this musical than myself. If this is the
manner in which you treat your friends, I'd just as
well remain just another employee. Now, I need to get
ready to go out for a beer with my friends."

After picking up his tie and jacket, he turned his
back and stepped off stage, leaving the aghast
benefactor standing in disbelief.

"Boy, did you fuckin' mess that up, Uncle," Francisco
dared to say.

"The nerve of you talking to me in that tone of voice,
young man!" Ambergini scorned, as the few crew members
looked on.

"You're right uncle. Maybe I should use this tone: you
fucked up!" Francisco yells out, then walks off in the
direction of where Clay headed, through the wings of
the set.

"Hee heee... the boy's a bit high strung at times,"
Ambergini tries to cover for his nephew, red in the
face.

Michael replies, "Yeah, I wonder where he gets that
from?"
His comment created a sweaty displeasure for
Francisco's uncle, also changing the makeup of his
face.

Ambergini's boldness began to foldup, in his sudden
complacent situation. "Say, do you know of a place
around here that wouldn't mind the presence of ten
guests?"

"What happened to Maquamat's?" Michael asks, trying
some of Clay's nerve.

"Ahem! Well, ah, um Maquamat's prefers a finer dress
code."

"Let me tell you something Mr. Ambergini, us guys have
more class than ten of you put together. At least we
don't go throwing our weight around and tearing people
apart. We are not a bunch of men that require a
drunken brawl. Now, if you would like us to catch a
bite to eat with you tonight, give us a half hour and
we'll be ready to go to Maquamat's."

Thinking it over, he figured it's the only recouse
towards 'kissing up' with his nephew. After all, they
just didn't happen upon Clay's performace this
evening, the uncle having made all the arrangements,
with some insistance.

"I'll be waiting in the lobby."

"Long wait. We all exit out the side door, 'Marc'."

Ambergini picked up on Michael's 'chummy' namesake,
then retorted, "Very well."

Michael gave the others their cue to 'hit the
showers', which gave the sign to change into their
finer array of clothing, whether the sweat had been
cleansed from their bodies or not.

%

"Excuse me, may I come in?"

Clay stood there, at the dressing table, looking at
the reflection of Fransicso in the mirror. His face,
slowing prying the door open.

"Sure. You're paying for the rental."

As Francisco entered the dressing room, his eyes
dashed from the face and barechest, then resting on
the smooth back of the young actor. "If I'm
interrupting, I can leave and come back."

"If your uncle sent you in here to smooth things
over..."

"Look, I'm sorry for the way my uncle acted,"
Francisco apologized, in a deep masculine voice, "but
I'm not my uncle, okay?"

Clay saw the error in his misjudgement. Besides,
Francisco looked kind of cute. "Look, I'm sorry," he
replied to Francisco, turning his bare upper half away
from his own reflection

"Well, I think he might be ready to disown me after I
just busted his nuts over the way he treated you and
your friends."

Fransico loved the look of the smooth back that faced
him, then the front view, after Clay's about face.

"Ah, yeah, well, why don't you take your jacket off.
Like a drink?"

"Hmm..."

"What?" Clay asked, wondering about Francisco's angle.

"Oh, nothing. I wouldn't want you to think that I'm
like my uncle and not come down to your level."

Clay didn't exactly get what Francisco's motives were,
though he had some wild idea. "What would coming down
to my level, entail?"

After removing his coat, the dark-haired, twenty-eight
year old, began unthreading his bowtie.

"Wait!"

"Okay, never mind. I guess I blew it."

Clay knew what idea had infiltrated Francisco's brain.
His barechest stood right in front of the
tuxedo-shirted man.

"Oh, I have no problem with you coming down to my
level, Francisco, it's just that, when you go to put
that bow tie on, would you mind showing me how to tie
it?"

"Tie it? My bowtie?" The elusive questioning made
Francisco think out loud.

"Yes, I have a nice black bowtie, but have been
wearing the fake ones, since I could never get the
hang of how to tie it properly."

Francisco gave a sigh of relief, smiling. "Whew, did
you have my stomach in knots, Clay."

"I figured so, but I wasn't trying to lead you on
about the tie tying. Make yourself comfortable,
Francisco. It'll take me five seconds to grab a... a
beer. That okay?"

"Sure and call me, Chiz."

"Chiz?"

"A nickname. Cross between Francisco and chiseled
abs."

"How modest of you!" Clay replied, finding the two
cans on the door of the compact refrigerator. When he
rose up from squatting down, he did a double take in
the mirror. Standing there, Francisco, Chiz, coined
the Superman stance, totally naked. Like a Zombie, he
dropped his hands to his sides. The two cans of beer,
much like two barbells, hung from his arms. Slowly he
made his way towards the hairy figure.

"Are you," Clay gulped, "comfortable enough, Chiz?"

"Almost, Clay."

"Almost?"

"I think I would be more comfortable with you up
against me!"

"Hmm... Looks like you do have some traits of your
uncle, Francisco... I mean, Chiz." Clay did some
followup with a smile, to let the hottie know the
frivolty of his statement.

"Oh? Am I that terrible?"

Clay sort of liked the playing, but wasn't sure where
all this was headed. For sure, he figured there were
some ulterior motives for Chiz' actions. Maybe he
would bait the hook and do some fishing, to see where
it leads. Perhaps a small ambush would provide the
pathway.

"Terrible? Hard to say, Chiz. I haven't seen your
uncle's physique quite in the perspective that I've
viewed your's."

Standing just inches from the five foot ten, tanned
skin individual of unknown direction, Clay wove his
arms between the awaiting arms and torso. Chiz readily
accepted the affectionate greeting.

"Oooooooh...woooooowwwwww...ooooooh!" Chiz cried out,
as if hot water had been poured on his back.

Laughing his ass off, Clay enjoyed the view of Chiz
arching his back, at the sensation of two cold cans of
beer rubbed in a quick motion down both sides of his
spine. "Haa ha ha ha haaaa ha ha haaaa!"

"I should be heaping mad at you, Clay, however..."

Instead of getting mad, Chiz decided to get even. He
went for the cold can in Clay's left hand. His
opponent proved to be too slick and too sly. Chiz got
a second jolt, as the right handed beer can got shoved
in between his asscrack.

"Oooooooooooooh shiiiiiiiiiiiiiit! I give! I give!"
Chiz screamed out, breaking his hold on Clay's other
hand and backing off.

Suddenly a head stuck in through the door, "Everything
okay in here, Clay?" Fess checked out the commotion
heard from outside the closed door.

"Um, yeah, sure Fess. No problem."

"Sure you don't need 'my' help?" He asked for
insurance, but eyed up the benefactor's nephew, more
frozen by embarrasment than a cold beer can up the
great divide.

"No, Fess and do me a favor?"

"Sure Clay. Name it."

"Tell Mr. Ambergini that we'll meet him in an hour,"
then looking at Chiz, "better make that an hour or
'so'."

"Sure, Clay."

"And Fess?"

"Yes, Clay?"

"Lock the door on your way out, please?"

Smiling, almost to the giggling stage, Fess reaches
his hand around and without looking, his eyes trained
on the two mid-twenties men, presses in the button on
the door knob. "Take your time, Clay. I'll humor the
guys with my jokes."

"In that case, we'll try to hurry, to spare them the
torture!"

Fess bowed out, slamming the door shut, which made the
one and half nude men shudder.

"Now where were we?"

"How about we call a truce and drink the beer?" Chiz
suggests.

"How about you level with me, Chiz and tell me why
you're standing in front of me, in the raw?"

Smiling, he replied the truth, "You offered me to get
comfortable."

Once again, Clay approaches the handsome, Italian with
the matt of hair flowing from neck to navel and
beyond. "Here."

"What?"

"Your beer."

"Sure. Another ambush Clay?"

Taking the can of beer back, he places them on the
vanity. Reporting to the small fridge, he squats down,
opens it and withdraws two unshaken cans.

"Guaranteed not to explode, Chiz."

Smiling, Clay opened his own can. Too fast for Chiz,
plus as a offering of peace, he brought the can to
Chiz' lips. Chiz took a chug. After the first sip,
Clay turned the cool drink to his own lips, sipping.
Their gaze affixed on each other's eyes, Clay removes
the can from Chiz' hand and places it on the vanity.

"Hmm," Clay remarks to Chiz, "I see where the
chi'z'eled-nickname comes in," pressing a formed fist
against his stomach, just above his navel, then
sliding up to cup one of his hairy pecs.

"Go ahead, try out my abs and see how tough...." Chiz
backs off.

He never finishes his statement, as Clay seals the
distance between them, his fist opening and taking a
route around the side of Chis' torso.

%

"What's up Fess?" Michael asks, drying his back off,
towel stretched between both hands.

"Seems like our big star has stardust in his eyes!"
Fess replies, gesturing wiping something from his lip.

"He better just watch himself," Rob Palmieri replies,
toweling his pubes.

Jason, an arm up and the other drying his pit,
confirms, "This our Clay you're talking about?"

Michael, seeing Fess stare at Jason, interrupts the
gaze, "Get enough of the front view, Fess?"

"Actually I figured I'd get a better view," Fess
teased.

"Somebody looking for me?" Robert enters, shower left.
Before anyone can cue in the torso-toweled understudy,
he insists, taking Fess' arm, "C'mon, you're going to
make us all late," after taking note of the scenic
view.

Walking right over in front of his boyfriend, Rob
lifts the short sleeved sweatshirt from over Fess'
head, revealing his hairy pits and lightly colored,
hairy chest. Rob lifts the shirt from under Fess'
chin, then pulls it behind, encasing Fess in the
prison of his arms. Around Fess' wrists the shirt is
pulled, acting as restraints. Their stomachs meet.

"Isn't that the sweetest thing you've ever seen,
Michael?"
Jason teases.

Michael gives the sly reply, "I could think of
something sweeter!"

"C'mon, Fess. Let's get the stench off of you," Rob
says, leading his boyfriend to the seclusion of a
showering booth, still in the fabric cuffs.

"Getting kinky, are we Rob?" Michael asks, however is
answered with a sly smile.

"Kinky? Somebody mention some fun?"

The fickled ears of fate pick up on the tidbit.

"What was that, Milton?" Jason asked, not expecting a
question as that from their refined music director.

Pointing his finger, Milton accuses the two, "Oh, now
don't you two give me that. I know what you two are
into and don't be bashful about it. You're not the
only one, if you get what I mean?"

Jason glanced over to Michael, who gave him the same
questioning look. It's Michael who broke the ice, "Um,
yeah, well, uh, just what are you into, Milton?"

"I take it you're both bottoms and wouldn't mind
playing with an experienced top?" the forty year old
asks of the two.

Jason, just about ready to spill the truth, first
stating that Michael is a total top, gets cut off the
hook by his boyfriend, "Ah, yeah we could be game,
Milton. Just what did you have in mind?"

Jason and Michael stood there kind of foggy on the
details, but ready to be informed, lightly humored by
the blooming conversational piece.

"Perhaps the three of us can get together this evening
after our dinner date?"

Michael didn't know whether Jason noticed Milton's
tent, but he wanted to see where all this would lead,
deciding a two-fold plan of putting him off and
playing along. "Might be kind of late, Milton."

"Dam, you're right, Michael and I have rehearsal
downtown tomorrow morning."

Taking the reins, Michael offers, "However, I think
Jason and I might have a couple of hours free tomorrow
evening."

"Would you be interested in spending some time at my
home?"

"That's where?" Jason asks.

Michael replies, "Isn't that way out in Westchester?"

"Yes, Katonah. We can all leave after the show in my
limo."

Jason, astonished draws on, "Hmm, I didn't know you
made that kind of loot, Milton!"

"Man can not live by one musical alone... so, after
tomorrow's show?"

Michael, seeing how charged up Milton is over some
innocent fun, maybe a bit of sex involved, answers,
"Sure, as long as it's fine with Jason here?"

"Oh, no problem with me." Jason saw a little into
this, not being entirely ignorant of the unfolding
play. "Wherever my master goes, I follow!"

'Master'? Michael mouths, but lets it go of the
subject.
The two continue their prep for the night, watching
Milton walking into the jon.

"Looks like Milton is about to let out some steam,
Michael."

"Right. I wonder why he's suddenly become so
friendly?"

"I dunno Michael, but it's got me as curious as hell."

"Yeah. Hey, what's the 'master' stuff, Jason?"

"Oh, did a little roleplay in high school, carrying
over into college."

"Want to explain yourself?"

"Um, this isn't going to affect our relationship, is
it Michael?"

"Hey, I don't know a lot about you, Jason, but one
thing I do. You're really starting to grow on me and
I'm not letting that die."

"Thank's Michael."

"Well, Jason, I'd just like your opinion on what you
think Milton has in store for us?"

"Hmm, I thought his focus would be on some bdsm."

"Bdsm?"

"Bondage & discipline, sadism & mashochism?"

"Fuck that, Jason. I'm not bowing down to any..."

"Hey, Michael, Rossini's a heralded musical director,
he's not going to do anything he'll regret."

"I don't know Jase, I.."

"Jase?"

"Did I say that?"

"Yes you did, Mike."

Liking the more abbreviated namesake, the two
translated it into a more affectionate calling,
coupled with sealing their conversation into a silent
kiss.

%

Returning to Clay's dressing room, or better termed,
undressing room, the lead's arms are caressing Chiz'
shoulder blades.  Planting lavish kisses on the sweet
pair of lips, Chiz' thumbs are busy at Clay's elastic
waistband.

Clay stops to whisper in Chiz' ear, "sorry about the
cold can on your ass".

"As soon as you stop toying with my briefs and get
them down, I'll make it up to you!"

Upon entering the theater this evening, Chiz didn't
know just how far he would get tonight. His plans
included intoducing himself to the lead, but his
intent had been on not getting this far. Squandering
quite a bit of his allowance, via his uncle's
handouts, his viewings of 'Long Distance Lover' had
numbered in the range of between forty and fifty
performances. Chiz hoped the 'old man' role of Clay's
makeup disguised some handsome features. Now he knew,
it and when he caught up with the makeup tech, in
charge of transferring the young twenty-seven year old
into an old geiser, he would need to over indulge him
with compliments!

"I think we better stop, Clay."

"Oh? Not liking my sex appeal, are you, Chiz?"

"I'm liking it... lots, Clay. The problem is, I'm
having trouble sliding your briefs down over your
boner."

"I can see where that could present a problem, Chiz.
Especially with your is 'boner' anchoring mine to my
pubes?"

Stalemate!

Not wasting much time, since time for a full blown
love match would take more than the roughly hour and a
half they could be afforded, Clay shucked his shoes,
the pants lying at his ankles and peeled the briefs,
as he directed Chiz, "Want to pull down the sheet?"

As Chiz set about the task, Clay's cock could almost
'taste' the 'palate' between those hairy asscheeks.

Chiz thought of overpowering Clay, as he planned on
the stage star bottoming for him, but it's like he's
never done it himself. Versatile had been a better
choice than nothing, he reasoned with himself. Before
Chiz could fill the bed, Clay tapped him on the
shoulder and then dove into the pool of sheets. As his
body fell backwards, a hand grabbed Chiz' wrist,
bringing him down on top. "I meant to ask, Clay?"

"Ask, then get your mouth on my body, Chiz."

"Hmm... a dominant man."

"Doesn't sound like a question, but I'll take it."

"My question is, how do you rate a bed in your
dressing room?"

"I'm a starving actor. I need someplace to lay my
head."

"You... you live here at the theater?"

"Sure. Doesn't bother me any. I'm saving some loot,
paying off my college loans, saving for whatever."

"Guess I should be deemed fortunate to have been born
with a silver spoon in my mouth."

"Well, Chiz, don't forget to remove it before you give
me a hot blow job!"

Laughter rained down, as Clay joined. Their jovial
manner subsided as that stare lingered. Chiz closed in
for a lip lock, sliding his body down, surrendering to
the ordered bottom position. His already leaking seven
inches of cut meat dripped precum. Clay felt the wet
liquid mingle with the hair below his bellyhole. The
pressure of Chiz' hard stalk drawing with it's slick,
clear ink, gave Clay something to casting his lines of
pleasurable moaning.

"Oh yeah. Get on my cock, Chiz."

There, that second dominant command of suggestion
registered with Chiz. However he was loving the
attention and more than wanted to comply. Placing the
tip of Clay's 8.5c, fully erect cock in between his
lips, he licked across and then tried forcing his
tongue in the slit.

"Oooooh yeeaaah," sighed Clay, as the tongue ran
around the outside of his organ.

Chiz then used his whole mouth to massage Clay's whole
barrel, pressing the meat flat against the bed of
thick, medium brown hair. Totally surprised, but
drawing a smile, Chiz let Clay move his head down
further.

With the demand, "Yeah, now take my balls," Clay
forced the eager mouth below the wet cock.

At first Chiz tried getting both balls in his mouth,
but found one adequate. Two in at a time, might have
caused Clay extreme displeasure.

"Oooooh fuck, what a hot mouth you have, Chiz!"

Chiz didn't say a word. After all, he knew it bad
manners to try talking with his mouth full! Slowly his
decision to become a full-fledged bottom, erased
thoughts of ever topping, as he grew madly accustomed
to Clay's demands. Suddenly, Chiz popped off Clay's
left orb.

Clay unfolded his eyelids and lifted his head, "Huh?"

"Sorry to stop pleasuring you, Clay, but would it be
alright if I stroked my cock while sucking you?"

For a moment and a half, Clay tried to rationalize why
Chiz would stop and ask such a crazy question.

"Please, Clay? I really need to stroke my cock. Please
let me touch my cock?"

Clay was no dumb bunny. Maybe he never made it to
college, but he knew Chiz performed something in the
form of reverse psychology with him. He tried to act
accordingly.

"No. You keep your hand off your cock, until I let
you, Chiz."

"Okay. Just thought I'd ask, instead of you getting
mad at me for doing it, Clay."

Clay shrugged his shoulders, thinking 'weird', as Chiz
went back to the ball-sucking.

%

The first to approach the side entrance, except for
the only man spiffed up to go to Maquamat's, Milton
entered the little foyer.

"Milton, how are you this evening?"

Milton, formally being introduced to Mr. Ambergini at
the signing of his contract, took on the same demeanor
as Clay and Michael. "I'm doing well, Marc. And
yourself?"

"Hmm... I guess I've lost a lot of respect this
evening."

"Don't take it so bad, Marc." Then he joked with
Ambergini, "Now you don't have to get so much exercise
throwing all that weight around!"

"Why the audacity!"

"Let's cut the crap, why don't we, Ambergini?"

Marc Ambergini's eyes where as white as saucers, as
Milton Rossini's words cut to the core. All these
years, Marc Ambergini's weight had pushed many a man
around in his favor. His money played part of the
force behind the power, but when Ambergini spoke, men
listened. Or else....

"Just remember whom holds your purse strings, Milton
Rossini!"

However, Milton, after 'playing the game' for decades,
could see right through Ambergini, like a plate glass
window.

"I bet you could be a lot of fun in the right
environment, Marc."

"Beg your pardon, Rossini?"

"For now, it's Milton. I bet you could get me real hot
begging."

Ambergini knew where Rossini had been headed with this
conversation, but needed to dwell on the matter. After
all, it had been decades since he had dabbled in this
type of enjoyable 'entertainment'. He looked Milton
over, as if eyeing up a new BMW. Would he want to
chance paying the price. Maybe it would turn out to be
a 'lemon' of a situation.

"Listen, I know what your driving at, Milton, but I
need to think it over."

"And what if I'm not willing to give you the chance to
think it over, Marc?"

"What tha fuck?"

Milton Rossini, the forty year old musical director of
'Long Distance Lover', stood there with the benefactor
of the show. His six foot height towered a couple of
inches above the dark brown haired man. He figured he
would throw some special testing Ambergini's way, to
feel him out before making some allegations he would
live to regret.

"Yes, I think tonight after dinner I'll take you
home."

"Take me home? Who's home?"

"Mine."

"Your home?"

Marc Ambergini, thirty-five always thought on
snatching up some young guy in his twenties, to rule
over. However, this older guy was turning him on big
time. Never in his wildest dreams, and Marc has had
plenty of them, would he think of deriving pleasure
from being dominated. That was 'his' role. Not the
other guy's!

"Just be ready when we leave Maquamat's to enter my
limo, Marc. Got that?"

By just that direction alone, Milton wondered if he'd
still be standing standing on the podium, conducting
the pit orchestra, or any orchestra. However, like
gaydar, he had his 'bdsmdar' up and sensed a willing
person, waiting to be taken from wings to center
stage.

"Uh... yeah, okay. I'm game."

Marc couldn't believe just 'accepting' the situation
as presented to him. All these years he's played the
dominant man, in business and personal life. Now he
gave in?

"Huh! I figured you were the type, Ambergini. Just
waiting for the right master to come along!"

Both broke from the tough mold and managed a smile
towards each, gazing into one another's eyes.

"Ah, I see you too are ready," Michael suggested,
knowing that he broke up some kind of fixation with
the two older gents.

"Oh, Marc," even Fess stripped down the formal
greeting, "Francisco says that he's 'preoccupied' and
he'll meet you later at Maquamat's."

Marc began to say something boisterous, but then
glanced at Milton and mellowed his reply, "That'll
be... fine. Shall we go?"

Michael replied, "We're just waiting for Jason and...
oh here they are."

When the rumor circulated that Marc Ambergini would be
footing the bill for an after theater party, everyone
joined the bandwagon. Unbeknownst to Ambergini,
Michael had called ahead to Maquamat's to reserve a
room for the stage crew and pit orchestra, plus anyone
else that happened along the way. This would be a
night to remember for Ambergini's bank account!

%

"Ooooh that feels so nice, Chiz, but I want you to
feel good, too."

Clay made it an effort to rise up and turn himself
fully around, so that his feet rested near the pillow.
Chiz watched in questioning, but then realized Clay
wanted to '69'.

"I thought I would just be servicing you, Clay."

"Yeah, I made you think that would be the case, right
Chiz?"

"You sure had me fooled, Clay."

"Nah. I just wanted you to hold off stroking your
cock, so that I could oblige!"

Chiz smiled, knowing he had a sly one here. However,
more went on than tasting each other's popsicle.

Both found that stimulating each other's nips,
rubbing, tugging and mashing, provided some hot
thrusting, in the long run. After they rimmed each
other's cocks and balls for a good amount of time,
they reverted to face to face positioning, lip locking
each other, giving tongue and mashing their sweaty
bodies together.

Chiz never thought he would get turned on so much,
sliding his hairy body over another man's. He figured
only the other guy would get turned on by all his bear
hair.

Clay loved tasting Chiz's hairy chest, running his
tongue around and around those nips, buried underneath
that forrest of hair. Dragging his wet tongue over the
hairy matt, made his cock signal a language of morse
code to his pleasuring senses.

At some point, Chiz reached down and stuck his finger
in Clay's navel. Poking in, he also used his thumb to
pinch the outer rim of the lightly haired bellyhole.
Retrieving his finger, he would wet it and then poke
it back into the recess of Clay's stomach. With such
fervent hopes, he wanted to tongue his navel, but
right now their lips were busy!

%

continued.......

        copyright 2005 T. Chase McPhee  All Rights Reserved.

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       author's prior consent.


dont strike a fault, unless you can admit you've slipped..T Chase McPhee