Date: Wed, 8 Aug 2012 13:13:49 -0600
From: Rob Ioveboy <robloveboy@gmail.com>
Subject: My Way Or The Highway 1

My Way Or The Highway
 By Rob Loveboy
<robloveboy@gmail.com>

Thanks from the bottom of my heart for the encouraging feedback on my prior
story, "Shagging In My Shag Van," that overwhelmingly exceeded any response
ever generated from my writing to date. I hope I didn't miss replying to
anyone, if so, it was unintentional.

Of course, a special thanks to Nifty for allowing me to share these stories
with you and in doing so, bolstering my fragile ego. Where would we be
without Nifty, a free site to take advantage of genre choice without
censorship where authors and administrators alike whom donate their time
and effort to ensure, you the reader, a pleasant and erotic reading
experience.

Let's keep this site afloat where others have perished. Please donate
whatever you can afford, keeping in mind that your local book store can't
even come close to what is offered here, and all at your leisure for free!


Chapter One:


I noticed the two boys as I rolled my rig into the truck stop just west of
Toronto. About fourteen years old, younger than the usual runaways looking
to hitch a free long distance ride with a trucker to whatever destination
they were running away to; or to be more precise, putting miles far behind
whatever the hell they were running away from. After fifteen years on the
road, I knew their look all too well.

With warm temperatures, spring and summer seems to be the migration
period. Not only giving them away are the over-stuffed backpacks, bursting
at the seams with all their worldly possessions, most of which have no
basic survival use, just hard to leave behind electronic gizmos; they tend
to overdress in layers of clothing.

Disheveled and soiled appearances reduce the chances of good Samaritans,
that in today's age are already leery of strangers, makes thumbing a ride
on the side of a road next to impossible. As well, unwanted attention by
police keeps most juveniles off the highways, instead, using the captive
audiences of rest areas and truck stops to hitch a ride.

Scouting the busy parking lot, avoiding several cattle liners and opting
for a spot downwind between two bedbug haulers, trucker's metaphor for
household movers: before finally shutting down the Kenworth that when all
was said and done, exulted a great sigh of relief in the form of compressed
air.

Grabbing my shaving kit from the small, but practical walk-in bunk and
opening the door to descend the ladder; quicker than expected, the two
fresh young faces were awaiting me.

"Hi, mister, which way ya headed?" the tallest and blondish of the two fair
haired youths asked in a friendly manner.

"South;" I replied, and pointed, "to that building over there to have a
shower and something to eat."

Caught off guard by my cynicism, he stammered, "I -I meant on the highway,
sir."

He was cuter than I noticed earlier, distracted by navigating my way into
the lot. Complementing his unruly, longish sun-bleached hair tucked under a
Blue Jays ball-cap worn to the side, his eyes shone a bright green above
rosy red cheeks and pug nose that had obviously endured too much sun.

I guessed to be of the same age, his silent dirty blond traveling companion
stood a good head shorter wearing a New York Mets cap in the same
fashionable style. His dark blue eyes under gold framed lenses wandered
nervously between me and the asphalt. He wasn't as attractive as the taller
boy, but a kind of dumb look gave him appeal, nonetheless.

"Maybe you didn't see the sign on the door, it clearly says 'No Riders'
under the name of my company." I pointed out.

Such notifications were common on trucks, as many trucking companies, for
insurance reasons, had a no passenger policy. It gave company paid drivers
the polite excuse to deny passage to vagabonds who were not female and
pretty enough to take the chance on bending the rules for.

However, I wasn't on any company's payroll or subjected to their many
strict regulations. As an independent, I owned my own rig contracting the
exclusive services to haul trailers belonging to a major department store
chain with locations scattered throughout Canada. Hence, I could haul
around my grandmother's ass and that of her quilting club if I was so
inclined. The sign was for polite let downs, as I mentioned before, unless
the potential of my generosity was young men willing to make the long
journey a lot less lonely!

Standing at six feet, two-hundred pounds and with only a slight gut,
contrary to the reputation of the industry, at forty-two I was still rather
fit and handsome. Many truck stop waitresses occupied my time in the bunk
during ridiculous government regulated rest times when I wasn't fudging my
log book to deceive some over-zealous weigh-station official's scrutiny.

Always having been a closeted admirer of youthful male nudity derived from
high-school showers and public swimming area change rooms, it became an
obsession to explore over the years. Later, in my trucking career, I
discovered rest-area bathrooms and their surrounding green spaces as a
source of such desires.

Middle aged and older men sufficed my appetite for male sex, until one day
when I experienced a sixteen year old boy looking for a ride and willing to
take me for one as ample compensation for the thousand mile journey to both
our coincidental destinations. I was hooked on young cock thereafter.

Teen hitchhikers became my source of sexual fulfillment, The seduction
phase went on for many miles until I blatantly came on to them, usually
sharing the rear bunk. Depending on reaction, a few were abandoned in
desolate locations, others ceded to my overtures.

The game was intriguing at first. The agony of defeat, or the triumph of
victory, never certain of what the outcome would be. My attitude of 'put
out, or get out' finally grew wearisome over time, and I developed a
straight forward approach to save all concerned from the uncomfortable
situation.

I answered the boys question, "West young man, go west!" sorta bastardizing
the famous quote of pioneer days.

"How far?" he queried, somewhat shy from my nonchalant interest in his
quest.

"Depends on how far you and your buddy are willing to go." I chuckled,
closing and locking the bunk door.

He looked bewildered, trying to define the words."Wha -what do ya mean?
. . . Oh! We're going to British Columbia to pick fruit for the summer! he
replied, my gist naively misconstrued.

British Columbia's Okanagan Valley is one of Canada's most treasured
resources. A valley, nestled on the south-west side of the Rocky Mountains
known as the 'fruit-belt" for its prime growing conditions and home to a
few fine wineries. Many youth and adults alike, seek short, seasonal
employment picking grapes, cherries and various other luscious fruit and
vegetables.

Putting an arm around his shoulder and pulling him into my face, I
reiterated, "--Read my lips! As I said, . . . depends on how far you're
willing to go to get to the Okanagan Valley."

Feeling his body tense up at my blatant intrusion of his personal space, he
quivered, "I -I don't know what you mean?"

The other boy was oblivious, his nervousness intent on what I gathered to
be police patrols, his head bobbed to and fro like one of those novelty
figurines on car dashboards. He wasn't too bright, I assumed in the short
time of not even slightly knowing him. The older boy was the dominant
figure to be reckoned with.

"Let me make it simple for you. It's the five-hundred mile rule. After
every five-hundred miles, I shut 'er down for the night. After a day of
harboring and worse yet, illegally transporting runaways over provincial
lines, and feeding them free of charge, I expect certain reciprocated
. . . favors, in return for my hospitality." planting a quick kiss to his
lips for humorous emphasis.

There was no need for me to elaborate, the kid's eyes were like saucers and
he pulled away from me, fully understanding the implications.

 "I ain't no fag, . . . so, so fuck off, man!" he scathed, looking utterly
disgusted.

I shrugged uncaring and smiled at him as I made a move toward carrying on
to the showers, "I never insinuated you were a fag, young man. --It's
called survival concessions to achieve your safe, direct transit to where
ya's are going."

Again he cursed me, "Fuck you faggot!" and strode off at a good pace with
his no-brainer in hot pursuit.

I yelled to him, "Good luck finding another trucker, --if that's you're
plan. You ain't female, . . . and even if you were, the same terms would
apply!" I laughed mockingly, " --Ya all change yer mind, I'll be here for a
few hours yet."

I did feel sorry for them, watching as they cowered under a nearby semi The
Provincial Police often made a tour around the huge lot before going inside
the restaurant for coffee and a bite to eat, compliments of the
proprietor. Nor could the kids dare wander inside to use the facilities or
have a meal, lest some motherly waitresses would call the cops.

Showered and shaved, fed and watered, I wandered back to my rig to continue
my familiar journey westbound on the coast to coast Trans-Canada highway
until fatigue would call it a night.

Obviously hidden between my rear duallies, the kid scared the hell out of
me making his sudden appearance to my right as I fumbled my pockets for the
key.

"Well hello again!" I welcomed unsurprised, and without emotion, knowing
the reason of his reappearance. The other boy, I assumed, was still
hunkered down under my chassis to faithfully await summoning from his
mentor. My unfounded opinion of him being a subservient, type 'B'
personality prevailed.

Stern faced, trying to portray an air of aloofness, but failing miserably
and reeking of fear, the cutie struggled for words before building the
courage and uttering, "Doogie will do it, . . . I mean if blow-jobs are
what you really want."

The statement caused me hold back a chuckle, he had undoubtedly sold out
his dumb friend, whom was even labeled with a suitably dumb Irish nick name
for Doogan. The sacrificial lamb to secure passage aboard my eighteen
wheeler.

Facetiously beaming in delight, I replied, "Good news!  --Tell him to come
aboard, . . . you, my young friend, can eventually catch up with "Doogie"
in the valley sometime in the fall maybe; . . .it's a long walk, ya know!"

Hearing his name, Doogan peaked out from behind the left tandem looking
befuddled as to whether or not he was being hailed.  Just then a cruiser
paused in front of my rig, the lone officer leaned out his window and
inquired, "Everything okay, mister?"

Doogan's head disappeared again and the other boy gasped in panic. I
thought sure that he would bolt any second had I not placed my arm firmly
around his neck and laughing. Just as he tried to wiggle free, he stopped
dead hearing my reply to the officer.

"Yes, Sir. All is okay. My young nephew here has glamorous aspirations of
becoming a trucker!" I laughed aloud, "I'm trying to sway his misguided
notions by giving him a summer long taste of the drudgery and boredom of it
all!"

The cop laughed, obviously aware of the occupational hazards, and said,
"Looks like it's working, good luck!" Focusing his gaze upon the boy, he
advised, "Stay in school, young man. --Learn to design those bloody beasts
of boredom for the likes of your uncle, . . . not drive them!" he bade a
good afternoon and rolled away.

Opening the bunk door and staring the kid down without a word or a gesture,
he climbed inside. I called for Doogan and ushered him up the ladder,
following close behind. The tension inside the small confines was even
greater than the musty odor emitting from the boys.

"So, favorite nephew," I peered at the tall kid, "what the fuck's your
name, anyway?"

"Branden." he replied sheepishly, gazing down to scrape something invisible
off his runner with the toe of his other foot. "What's yers?"

"Just like the sign on the door reads, Mike Miller Trucking, . . . and my
last name isn't Trucking, by the way." I joked, hoping to break the ice
while offering them a Coke from the small bar fridge that they both guzzled
down and belched repeatedly. Most probably hungry as the were thirsty, I
surmised.

"There's a McDonald's up the highway, if yer interested." A foolish
question to ask any teen boy, their eyes lit up in anticipation. Assuming
my position behind the wheel, the monster machine named Annabelle, woke and
roared to life, blowing smoke from her stacks before sighing again,
begrudgingly knowing that she was expected to perform her duties for yet
another leg of the endless journeys. She was overdue for a day at the spa,
being pampered by mechanics and let me know it every chance she got!

Finding a safe place to park on the shoulder of the busy highway, I gave
the boys twenty dollars with strict instructions to bring me back a vanilla
milkshake along with their take out. For all intents and purposes, it was a
test of faith. If they came back, fine; if not, so be it! Fifteen minutes
later, in my right mirror, I saw them jogging back with bags held to their
chests.

The smell of fast food saturated the air as Branden and Doogan wasted no
time devouring their meal, sitting nestled side by side upon the passenger
seat even before I pulled away into the flow of traffic. Smug in the
satisfaction that the two-thousand miles ahead would be like none other!

Experience told me not to inquire into their plight, it was none of my
business and I really didn't give a shit. Funny, but not really in that
sense of the word. after transporting them to their final destination of
choice, the realism of the error in their ways sets in. Offering a return
trip home with no questions asked, many take me up on the offer. Bonus
round-trips for me.

The smell of their clothes soon resumed, and after a strong suggestion to
strip out of them was ignored, a more serious recommendation had them on
their feet and scrambling to the bunk area. After only having to drop a few
gears while pulling over to the shoulder, they got the message.

Looking back occasionally, I saw the several layers of t-shirts, two pairs
of jeans and an unknown quantity of socks that they pulled off in one quick
mass. Two pairs of underwear were soon discarded before down to wearing
only a single t-shirt and boxer shorts that I considered having them shuck
for good measure, but settled on just the t-shirts being removed before
they re-entered the cab and sat clad only in their shorts.

"So, Branden, ya ever had a blow-job?" I asked out of the blue to break the
monotony of silence that ensued and have a little fun with him.

He swung his head in my direction, even through my peripheral vision the
shock factor was seen, responding in a hushed tone, "Noooo!"

"Sorry, thought maybe Doogan was doin' ya already. I mean, . . . like the
way you offered him to me and all, thought you were being nice and sharing
him with me."

"I'm not a fag, I told you that already!" he retorted sharply.

"Ya don't have to be a fag to enjoy getting yer cock sucked. And please
quit using the word "fag," --you're insulting me."

"Sorry." Branden apologized without a hint of meaning it, staring straight
ahead at the windshield. His attitude pissed me off and he had to be
brought down a few notches.

"Doogan my man!" I called out.

He looked past Branden's chest, "Y -y -yes, sir?" he stuttered, the first
words I'd heard him speak.

"You know what a blow-job is, don't you?"

"Y -y -yes, sir."

"Ya ever given a guy one?"

"N -n -no, sir." He was polite, I had to admire that.

"But you are willing to do it for me, right?"

"I g -g-guess so." he shrugged his shoulders, "Brandy toad me iss'okay."

My intuition that the kid was dim witted was correct. "Why don't you get on
the floor between Brandy's knees and give him one first?" I instructed more
than posed it as a suggestion.

Branden shot me an evil look, but said nothing as Doogan lowered himself
from his perch and obediently knelt exactly as I requested. Uninhibited by
underwear, my cock tented my gray sweat- pants, a spot darkened and
expanded over the material exactly where the source of the leakage was
uncomfortably restrained. The thought of watching was the most erotic
feeling ever experienced, other than having two youth's, whom were younger
than usual, at my beck and call!

"Go ahead, Branden. Feed it to him!" I urged. "Give him some practice for
us." Everything depended on Branden's final decision, and I hoped my
statement would be misinterpreted as alleviating him from any commitments
he may have logically assumed that I would expect.

Branden hesitated, peered out the passenger side window and lowered his
hands. Looping his thumbs under the waistband of his black boxers just
above his groin area, he slowly pulled the elastic down, exposing a patch
of blond pubic hair that surrounded the base, then over his flaccid shaft
and secured it under his balls, removing his hands after a long pause of
embarrassment.

Doogan stared at the package displayed before his eyes, I also admired the
young lads cut, meaty three inches propped upward and resting against his
large, underwear supported, taut scrotum. Unobscured by hair, the
protruding veins indiscriminately spider-webbed every which way around the
two chestnut size orbs.

My concentration was divided equally between the road ahead and the sight
on my right. Branden looked everywhere other than at his best friend
hovering over his genitals, who I saw was in need of direction on what to
do next.

"Take his cock in your mouth, Doogan. Roll your tongue around it . . ."

I continued giving him explicit instructions on the fine art of
fellatio. He was definably a quick learner that the affects of his
stimulation, had Branden filling the boys mouth in length and girth. It was
a sight to behold; six chubby, saliva laced inches seen when Doogan paused
to replenish his lungs, only to eagerly return to his task in hand, noisily
slurping and several times, gagging himself.

Branden put on a bored appearance, sighing as if he was only humoring me
and wanting it to end. Guaranteed he wasn't going to blow his load. I must
admit that it would have been hot seeing both, him orgasm, and Doogan
accepting it. That bonus feature that I would have had control over, I
would have insisted upon.

Doogan had his first taste of cum when I became fully aware that I wasn't
going to prevent cumming in my pants if the erotic scene continued any
longer. His mid-section laying over the dog-house, I presented my seven
inches from under my sweats to his mouth and held his head with one free
hand stolen from the steering wheel.

Less than two minutes later, I erupted my pent up sexual frustrations. Like
a trooper, he never missed a piston, despite the strange texture and taste
invading his taste buds, leaving him to milk the very last drop from my
withering shaft.

Literally forcing him off me, he sat back down with Branden, whom at some
point, tucked his jewels back in his shorts.

"God, . . . your breathes stinks!" he exclaimed to his friend settling in
beside him, fanning his face with his hands in an exaggerated disgust.

Not letting him get away unscathed for that unnecessary comment, I blurted,
"It's okay, Doogan, we'll drop him off at the next town to fend for
himself."

Doogan looked more shocked at my threat than Branden. W -w -why? What
d,d,,d,d,did he d,d,d,do wrong?" Doogan stammered a whole sentence with a
great deal of effort, almost in tears by the time he finished.

With compassion for his loyalty to his friend, I backed off, "Just kidding,
kiddo. Branden can stay!"

Branden's eyes met mine. I mouthed the words, "don't fuck with me!"  The
message was very clear.

Two hours or so, and one-hundred miles later, being a creature of habit and
having a strict personal schedule, I put Annabelle to bed along side one of
my many favorite secluded spots. A pristine lake off the beaten track by a
mile of dirt road with ample space to turn the rig around.

Nightfall had set in, and a full moon glimmered off the ripples of
water. It was much needed bath time for the boys. Tossing them each a towel
and a shared bar of soap, adding a bottle of shampoo, we all went
skinny-dipping in the warm, serene beach area, that only a few times
before, others were enjoying the sanctity of nudism.

Mostly teen boys, sometimes with girls whom freaked with inhibitions seeing
my unexpected presence thunder to a stop, their clothing seen in my
headlights, strewn haphazardly on the sand. My own initiative to join them
usually set their minds at ease.

Once, I got lucky with a seventeen year old boy who spent the night with
me, dropping him off in the morning with one less possession he had arrived
with, his virginity.  Never saw him again after that, but hoping all that
summer that fate would repeat itself. Maybe he made up with his girlfriend,
who drove off abandoning him. A story for another time.

Branden and Doogan frolicked and rough-housed, enjoying their first
unencumbered, nudist experience. I joined their melee of dunking each
other, or precariously climbing atop my shoulders and diving.

In a moment of much needed rest, standing waist deep, I fondled both in
each hand. Doogan got hard, four inches, thick as my thumb. His cherry size
balls hung surprisingly low. At first, I thought he was void of pubic hair,
but after more careful inspection, I felt bristles, undoubtedly, just
making their debut to garnish his crotch, perhaps I misread his true age,
or simply, he was a late bloomer.

Branden wasn't long before becoming fully erect, nor was I, with the
reality of masturbating two youths. Forcing Branden's hand to reciprocate
was easier than expected, leaving him to it's own devise, I pushed the
pendulum and had him jerking off Doogan, as well. I wouldn't call it a
circle jerk, per se, more of a circle fondle, but enough to have sparked
some sexual interest in Branden, who was letting his guard down.

The reason for finding such secluded Edens was to enjoy as much time as
possible outside the day-long confines, kicking back in my leisure time at
night. Swimming was my only source of exercise, and restricted to the short
summer months. Winters were spent parked at local aquatic centers, but not
near the enjoyment of the many tranquil lakes I discovered over the years.

Keeping a small charcoal Hibachi barbecue stored in a compartment, I would
often stop at a supermarket and purchase steaks and salads to treat myself
to a feast after a long day. A big lover of beer, my little fridge was
stocked. The company at the moment was right to share a few with after
exiting the lake, waterlogged.

Wrapped in towels, we sat around a picnic table chit-chatting and telling
silly jokes awaiting the charcoal to burn down before roasting frozen
smokies, less a proper bun, but bread slices served as an alternative,
accompanied with potato chips and pretzels. The boys certainly didn't
complain about the lengthy wait, savoring their first taste of beer, or so
they claimed, and giving them the feeling of maturity, circumventing the
age gap to a degree.

Chipping in to help garbage the paper plates and plastic cutlery, putting
away condiments, we left the barbecue to smolder and die over night,
retiring inside. Against all odds, Doogan was the first to question
sleeping arrangements.

"We all sleep right there." I said, pointing at the small bed meant for two
adults.

The never used upper bunk over the slightly wider lower bed was crammed
with paraphernalia, and it was going to stay that way. Looking like like a
typical boys bedroom, I made the kids pickup their earlier discarded
clothing strewn everywhere, and place them into a large green garbage
bag. I was do for a trip to the laundromat myself, a chore I hated and
procrastinated.

As anticipated, Branden grabbed a pair of boxer shorts, I quickly
intervened and told him they wouldn't be necessary, The familiar look of
shock crossed his face and he opened his mouth to say something, but
changed his mind.

Doogan didn't seem to care either way, dropping his towel and crawling to
the far side of the bed, his pink hole in plain sight for a few seconds. I
was going to fuck him sooner or later, sooner it would be, letting my own
towel fall to the floor in pursuit and snatching his hips before he could
swing around and lay down.

Looking back at me over his shoulder in utter dismay, my tongue excavated
his tender pug. It was the sixteen year old from the rest area who showed
me that disgusting but wonderful foreplay before the main event, during a
complete role reversal of me getting fucked for the fist time!

Not seeing Branden, but feeling him sit down on the edge of the bed, he was
most probably watching me eat Doogan and equally stunned as to why anyone
would want to go there.  Aided by lubricant an arm's length away in a
drawer, one, then two fingers reamed him.

Only on the third digit insertion did he complain of pain, craning his neck
again to look at me, wondering what the fuck I was doing to him, and why,
before quenching his eyes and clamping his teeth.

Branden came into focus on my left, laying half on the bed, his head
casually supported by a hand. We made eye contact for a few moments as I
guided my cock up and down Doogan's crack, searching for the bulls-eye.

"Ya want yer cock sucked again?" I asked him, and not waiting for a reply,
ordered, "Get up there and help me keep him in place."

Branden scooted ahead, squatted with his back resting against the wall and
unfolded the towel from around his waist. His beautiful cock was already
hard and he pointed it at Doogan's mouth, who obviously heard the
conversation and wasted no time complying.

I swear my cock grew another inch, so hard that it hurt. The first thrust
was painful to both me and Doogan. He yelped, I winced. Branden held the
wiggling boy in place as I gained entry and made headway up the incredibly
warm, tight chamber. The boy whimpered, but surprisingly didn't scream out.

"It's okay, Doogie." Branden soothed, "Yer doing great!"

"It herst, Brandy!" he pleaded, "It willy hersts!"

"Do ya 'member the time ya broke yer arm falling from that tree? You were
so brave then, and that really hurt, too! --Right?"

I bottomed out, fully planted inside the boy's anus. "It's all the way in,
little man, . . . it's all the way in, --you can relax now." Heeding my own
words, so did I.

Branden urged his cock back into Doogan's mouth. We looked each other in
the eye, I smiled, he smiled, some kind of silent pact had been made at
Doogan's expense. OR at least that's what he thought.

Slow and easy, then building up momentum, I fucked the little trooper until
nature took it's course spewing my second load of the night inside the
boy's body. Collapsing atop him, I was rewarded to be inches from Branden's
manhood still being serviced. Exhausted, I found the breath to relieve
Doogan of the chore and took the treasure from his lips to sample for a
while, I had other plans for his prized possession. He looked at me, judged
that I wasn't kidding and took position.

Branden slid easily into the well traveled orifice pre-lubricated in semen
that I positioned in place for him. I played with his lovely balls while he
banged his best friend, sweat dripping from his forehead and temples down
to his jaw, face red as a cherry, that if I didn't know better, would think
he was bawling his eyes out.

Laying with my head under the action, I watched both sets of balls slam
together along with Doogan's flaccid and uncircumcised gherkin sized pink
dick. Once again I was awe struck on how devoid he was of pubic
hair. Scarcely forming were tiny dark hued perforations that stood out in
contrast to his milk white groin, like seedlings poking through the soil of
a garden. Raspy to the touch, as I had first discovered in the lake, the
very onset of puberty by maybe only a week or two. I recalled a boy in
school who was fifteen before he flourished, yet his genital attributes
were of equal maturity to any of us other boys.

Branden announced he was ready to cum. As per our previous agreement, he
pulled out and before the cool air could surround his cock, it found a new
warmth in my mouth.

The initial taste of his cock was bitter, somewhat metallic with what I
gathered to be my own cum and ~other substances that I put out of my mind
and concentrated on draining the two cream-puffs resting against my left
cheek. One, two, three pulsations felt on my tight lips, loosing count
thereafter to savor his offering, the velocity of which hit the roof of my
mouth and back of my throat.

Bored, sitting In my doctor's office, I once read in a medical journal that
ejaculate travels at twenty-two miles per hour on exit. Some scientist must
have had a lot of time on his hands, but exactly how he came to that
hypothesis remains a mystery to me.

Branden's load wasn't near the volume of older teens and men, however the
purity and sweetness of it by far exceeded my sense of taste. Milking the
last possible drops up his deflating shaft became obsessive to the point
that he backed away, sensitive, as many guys seem to experience
post-orgasm.

Doogan was praised, I told him he was a born man-pleaser, to which he took
as an exceptional compliment, gloating in pride, none-the-wiser.  Branden
seemed a little out of sorts afterward.

"Hey. Dude! It's all about having fun, feeling good, and making others feel
good." I tried to instil, "You're not a fag, and neither is Doogan and nor
am I, --if that's what yer thinking."

"I guess." he replied solemnly, unconvinced.

We slept naked in the smallish bed, Doogan under my right arm with his head
on my chest and a leg over my thighs, Branden, with his back to me and ass
pressed against my hip. I was in seventh heaven, the luckiest pervert in
the world! Branden had his daemons to contend with, and I had mine.

to be continued . . .