Date: Mon, 8 Sep 2014 09:40:17 -0700
From: Rio Mack <badprose@hotmail.com>
Subject: Warming 1 (gay/adult-youth)

WARMING
by Rio Mack

DISCLAIMER:  Contains depictions of gay sex

Part 1

Tom Ryan preps, regrettably, for a solo boy's night in.  Twenty-some below
zero weather makes the thought of going anywhere just too unpleasant.  And
anyway, most of his fuck-buddy friends are away somewhere warm on this week
before Christmas.  His remaining two possibilities -- the two hot horny
nineteen year-olds who work for him (and who both very quickly became fast
friends and even faster lovers of their boss), both laughed when Tom, who's
been ridiculously horny lately, tried to coax them over with the promise of
beer, pot, and sex; the two of them, who were room-mates, claimed they had
that at home already, without the need to brave a polar vortex.

Obviously, it's too damn cold if a dude won't even venture out for the
promise of a hot muscle threesome.

So, cat-in-heat, crawl-the-wall horny, the plan is for as sexy a night in,
alone, as he can make it: rolling a thick joint or two; getting a roaring
blaze going in the den (where there's a very soft fake-fur rug and lots of
pillows in front of the fireplace); rounding up a stack of his most
dependable stroke mags, gay comics, and erotic male photography books, to
provide some sweet foreplay before the main event: watching the new muscle
porn clips he's downloaded earlier; then hunkering down for the evening
with his dope and porn stash, floating a few bottles of good craft beer
over everything, and stroking out, over the course of the evening, two or
three delicious loads from his thick, needy cock.

Tom is a very handsome, extremely fit twenty-seven year-old, with seriously
cut muscle.  He's also got a certain street savvy and bold sense of risk
that has allowed him to live the dream life of a young, blue-collar stud --
in his case, he's parlayed years of seasonal landscape work into not just a
ripped body, but a brisk business, one that took off almost immediately
after he started it, using the money he'd saved and the experience he'd
gained working for years on another dude's crew.  His small firm, "Tom's
Fine Landscapers," consists of himself and, currently, the two highly
capable, highly gorgeous, nineteen year-old boys who work for him.  And,
like their boss, these young, hot-looking dudes are very gay, very built,
and very hung.

Right from the start, his business plan was for him and the hunky boys he
hired to wear as little as the temperature allowed when they did their
property maintenance.  He got the idea from all those `3 Gay Guys and a
Truck' moving companies, which always seemed to hire such hot-looking,
built young studs -- Tom figured there must obviously be a market for out,
hot dudes in muscle jobs like moving and landscaping.

And sure enough, as predicted, his business took off right from the get-go;
jobs almost multiplying exponentially until he could afford to pick and
choose the work he wanted.  Almost immediately, it went like this: he and
his boys will start working on a property, flaunting lusciously fit bodies,
and usually that very day get a call or two from near-by neighbors,
wondering if they could come by for an estimate.  Inquiries, he's noticed,
mostly from men (some gay, most closeted married dudes), but always a few
single women, too, mostly older, with apparently inoperative gaydar -- all
with the same expression of deep longing, all of whom were excited at the
prospect of having some seriously hot, near-naked, beefcake eye-candy to
flirt with for the few hours a week it takes them to work on their yards.

He's done so well in the five years since he's been self-employed that he's
almost paid off the house he lives in.  Plus, a year-and-a-half ago, he
started making payments on a second property, which he rents out for a nice
steady side-income -- presently occupied by the two young dudes in his
crew, and fuck if they don't have hot times together: kickin' back a couple
times a week or so; wearing as little as possible, so they could worship
each other's pumped, sweaty, beautifully muscled bodies; quickly hitting on
some pot and beers when they got to whoever's house; then a hot couple
hours of very satisfying three-way man-sex.

Between what he's saved and his dual incomes, he hardly has to work winters
(he can afford to take it easy and cherry-pick a few clients to do snow
removal for, for which he charges an even higher hourly rate than the
landscaping).

Pretty much his life revolves (no complaints whatsoever) around his work,
weight training either at the gym or in his beautifully finished basement
(he's installed a great home gym down there, great sauna and shower; he
wouldn't even need to go to the gym to get a great workout, except he loves
cruising there for the occasional pickup), running and cycling outdoors,
and hooking up with hot men -- met through bars, the gym, his outdoor
training, or the internet -- as often as possible.  He likes his dudes to
be like him: highly sexed, with an exceptionally athletic body (the younger
and fitter the better), into hot hard sucking, fucking, and stroking --
that's his idea of the ultimate in extreme sports, the satisfying
indulgence of peak conditioning

But he's home tonight, damn it.

He's bare-chested, wearing just sweatpants, no jock -- perfect for a slow,
lazy evening, kicking back, with a nice buzz, looking at hot porn, slowly
edging his thick cock to hardness, tweaking his very sensitive nips,
letting his hand drift over a beautifully carved washboard, posing in front
of the mirror for a while, flexing hot muscle, jacking thick cock, then
back to porn --rinse and repeat all night long, stroking out a series of
loads throughout the evening.

As he's setting out his gear -- laptop, lube, and a few of his choicest
stroke books -- on the low table in front of the couch by the fireplace, in
which he's already started a nicely burning blaze, he hears the sound of a
snow shovel scraping the pavement across the street.  It seems way too late
to still be out shoveling tonight, and the temperature has to be double
digits below zero.  He looks out the front window to see which poor bastard
neighbor was out on such a raw vicious night.

The first thing he notices is whoever's doing the shoveling out there is
nuts, because they're trying to do a particularly big job, on a
particularly frigid evening, in just a T-shirt, a thin-looking hoodie, and
jeans -- no hat, no gloves, no scarf, no boots, and no coat (and none of
the two or three layers more you'd need under that coat on a subzero night
like this).  Tom's immediate impulse is to yell out to whomever it is to
get inside and get some clothes on before they get frostbite, but the young
kid he sees doing the shoveling surely must know how to dress for the
weather, living in a city like this.

It takes Tom a few seconds to make out the figure in the dark, because it
clearly wasn't the neighbor who owned the house -- the one directly across
from him -- doing the actual shoveling, since a childless thirty-something
couple lived there.  It must be a neighborhood kid, Tom thinks, someone the
homeowners have hired.

Tom suddenly recognizes that it's Billy, a friend of AJ, the sixteen
year-old, pain-in-the-ass boy who lives next door.  Those two, along with
another boy, Connor, a very good-looking young black dude, were inseparable
-- playing frisbee, football, or skateboarding in the street in front of
his house, or just hanging on AJ's front porch -- always together, and
usually always next door.

All three young dudes love to razz Tom, who is totally out to his
neighbors, living the open lifestyle of a sexually active gay dude
(good-looking young men often coming and going, muscle-tanning whenever
possible on the front deck, and unashamedly intimate displays of
affection).  Billy and his friends think it's hilarious to, say,
mock-butt-fuck each other, or kneel down and mock-suck each other, whenever
they see Tom.  Classic, ignorant young punks, Tom thinks, and so he mostly
just laughs heartily when they pull this nonsense, flipping them off,
sometimes even giving it right back: grabbing his very sizable package
through his jeans and yelling something like, "Any time you dudes wanna try
the real thing, just swing on by.  Wouldn't mind gettin' busy with any of
you.  Feel free to come separately, on the DL, if you don't want your boys
to know!"

He assumes they're all a little confused as to their sexuality, and that
this rowdy, public display of (can you even call it?) homophobia is their
way of covertly confessing to each other their curiosity about same-sex
attraction.  In fact, to test his theory, towards the end of last summer,
just to tease the boys, Tom started tanning on his front deck in just a
jock strap when he saw they were playing in the street out front.  And
damned if they didn't make a lot less jokes after that; nothing like a hot
muscle stud showing off seriously carved beef to shut a punk's mouth.

Truth told, they were all three hot young fucks: Connor -- rich, dark,
beautifully cut, cocoa-colored body, sporting long, thick, sexy dreads; AJ
-- stocky blonde young AF football god, with a permanently cocky sneer on
his handsome, almost feminine-looking face; and Billy -- shoulder-length,
dirty-blonde hair; a seriously cut teen jock body of smooth, lean, pale
ivory; and an achingly beautiful face, featuring soulful blue eyes and
full, pouty lips.  It was Billy who was hands down the handsomest, best
built of the three young stunners.

Tom stares in sheer disbelief that the young boy could possibly be out
there, at this hour, with no coat or hat or boots, in dangerously cold
weather.  Apparently he thinks he'll be able to finish in a few minutes
what looks like a good hour or so's worth of work -- if he's planning to do
the entire sidewalk, the driveway, and the fifteen or so steps up to the
front door.

How he'll do it without getting the frostbite they've been warning about on
the news all week will be quite a trick -- Little Man out there most
definitely has some exposed skin: even from across the street, Tom can see
Billy's ears and hands are already dangerously red-looking.  The news
tonight even showed how dark and awful-looking the skin got right before
amputation became inevitable.

After less than a minute more of watching, Tom can't stand it.  He opens
his front door and sticks his head out, flinching when the rush of arctic
air hits the exposed skin of his upper body, feeling it, too, on his thick
cock, dangling loose under just a layer of soft, worn-thin cotton sweats.
He yells out to the youth.

"Dude!  I think you better get a coat and a hat and some gloves on if
you're gonna be out there shoveling much longer!  I heard on the news you
got maybe ten minutes before serious frostbite!"

The boy turns and glares at Tom.

"LEAVE ME ALONE!"

Billy screams it out across the street.  The note of rage and sadness in
his voice is unmistakable.  It sounds to Tom like the kid's been crying.
No way can he let him stay out there and freeze.

"Seriously!  Billy!  For real!  You need to go back home and get some more
clothes on before you do any more shoveling.  If you wait a sec until I get
a coat on, I'll pull my truck out and give you a ride back to your house.
You are seriously under-dressed for this weather, dude!  It's fucking
frigid out!"

"Go away!  Get back inside!  Just leave me alone!"

Tom hears in his voice that the boy has settled down a bit.  The raw force
of his initial anger is gone.  Now the only thing he can hear is sadness,
along with bitter chill.

"Listen to me, Billy!  I don't think you get it.  You can -- ."

"I don't think YOU get it!  I CAN'T go home!  My fucking father threw me
out about twenty minutes ago.  Dan and Laurie pay me two hundred dollars a
month in the winter to keep their place shoveled.  I gotta get this done
now, tonight, cause they're coming home soon.  So just go away.  LEAVE ME
THE FUCK ALONE ALREADY, OK?!"

"But, dude, you'll -- ."

"STOP!  Go back inside and let me get this done!"

This is ridiculous, Tom thinks.  The kid is being insane.  No matter what
gay-baiting pains in the ass the kid and his friends are, no way Tom can
just sit back and let the kid get frostbite.  So he tries a different tack.

"Look, Billy, I'll make you a deal!  You come inside here, warm up a bit,
let me rustle up some warm clothes for you to wear, and I'll get dressed up
myself and help you shovel the whole thing -- steps, sidewalk, and
driveway.  Now, c'mon, you CAN'T say no to that!"

Billy stops shoveling.  Tom can see him considering the proposition.

"You'll help me?"

The kid's voice seems to come from the bottom of a deep well.

"Hell yes, I'll help you."

"What do I have to do?"

Tom laughs.

"Not a damn thing, junior, except get some fucking clothes on!  So you
don't freeze to death!  Come on, with two dudes working, we'll get that bad
boy done in twenty minutes, tops, then we can get our asses back inside and
have hot chocolate by the fire.  Then we can figure out what the fuck is up
with your father.  Seriously!  Please, Billy!  I'm fucking freezing with
this door open!"

Billy drops his shovel and walks across the street.  His hunched, tense
body posture shows Tom the boy is freezing.

Once he sees the boy up close, Tom panics: the kid's ears are glowing ruby
red and his lips seem almost blue.  Tom wants to bundle the boy in his arms
and rub him to get the blood flowing, but he checks himself.  No way is the
kid going to accuse him of anything.

"Go on in the living room, Billy.  I've got a fire going."

The boy looks like a lost, sad zombie.  He follows Tom through the house
until he sees the fireplace in the living room, then makes straight for it.
Tom throws another log on.

"Just stand in front of the fire for a bit.  Grab a blanket off the couch
if you need it.  I'll run upstairs and find a few more layers for you to
wear out there.  We'll get you warmed up, then we'll gear up and get Dan's
place shoveled in no time.  Why the hell did you wait so long today to
start shoveling?"

"I didn't think they were coming home until Saturday.  But they called
about an hour ago, right before my dad blew up, to say their plane gets in
around midnight and that they'll need to get their cars out to drive to
work tomorrow."

"Fuck, that's a pisser Oh well, it won't take the two of us long.  Gonna be
colder than fuck out there, though.  Why did you leave the house on a night
like this dressed like that?"

"I had to bolt.  My dad went insane.  I just had to get the fuck out."

"And what the fuck's up with getting thrown out of your house?  What the
hell did you do?"

Tom can't help asking questions -- he wants an excuse to just stay there,
to not have to turn and go upstairs and get cold-weather gear together,
because the boy is just too gorgeous to take his eyes off.

Tom's never been this close to him.  His face is absolutely beautiful,
framed by that stringy brownish-blonde, not-quite-shoulder-length hair.
His lips are irresistibly kissable, and those soulful, dreamy eyes.

He notices, though, how the boy pauses for a few seconds at his last
question, then turns away, a look of intense concentration on his face.
It's like he's figuring out just how he wants to answer, Tom thinks.

"My father came in my room and -- he caught me smoking dope.  He went
fucking nuts, screaming his fucking head off, then he threw me out of our
house.  My mom was hysterical."

He looks at Tom with a cold, sullen stare.

"It was awful.  Unbelievable.  Worst fucking night of my life.  Just cause
I was blowing a little dope in my room.  He was, like, livid.  I thought he
was gonna start hitting me.  You'd have just left, too, no matter what you
were wearing.  You'd have just wanted to get out."

Tom stares in stunned disbelief and then roars with laughter.

"Are you shitting me?  You got thrown out for smoking pot?  Fuck, I just
rolled a couple of joints my damn self, to smoke later tonight.  Hell,
dude, you can even join me after we finish freezing our fucking asses off
doing your shoveling.  I don't throw anyone out for smoking dope here;
here, dudes get tossed for not providing their fair share of bud."

He smiles at Billy, who, visibly warming, smiles back.

The smile is like a sharp jolt through Tom's groin.  He can't help himself
-- he reaches his hand out instinctively, but checks himself in time from
stroking the boy's beautiful face, and instead switches, mid-movement, to
ruffling the boy's hair.

As soon as he does it, he sees on the boy's face, and feels in his own gut,
the awkwardness.  He makes a mental note -- no more touching.

"Anyway, I can't believe, once your father has some time to cool off, he
won't let you back home tonight.  Pot is just not that big a deal."

Billy's face seems to cloud over with anger.

"You don't know my father.  He's psycho some times.  Most times."

"Well, we'll call him later, give him time to simmer down and realize how
stupid this is.  You can't throw your fucking son out on a night like this
for blowing dope!  And anyway, if he's still a dick when you call him, you
can sure as hell stay here tonight.  I got a guest room and a study
upstairs.  Plenty of room for you to bunk here if it comes to that."

Tom is ashamed of himself for what seems to him like such an obvious
attempt at seducing this gorgeous boy, inviting him to spend the night like
that, but his testosterone is raging too strong, the kid is too damn
beautiful.

Tom notices the boy's eyes fixed on the outline of his long, thick,
dangling cock, easily traceable through the worn cotton sweats.  Tom
suddenly realizes that's all he's wearing, just a thin pair of pulled-low
sweats, showing off his ripped, bare, lightly furred chest, and that almost
perfectly articulated length of man-meat, must be a bit too much exposure
for the boy, no doubt uncomfortable with an under-dressed, muscled-up dude
seemingly flaunting his gayness like this.

Tom becomes embarrassed himself; clearly he needs to go upstairs and give
the kid some space.

"OK, Little Man.  You stay here and get warmed up, and I'll go up and find
us ten or so layers to wear for when we head back out there."

Before Tom reaches the stairs, the boy calls out to him.

"Hey!"

Tom turns.  The boy's wide-eyed, nervous-looking gaze is riveted on him.

"Uh, dude -- I mean, this is, uh, pretty fucking awesome, what you're doing
for me.  I mean, especially with all the shit me and my friends give you.
I can't tell you how shitty I feel about all that right now."

God Damn, Tom thinks -- this kid is an absolute stunner.  That hair, those
eyes, those lips.  He'd love to see the boy naked.  A quick, sudden flash
of images -- ripping this young hottie's clothes off, groping and kissing
him all over, then pounding him in front of the fire -- goes off like a
series of fireworks in his mind.

"Skip it, dude.  I was a young idiot myself once.  It's all good.  You just
get yourself warm, and I'll call you up when I get some warm clothes
together that might fit you.  My room's upstairs, end of the hall; the
downstairs bathroom's through there to the right, if you need it."

After about fifteen minutes of hunting around, he calls the boy upstairs, a
mess of warm clothes laid out on his bed.

Tom, still in just his sweatpants, goes through the clothes for Billy.

"Not sure if you young dudes wear jocks, but there's a jock, thermals, a
pair of flannel sleep pants and then you can layer those jeans you got on,
plus here's a pair of over-pants.  Then I found a thermal top too small for
me, an old workshirt and nice thick flannel shirt.  Two pairs of socks,
too.  That should do it.  I got hats, scarves, and gloves down by the front
door."

"This is awesome, man!  Thanks!"

"Okey-dokey, Little Man, let's suit up."

Not giving it a second thought, Tom strips off his sweat pants, exposing a
beautifully muscled hard-body and his thick, luscious length of cock.  A
side glance shows Billy's eyes riveted on his body.

Tom smirks to himself and pulls on a jock, taking a few deliciously long
seconds to adjust his very sizable package in the pouch, knowing the boy's
gaze would still be locked on to him.  He decides to show the young dude
some mercy and pulls on his thermals, then the dungarees he wears for work.

Then it's Tom's turn to stare as Billy undresses, showing absolutely no
modesty, as if it's just two dudes in a locker room.  Tom's thick dick
begins to pulsate as he savors every inch of Danny's exposed chest.  He's
seen it before, many times, but not up close like this -- beautifully
smooth, all lean, ripe, nicely defined young muscle.  Tom wants to just
take him in his arms and lick the boy's chest all over, chewing on those
beautiful little ruby-red nipples.

Tom has to stifle a gasp as Billy strips his pants and underwear off in one
pull.  What a gorgeous, almost man-sized cock!  About five thick, tasty,
uncut inches, shaved smooth of any pubic hair, just the way Tom liked a
boy.  And what an ass!  Tom's dick is now half-hard as he stares at those
smooth, firm, beautifully round globes.  Fuck, he could bury his nose in
that sweet bit of heaven all night.

Billy picks up the jock Tom has for him first.  Then almost immediately he
drops it.  Tom almost faints as he watches Billy bend over to pick it up,
exposing not just a deliciously smooth crack, but the sweetest little
rosebud Tom has ever seen.  So small, so tight, so delicate, Tom doubts he
could ever fit his huge hardness through that achingly lovely opening, but
fuck would he ever like to try.

Then Tom wonders, was that dropped jock a ploy?  Could this young hottie
possibly be coming on to me?  No fucking way.  More likely it's 'tease the
gay stud' time.  Oh well, tease away, Little Man, tease away!

Once dressed, they head out.  They work quickly and efficiently.  Tom
wonders at first if he shouldn't just use the plow on his truck, but Billy
asks him not to.

"They'll know if it's been plowed and wonder what's up.  Sorry, man, but we
got to just shovel so they know I really did it."

So Tom starts in on the drive while Billy works on the steps.  In fifteen
minutes, the steps are done, and Billy starts on the sidewalk, while Tom
continues clearing the driveway.

"Fuck!" Tom yells, voice raw with cold, a one point, "this snow is so damn
crusty from freezing all day."

"No shit!" Billy calls, chilled exhaustion coating his words.  "You are
like amazing to help me with this, dude.  I will NEVER forget this!"

"No sweat, stud.  Eyes on the prize -- let's get 'r done, then there's hot
chocolate, a couple bowls of very nice bud, and a nice hot fire."

"Fuck, I'd settle for just a nice hot bath."

"That, too!  Come on, we're almost there!"

Twenty more minutes, and they're on the steps up to Tom's front door.
Crazy-cold, they laugh in excited relief when they get inside.  They leave
a trail of layers as they rush into the living room, where Tom quickly
throws another couple logs on still-red embers.  Soon the blaze is roaring
again, and they both warm themselves gratefully, stripped down now to just
thermals.

After a few minutes, Billy turns to Tom.  The older stud sees moistness in
the boy's eyes.

Billy extends his hand to Tom.

"Seriously, dude, I think you probably saved my life tonight."

They do a soul-shake and Tom, unable to help himself, pulls the boy in for
a bro-hug, but the moment just instantly feels right, and the boy feels
wonderful in his arms.  He wishes they could stay like this -- together,
intimate, loving -- all night.

Tom panics, though, and quickly releases the boy when he realizes his
thick, semi-hard length is mashed up against the boy's thigh.

"OK, how about I go up and run you a nice hot bath?  Then while you're
soaking, I'll make us some hot chocolate?"

"Awesome!"

Ten minutes later, Tom returns to the living room, still clad in tight,
thermal bottoms, tight enough to show the jockstrap he's still wearing
underneath, tight enough to reveal every inch of his thick, solid man-meat,
bunched up big and sexy by the clinging mesh pouch of his jock.  He's
discarded his thermal top, exposing his beautifully muscled, lightly-furred
upper body.  He's been posing and flexing and pumping in the bathroom
mirror, as the tub was filling, so he knows just how hot he looks right
now.  He can't resist a little heavy muscle-cruising with this luscious
young boy.

"OK, stud -- time to soak out all the coldness you got left in that hot
body of yours."

Billy smiles shyly at the compliment, Tom notices -- and his cock twitches
a few times at the sight of how sexy the boy looked when he got bashful.

As they head upstairs to let Billy soak in a hot tub, Tom realizes he's at
a crossroads.  The boy is way too hot not to try and make some sort of pass
at.  And what the fuck was that sweet, sweet sight of his rosebud earlier
supposed to signal?  But damned if he wants to have a kid in the
neighborhood, even if the kid at first thought he'd be into it, think
better and panic, then press charges against him for assault or attempted
rape.

But his sheer lust for the gorgeous, leanly muscled boy is too
overwhelming.  So a plan is speedily hatched: what if Tom tries, subtly,
almost imperceptibly, to sort of just nudge things along in a very sexy
direction?  Nothing blatant, just maneuvering things to provide as
potentially seductive a context as possible, one as hot as Tom can make it
while still remaining litigiously unimpeachable.  Just seeing how things
play out if given the most innocently favorable circumstances.  The kid's
got to be OK with it every step, though; that's a given.

Tom just has this nagging sense about the kid.  True, the boy likes to join
in that homophobic banter with his mates, but what nervously closeted gay
dude didn't go in for that bullshit?  It's just that Tom's gaydar keeps
steadily pinging on this young stud.  The way he always catches him
looking, and where he's looking, and that trembling lip and those wide eyes
-- not much to go on, but still.

Tom can see the next minutes play out in his mind as they head upstairs:
they'll get to his room, which is down the hall from the bathroom (giving
him that much more time to see the boy naked, and let the naked boy see
him).

"We can change in here," he'll say, blithely, and begin to strip his own
thermals off first.  He'll get down to his jock, and the boy will be naked,
no towel being offered yet.  They'll be surrounded, too, by the art on the
walls of his bedroom -- big framed promotional posters for raw, hot gay
porn vids, each one showing naked, beautifully muscled studs flaunting
outrageously huge, thick-veined cocks.

But just that, no more.  Just getting things steamy as soon as possible, to
see what happens.  Not pushing anything.

"Come on, there's towels in the bathroom."

He can hear himself saying it.

Nothing more than naked muscle and the boy's exposed cock, but still
intensely erotic.  Little flirty remarks, maybe; even slight, innocent, but
noticeable touching, just to see how that goes.  He'll let the boy's body
language show him how far to take it.

And it plays out exactly like that.

Tom strips down to his jock in no time; the boy gets naked equally fast,
their eyes glued on each other the entire time.

Tom knows how hot his ripped body looks in just a jock - a jock whose pouch
is plumping with a huge thick cock getting bigger and thicker from the
sexually charged scene.

Billy's cock is absolutely gorgeous -- thick, smooth, as pale as the rest
of him, with a sexy foreskin still sheathing the head.  The boy is about
half-hard, staring at Tom without trying to look like he's staring.

Tome wants to see the boy's smooth ass, so he begins hustling them towards
the bathroom.

"C'mon, dude, the water's nice and hot. Let's get that fine-ass body of
yours all warmed up, after being out there in that brutal cold.  The
bathroom's just right down the hall."

He has to check himself from groaning out loud as he lets the boy lead the
way.  The boy's ass is achingly perfect -- smooth, ripe, curved, firm,
young.  Tom can feel his cock jerking and pulsating with headstrong desire.

When they enter the bathroom, Tom wonders how Billy will respond to the
homoerotic art up on these walls -- different from the bedroom posters, but
just as hot.  Tom suddenly loves the fact that his passionate, muscular gay
desire is written all over the walls of his second floor.

On the wall above the foot of the tub is a huge framed poster from a museum
in Paris, showing a photo of a Grecian urn, and underneath the image is
printed the name of the show the poster was from, "D�sirs des Hommes".
The image on the black vase was of four naked males, two older, bearded,
beautifully muscled military men, one with a sword, the other with a helmet
pushed back on his head, and two much younger boys, smooth-faced, and just
a little less muscular than the men; all the males cavorting on the vase
are nude -- the older, boy-hungry men with longer cocks, the youths with
sweetly demure young pricks, each with a foreskin nippling sexily over the
tip.

The image always went straight to Tom's dick.  It perfectly captured his
own intense lust for young boys like Billy.

On another wall, over by the shower area, were three large framed photos,
in almost blindingly sharp black and white, featuring an incredibly built,
incredibly hung naked dude, each photo showing the hot young muscle-stud in
slightly different poses, each one cropped from his beautifully worked
chest down to just below a thick, long, deliciously veiny uncut cock (two
of the photos had him posed to also show the dude's gloriously muscled
ass).  Tom saw these in a gallery show of gay male artists' work and,
immediately taken by them, had to buy them.

He hoped Billy liked the decor.

Tom put a lot of time and money in his bathroom remodel -- choosing just
the right stone, tile, art, towels, and lighting -- to create the perfect
mood for seductive luxuriousness.

He has about a dozen candles, on shelves or cabinets or mounted on the
wall, sprinkled throughout the beautifully appointed bathroom. A nice,
warm, candle-lit, bubble bath provided one of Tom's favorite settings for
foreplay with another hot stud -- stroking and soaping and kissing and
sucking each other -- then fucking, in the warm, candle-lit water.

Not that he and Billy would be soaking together (let alone stroking
together), but he decides to light the candles anyway.

For atmosphere.

Besides, this will give him something to do, some reason to stay in these
sexy surroundings a little longer, eying this beautiful young boy -- not to
mention letting Billy's lustful gaze graze on fit, jock-clad muscle, if the
boy is so inclined.

Billy, it turns out, is apparently thus inclined, as Tom notices the kid's
gaze never leaves his body while he works, going from candle to candle,
making the room glow sensually.

Tom's not surprised -- he catches sight of himself in the mirror: his huge
cock is bulging out obscenely from under the small, thin mesh pouch; it
looks strong and powerful and ready for action, Tom thinks, like a large,
clenched fist, ready to strike.  And his muscles are firm, ripe,
oh-so-luscious.

He flips off the light after the candles are all lit.  Billy looks
beautiful in the soft, warm glow -- his impressive young uncut cock is a
mouth-watering length; his young muscles firm, ripe, fleshy, like a
tempting white peach.

Tom notices the boy's eyes still locked on his jock.  He looks down and has
to admit: his meat is bulging beautifully out of his overstuffed
jock-pouch.  His cock feels so full, so strong, so thick, so hard and
hungry right now.  He starts to flex his thighs and jut his hips, as if the
instinct for fucking has uncontrollably begun to hiccup through his
powerful loins.

He looks back at the boy, who is suddenly getting helplessly hard.

Tom can hardly blame him, the scene is way too bold.  He knows he has to
get out of here.  He can't take such liberties with the youth, no matter
how strongly he wants to.  But watching the muscular boy's luscious young
length stiffen is hypnotic.

Then he looks up to see the boy shift his gaze, shaking his stringy, sexy,
dirty-blonde mane, as if suddenly seeming to come out of a trance.  He
meets Tom's eyes.

"Thanks, man, for letting me take a warm bath!  It's gonna feel awesome!
And your bathroom's way chill.  These candles are amazing!"

"Candles just seem to warm a dude right up on a cold night like this, don't
they?"

Tom lingers, pretending to find a washcloth for the boy, watching with
amazement as that delicious young cock begins to grow even harder, set off
majestically against the youth's impressively carved young torso.  Tom
stares in lust-drunk fascination, a thin, leering grin spreading itself
slightly across his lips.

Billy is beautifully hung for a boy his age: that must now be a good seven
thickish inches of hardening boy cock.  And those totally shaved pubes, so
his body looks all smooth, lean, rose-tinted alabaster; he's like living
marble, flushed with life.

Tom throbs and aches with the need to fuck this gorgeous youth, this
perfect image of young male beauty, magically incarnated from an intense
reverie of boy-lust.  His mouth, he suddenly feels, has gone thick with
drool for that thick, rampantly jutting young prick.

He's glad Billy seems only mildly ashamed at throwing wood like this.  Tom
tries to put him at ease.  He smiles and nods at the boy's impressive
hardness.

"Is it gettin' too steamy in here for you, Billy?"

Billy grunts a noise that's like a slight, shy sigh.

"Nah, it feels great in here."

Then he looks at Tom with a sharp, bright presence.

"Hey, so after my bath, what's the plan?"

Tom keeps his eyes hovering softly, coolly, over the boy's body.

"Thought I'd get some hot chocolate started, then you can either hit the
hay or we can smoke some of my pot -- cause I KNOW you like THAT shit!"

They both laugh.

Billy is so fucking sexy when he laughs, Tom thinks longingly.  Those
sleepy, soulful, bedroom eyes of his, how charged they can get with a
mischievous playfulness.

Tom is absolutely crushing on this gorgeous young beauty.

"We can watch a movie or something.  Whatever you like."

Then his lust-reflex hiccups through him again, and before he can stop
himself, he adds.

"Before I saw you out there, I was just gonna hang out by myself tonight
and stroke to some new porn I downloaded this morning."

He fixes an innocent, questioning look at the boy. His next words gush out
in a nervous rush.

"I mean, we can do that, definitely, if you're into that?  That'd be my
choice, no doubt.  But, you know, whatever.  Don't know how much you, or
maybe you and your boys, are into gay porn.  I mean, I know from some of
the stuff I read on-line that a lot of so-called straight dudes are into
it.  So I'm assuming maybe a hot, hip young boy like you might be?  Cause
if you're down, like, seriously, dude, I got some of the hottest gay
muscle-porn there is.  Like, totally.  And I was all set to get buzzed, put
on some clips, and stroke out a few nice, creamy loads.  So if that sounds
hot, by all means just let me know.  I mean, it's what my buds and I do all
the time.  It's way chill, stroking with your boys to a bunch of really hot
muscle-porn."

Billy sort of choke-laughs; he looks almost ill.

"I'm -- I -- ."

Tom can see the boy's discomfort, so he doesn't press it.  He's suddenly
ashamed of himself, of flaunting his ravenous, unchecked desire.

"Well, whatever.  But first you should call your folks.  Soon as you're
done in here, and we get you settled.  Let 'em know you're OK.  Tell 'em
where you are."

"Sounds good.  Yeah, and a movie, or that -- whatever; cool!"

Tom's thickened dick pings again with a rush of excitement at Billy's
nervous gulp of curiosity.  The borders of the evening have just been
noticeably expanded into Tom's territory.

He's reluctant to leave this sexy scene -- this shy, coltish, handsome
young boy, whose hardness now is fully erect; thick, proud, ripe, glorious;
a perfect young teen jock right on the threshold of manhood.

Tom knows he either has to leave immediately or take the boy on the floor
right now.

"Figured, too, you might be hungry.  Might have missed dinner?"

Billy laughs with a kind of relief.  Tom notices how the boy's eyes have
fixed again on his firm, hard, nicely carved muscle-ass and bulging,
thickening, jock-covered cock.  But after a few seconds he looks up to meet
Tom's gaze with an almost eager excitement.

"Fuck yeah, food!  Dude, you got that right!  Missing dinner, and then all
that shoveling?  Can't tell you how fucking hungry I am right now! Fuck, I
could eat this washcloth!"

Tom is encouraged that Billy is bold enough to stand there like that, his
cock fully hard, chatting, holding his own with a powerfully-built, sexy
gay muscle-stud, instead of nervously scampering into the tub to hide his
wood, as Tom bet most dudes his age would do.

Suddenly, Tom wishes he were nude, too.  Fuck!  But who could tell the boy
would come so far so fast?

He decides he really must end this round of cruising immediately and go
down to make some cocoa and something for the boy to munch on, and plot the
next move in his campaign for this bewitchingly beautiful prize.

Just before he turns for the door, he gives the boy, who's pivoted his
lusciously lean body in order to enter the tub, a playful,
locker-room-friendly bro-slap on that firm, inviting ass, wishing he could
keep his hand there to fondle, caress, and tease.

"OK, stud.  Hop in the tub.  I'll be back in about twenty or so.  Enjoy
your bath!"

Tom hadn't filled the tub too full, because he'd wanted to see the boy get
in and lay back in the shallow water, exposing as much of that smooth,
beautifully-defined young body as possible, accented perfectly by the bath
suds.

The picture turns out as lovely as Tom had hoped: blush-ivory muscle,
lovingly carved; sweet, thick dick still hard and straining; sexy, stringy
blonde hair framing the face of a bad-boy angel in the exciting first flush
of young manhood.

Billy, lying back in the tub like that, looks to Tom like a scene from some
dream-porn.

He watches a bit while Billy, unselfconsciously, starts to let water from
the washcloth drip over his musculature.  Tom feels a jolt deep in his
groin when Billy lets a stream play over his still-hard cock and full,
jostling ballsac.

Before he finally turns to leave, Tom drinks in enough of the image to last
him, he hopes, for the twenty or so minutes until he can see his young
Ganymede again.

End Part 1

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