Date: Sun, 12 Oct 2003 13:37:20 EDT
From: Tommyhawk1@aol.com
Subject: Thirty-Love

				THIRTY-LOVE
			   By Tommyhawk1@AOL.COM
		      WWW.TOMMYHAWKSFANTASYWORLD.COM

"Yoohoo, Cecilia!" came the familiar voice.

"Oh, God!" Cecilia muttered to me. "Here comes the Flying Dutchman."

I suppressed a snicker for Annie was practically at our table. Annie, short
for Anneke, had been born into an Amish family in Pennsylvania. Unlike
practically all of her brothers and sisters, the day she had turned
eighteen, she had left home and cast off her plain garb, and set herself to
find a life in modern America. She did, and married a much older man who
had passed away some five years ago (No, I don't think Annie had any hand
in that). Now she was well-to-do and still a very fine-looking woman and as
Cecilia's nickname told you, Annie's main hobby these days was men.

Cecilia had a similar story, only she was born wealthy and married
wealthy. Her husband had left her for another woman some eight years ago,
and she was now living off the alimony which a generous judge had given to
her. To call Cecilia more discriminating than Annie was a bit too much, for
Cecilia had a rakish streak in her as well. Cecilia's lover quotient had a
bit less volume than Annie's, but a little more variety.

Annie sat down at our table and said, "How have you been, Cece?"

"Just fine, Annie, and you?"

"Fine, fine. I've been enjoying myself today."

I recognized that tone, as did Cecilia. Anneke had spotted her latest
intended conquest.

Remember that both women were rich, beautiful, without any marketable job
skills or talents upon which to spend their time, so they were bored and
idle. What else were they going to do with their lives but, among other
things, find handsome men to fool around with?

"So who is he?" Cecilia saved time by asking.

"Have you noticed the new tennis pro?" Annie asked us.

"No."

"Not really." I said.

"I've been watching him play. He has a very nice style; I'm thinking of
playing a round with him."

"But Annie," I pointed out. "You don't play tennis."

"Who said anything about tennis?" she asked me with impish eyes.

"Oh, Annie, you're awful." Cecilia said.

"I just know what I want."

"Yeah, anything in pants. So let's go see him." Cecilia said to me.

"Why not?" I shrugged, stood up. Why not, indeed? I had nothing better to
do right then. And like Cecilia, I was curious about the new stud at the
club.

Pros are a part of the package of a good country club. They give lessons
both basic and advanced, are available to play games if you're in need of a
partner or a challenge, and generally add to the ambiance of the club just
by being there, some beautiful bodies to adorn the beautiful landscape.

We went out to the tennis courts and Annie guided us to where he was
playing. This club sponsored several tennis matches, so we had benches to
sit on and watch the game.

I saw him, and my heart went into my throat. I'd expected a good-looking
man, but this one...handsome wasn't a strong enough word for him. He was
beautiful!

Dark brown skin and black hair, there was something about him that was too
exotic for the mere words Latino, Arabian, Indian. He seemed a breed apart
from such mundane branches of mankind, as if he were instead some melding
of races, taking the best attributes from each, and then putting over this
the sheen of something that tasted of the divine!

He ran back and forth on the tennis green, fielding and parrying shots with
an ease that was something akin to poetry in human form. There were two men
playing against him on the court at that moment, and he covered the entire
field just the same, loping with a balanced, practiced lightness that
belonged more upon the stage of a ballet house, jumping and turning with an
almost careless, effortless harmony of muscle and mind. He curved, he bent,
he swam through the air, each time his racket extended or curved so as to
catch the yellow ball in the very center of its string and the arm lazily
pressed outward to send the ball hurtling back at his hapless opponents
with that clean-sounding "thok" a tennis ball makes.

Okay, I think I fell madly in lust with the guy at first look. But you can
hardly blame me for the rising of desire from within.

The two men playing against him were losing badly, I could see. I had to
admire that, as well, how he sent these lawn-chair athletes spinning
helplessly, shaming them for their hubris in daring to defy his serene
majesty on this, his sovereign soil.

There was a whirring sound nearby and I started to slap away the annoying
insect when I realized that it wasn't an insect at all. I turned and said,
"What was that?"

Annie laughed and Cecilia smiled indulgently. Both knew I was gay, though
that wasn't something I had announced to the general membership. Annie and
Cecilia and I had that much in common...we were all three available and
looking for men!

"We were asking you to choose a prize, Charles." Annie said. "Cecilia and I
have just made a bet as to which of us will score with the new pro first."

"Oh." I understood their request. Easy enough for one of them to lie and
said they had bedded this new pro; so proof of some sort was
needed. Something he had that they could get from him as a piece of
memorabilia, that they could show to us. It had to be something he wouldn't
just give away, but something he would give a woman he ended up in bed
with, at least loan her for a short time. Not a precious keepsake, and not
a toss-away item.

"Uh...." I looked at the pro again. Shining spots told me he wore a watch
and a ring, but those would be too much. "How about that red and purple
wristband he's got on?" It seemed distinctive enough, but he probably would
give it to a woman he ended up in bed with if she asked for it. And I
hadn't seen anything like it at the club.

"Fair enough." Annie and Cecilia nodded to each other. There was a club
reception that very night. I could expect them to make plays for him then,
probably one or the other would get him before the night was even over.

The pro noticed me watching him and smiled my way, and I smiled back. That
was a mistake, being seen watching him, for now he was constantly sending
glances my way. I got uncomfortable at it after a moment and said, "Pardon
me, I'm going to go get in a half hour of exercise at the gym."

"Have fun, dear." Annie said to me.

"Enjoy yourself." Cecilia said. "Coming tonight?"

"With me the judge of your contest?" I smiled. "I wouldn't miss it."

I looked again at the pro, him resting between sets and he grinned at me
again and I grinned back, waved and left. Pros tended to be extroverted,
overly friendly people; they'd better be if they were going to make any
money at their sport. So I didn't think too much of it.

I went to the gym and changed in the locker room into workout clothes and
then hit the weights. It gets tougher as I get older to keep my body in
peak condition. Not that I was over the hill yet, but I was also noticing
that slight difference, the faintest lack of resilience in my muscles that
said clearly that things would only get worse. Well, not yet! Not yet!

The pro came in after a time and chatted with the gym director. He smiled
at me again and I smiled back, but I was getting tired of that. He
obviously had me pegged as a potential client of his and I wasn't
interested in tennis lessons!

I went back to the locker room and hit the showers. Came out with only a
towel around my waist and went to my locker to get my clothes back again.

The pro was in there, just sitting and waiting. "Hello." he said to me. "I
saw you at the court." And he stuck out a brown, warm hand.

I took it, though it tore my heart to do so and he pumped it
vigorously. "Pleased to meet you." I said.

"You are another tennis pro, yes?" He asked. His accent was odd, impossible
to place, it was fluid and intimate, but quite easy to understand him.

"Me? No, no!" I said.

"But you teach here at the club?"

"No, no!" I said. "I'm a member."

"Oh." he said, chastened. "I ask you to forgive. It was rash of me."

"That's all right." I said. "Simple mistake."

"I know nobody at this club." he said. "Maybe you could show me to the
people and tell me who they are, so I don't mistake this again?"

"Certainly." I said, warming to him again. He was so willing to please,
less an aggressive salesman than an eager, puppy-like personality, I now
saw.

"My name is Charles Mansoure." I introduced myself.

"I call you Charley?" He said.

"Huh?"

"I call you Charley?"

"Uh, no, please, just Charles."

"I offend again." he said. "Please to forgive."

"That's all right." I said again. "What's your name?"

"I am Bijan DeLong Pre." he said. He told me the story of his name to my
puzzled expression, an Arabian mother and a French father, he had been
raised in the South of France (which explained that extraordinarily unique
accent of his) and had come to the United States in hopes of establishing a
career as a professional tennis player.

By the time we got all that clear and I had told him something of myself,
we were old friends. We talked while he showered, me sitting like a coward
just out of sight of that beautiful wet, brown body of his, and then he
dressed while I did the same and together we went to have a drink and let
me point out the members of the staff and members of the club, so he
wouldn't make that mistake again. Someone besides me might have been
offended.

Annie and Cecilia zeroed in on us when we walked in, and so it ended up a
foursome of sorts, the girls batting their eyes and making all sorts of
daring and darting double entendres at him. But he had the excuse of
language to let him avoid that, he ended the encounter quite innocent of
their intentions. I enjoyed watching those two getting shot down by his
lack of comprehension; it's hard to be coquettish when you have to explain
everything, they ended up sounding crass and quite had the wind taken out
of their sails. I made my own excuses and left the club to put in an
afternoon of work and Bijan went to try to drum up some more people to take
classes under him. And as I expected, both women left the party that
evening disappointed. Well, disappointed as far as Bijan was concerned,
both didn't leave alone!

I wasn't surprised on my next visit two days later to find that both Annie
and Cecilia had signed up for classes with Bijan. He was doing well, some
pros sit around more than they teach, but Bijan was kept quite busy with
his clients. However, he always seemed glad to see me and managed to find
some time each visit to talk with me and we became, if not quite friends
given our different stations in life, at least convivial companions. And
that wrist band of his stayed firmly on his wrist, Annie and Cecilia had
yet to land this dark young stud. As you might expect when word of their
competition got around, other women began to vie for the prize to greater
or lesser extents. I kept an eye out for that wristband...but it remained
on Bijan.

This is how things went for nearly a month, and then one day, Bijan saw me
when he was giving a lesson to Annie (that slut was still pretending not to
know how to handle a racket, how long did she think that was going to last,
with him behind her and holding it and showing her how?) and he said,
"Charles, hello!"

"Hello, Bijan!" I said, waving back. I was dressed for tennis myself that
day, going to play a game with a business associate. I played all right,
not so badly as to embarrass myself, but I had no dreams of being a
professional tennis player either. Unlike Bijan who was destined for
greatness as soon as someone would notice him. Besides me.

And to Annie, he said, "I must stop our lesson now, if you please."

"But we have another half hour." she protested.

"I know. I give you another hour next time for free." he said. "But I must
stop now, please to forgive."

So he got away from her and came to me and said, "Charles, my friend, I
would like to speak to you alone, please."

"Uh, certainly Bijan." I said. "Where do you want to go, to the bar?"

"No, no, please, all alone." he said.

"Uh, okay, but where?" You don't go to a country club to be alone!

"I get key to VIP lockers." he said. The VIP locker room was a smaller
version of the main locker room, kept for special events. If Tiger Woods
had dropped by to play golf at the club's course, he would have been given
one of the four alcoves in the VIP locker room for his own use. Each alcove
had three lockers, a private bathroom with shower, and room for about six
people to stand around and feel important, so close to the star. I had only
been inside it a handful of times, each time as an interloper. But Bijan
was persuasive on top of his simple charms, if he asked for something, it
was hard to say no to him.

So I foisted my associate friend off on Annie for a game, we got the key
from the gym director and went inside the VIP locker room, and I sat down
in one of the alcoves.

Bijan stood next to me, pointed to the wrist band. "Have I told you of this
wrist band?" he said to me.

"No." I admitted. "It is a fancy one." And it was, intricate designs had
been stitched into it. Someone had spent more than time and money on it,
they had invested love as well.

"It was made for me by my mother, when she learned of my dream to play
tennis all the time." he said. "She gave it to me and she said, 'My son,
this is my love, for you to wear. Never part with it.'"

"I see." I said.

"It is not a valuable thing, except for it has, what you say, sentimental
value. And yet it seems to be important to the women of this club. Many
women have asked me to give it to them, just for a while. Others, they
make, how you say, they make eyes at me and they come up and it is this
band they touch."

"Ah." I said, understanding. When Annie and Cecilia hadn't scored with
Bijan immediately, word of their little contest had leaked out, and it had
become a more general challenge. The first woman at the club to seduce
Bijan would want that wrist band to prove her triumph. Even Bijan in his
naivete would have to spot something going on, I was just surprised it had
taken him a month to notice!

"Why is it these women want such a small thing from me?" He asked. "I
understand their eyes, I don't understand why they want my mother's band."

"Well, Bijan," I said. "It's like this...." And I explained to him the
gamble Annie and Cecilia had started back when he first came to the club,
and how it had escalated.

"I understand now." he said. "I thank you."

"I'm sorry for my part in it." I said. "They asked me to pick something you
had, to serve as proof. And that band of yours is unusual; it caught my
eye."

"So I have become a prize in their contest." He said, his eyes and face
opaque, unemotional.

"I wouldn't go that far." I hastily said. "You're a good-looking guy and
the women here are naturally going to be interested in you. It's not like
they win anything by getting you into their bed, other than being with you,
that is."

"So how am I to stop this madness?" He asked me.

I shrugged. "They'll get bored with it eventually, Or you'll just have to
go to bed with one of them." I said. "That isn't such a horrible thing, is
it? Just take your pick among them, they're all willing. After you go to
bed with them, you loan them the band long enough for them to show it about
to their friends, and then you can get it back from the woman. It is a
family keepsake after all."

"So I must choose someone here and make love to them in order to end this
game?"

"I'm afraid so." I smiled. "I don't think just loaning a woman the band
would be enough to stop the contest. You'll have to go all the way and
sleep with her, too."

He took off the band and looked at it. "This band means to me love." he
said.

"I know, and I'm sorry."

With a sudden move, he took my right hand and placed the band about my own
wrist. I looked down at it stupidly. "Bijan?" I said to him.

"You said I should choose." he said. "I choose you."

I looked up at him, startled. At this face, one I had grown to see as more
than a pretty face.

A very pretty face.

"Bijan?" I said again.

"I choose you." He said again. "If you want me."

If I wanted him! I smiled. "Since the first time I saw you." I said.

My arms were trembling when I held them up to Bijan. God, this was nothing
on the feeling of raw attraction I'd felt the first time I'd met him. Bijan
was now a person, someone I knew about and even cared about. This gift of
his to me...it wasn't just a case of him getting rid of an annoying
contest. It was...taking us to the next level.

When his sweet body stepped into the curve of my arms and I felt that
warmth against me, I damned near fainted, it felt so good. Just to hold him
like this was better than some of the sex I'd had. Feelings matter, no
matter what they say about how a man can fuck anything. You can, but it's
the difference between the lightning bug...and the lightning.

Struck by lightning, I shuddered and looked down at him and he looked up at
me and he cupped his face into my own and so our lips reached to meet each
other. My arms closed tighter about him and I felt his own hands like
insignia on my back, a five-pointed design blazoned onto my body in an
indelible, unremovable mark.

Then there was the contact of our lips, like a soft, moist, velvet ring
pressed against my mouth, joining us together and Bijan sighed and his
breath blew into my mouth and filled my nostrils, the scent of him, the
life breath of him, and I drew it into my lungs gratefully, feeling and
savoring that influx of new life into me.

Bijan sighed softly and his hands moved in a long, pressing caress against
my back, one reaching higher to arc between my shoulder blades, one
lowering to find the small of my back and draw me tighter to him.

And we did, we pressed together tighter still and now I felt his manhood
like an eager branding iron against my leg, my own erection pressing into
his lower abdomen and my hand reached down and cupped that taut little
swelling of his right buttock and clenched there, pulled him to me tighter
still and now his rod was a searing presence on my thigh, declaring its
presence, demanding its due, proclaiming its right.

Bijan sighed again and moved against me and his cock slid beneath the cloth
of his fly against my leg, bare beneath my brief shorts, and moaned as I
felt the power of that life and the warmth of that body, mine now, all
mine!

My uppermost hand reached and found his head, cupped the crown in its palm,
and my fingers laced into his hair, sweet, black and supple with the
lightest application of oil.

He released my lips and looked up into my eyes, his own eyes bestowing
trust and appreciation upon me, the eyelashes lowered to declare the
lowered defenses of the spirit, the necessary foregoing of the personal
space usually so requisite for mental hygiene, and now that was gone, set
aside, leaving...trust.

"Bijan." I said to him, my voice low and husky. "Bijan." I said again like
a prayerful mantra that bestows tranquility and contentment.

Bijan was more practical. "Your shirt." He said to me and his hands reached
to snake under the bottom of it. "Take off your shirt."

I was glad to, though it meant breaking away from that heated embrace,
standing alone and apart from him while I lifted the
nylon/dacron/polyester/whatever the hell it was shirt from my body and
pulled it over my head. As I did, Bijan's hands reached to enclose both my
breasts, not squeezing, but running his hands over them, as if that had
been something he had dreamed of doing for so long and now he was doing it,
finally doing it. He gasped again, such small sounds departing this
beautiful young man as he fondled my chest, feeling out the muscles so
painfully attained and maintained, and now I was very glad I had for his
hands worshiped the muscles there, praising with their lingering savor
every micrometer of added flesh he found there.

His hands prevented me from doing the same to him, blocking my path, but
they couldn't stop me from reaching below them to the waistband of his
shorts and I caught the fastener at the waist and a single push together
and it unclasped and opened. His zipper below posed little problem after
that, the hard plastic teeth parted easily as the zipper went down and
there was below this the jockstrap, loose white cotton holding his proud
manhood in check.

I ran my hands around the waistband and the shorts fell down his supple
thighs and then I grasped that basket of his maleness and I felt how potent
and vigorous and swiftly rising it was, my fingers stroking the turgid
length as it jutted out the soft cloth.

Erect, my hand was able now to reach into the elastic band now stretched
away from the waist at the point of this powerful tool and I reached into
that triangle of open space and I found inside it the heated beast of his
prick and I wrapped it with my fingers and I relished its strength as I ran
my fingers over it like eager litter-bearers carry their potentate upon
their backs, cheerful in their servitude for theirs is glory and this was
glory that I held in my hand!

Bijan moaned as I worked his prick and he bore this touch of mine for a
moment and then he said, "Take it down, take down my strap and take myself
into your hand totally."

I needed no further urging, I knelt and gladly worked that tangle of straps
of elastic from over his buttocks and out from around his waist, and the
triangle of cotton at his crotch came away from his body and now it was
simply an oval of white cloth that had to be lowered and it was done
easily, baring his brownness and exposing him for my delight.

For it was a delight, to regard the proudly circumcised prod staring at me
regally, jutting out from his body straight and clean and filled with
potentcy and ready for my ministrations.

I wet my lips and my mouth filled with saliva as I moved in closer. It was
so easy to open my mouth and let this tidy bulb of cockhead touch my tongue
and once I'd done that, it was only a matter of closing my mouth and
feeling the rest of it sliding in deeper as I moved.

And Bijan moaned and shifted about, leaned back against the central bench
to let me nurse at him as I would. I was in a state of complete bliss, the
flavor of his cock all rich and savory upon my tongue, my mouth warmed by
the heat of his cock as it slipped back and forth and the feel of the
satiny foreskin danced upon my senses in a ballet of ecstasy.

Bijan groaned and I felt him shift almost impatiently and I looked up.

"Lie down here." he said as he got up from the bench. "Lie down here."

I did and he straddled the bench over my face and I got his cock back into
my mouth and this time he drove it deeply into my throat and he was in
control. And to compensate for this lack of control, he leaned on over and
his hands opened my shorts and pulled back my jock and freed my own cock
and the next sensation after the exultation of having my cock in his hand
and free to the air was the even greater excitement of having his mouth
close about it.

He loved my dong the way he played tennis, with all his strength and all
his attention. As for me, I had his cock in my mouth, deep in my mouth and
all I had to do was keep the pressure on its sides, hold it tightly as it
plunged in and out of me. His prick was so hot, so hot, and I had nurtured
its joy so attentively before, that after a short time of this, while I was
still myself in the very first stages of building pleasure, Bijan groaned,
shook almost violently on top of me, and then he hunched at my face, hard
and then he was shooting his load into my mouth. Hot, salty, creamy, thick,
it coursed into my body, splashing down my throat and all I had to do was
swallow and it slid down my gullet easily. I drank him down happily, loving
the hot taste of Bijan's come and he finished, panting, his mouth still
about my dick but not clenching it or moving much as he fought for his
breath.

Then he returned to slathering my cock with his spit, fast and furious he
slurped and bathed my shaft with his saliva, all hot and wet and kind of
bubblingly effervescent.

Then he stopped, rose up and said, "Hold still."

With this order from so sweet a source, I could not have moved, and Bijan
stepped off from my head and then he got midway of the bench and threw a
tall, brown leg over me and he was sitting on my stomach.

His hand guided my cock to his ass with an expertise I hadn't imagined of
him. But he was not so experienced as all that, for his anus resisted my
pud, refused to open. He gave a grunt of impatience and he thrust himself
upon me almost roughly and my prick was perforce rammed into him, his
asshole gave way under such a force, and thus Bijan was impaled upon me.

He threw his head back, opened his mouth and groaned with renewed bliss at
this. As for me, I was lost in the sensation; I hadn't expected this from
him, not even when he straddled me I expected some sort of rubbing alone,
and now my cock was imbedded in that tender young ass, and he was crooning
with his delight at the feeling atop me.

I looked at this, my mind wrapped itself around the thought somehow, and I
got so hard it hurt, almost. With this added rigidity, Bijan was able to
finish cramming my dong up his butt, and he did with a single-mindedness
that bordered upon fanatical. When he was done, when my full length was
deeply sunk into him, Bijan leaned over and put his face to mine and said,
"Now I am as I have wished to be since first I saw you on the court."

It hadn't occurred to me that the attraction of first-sight had acted both
ways. I guess I was too familiar with my own body to see it as others
would, the hard work I put into keeping it fit, the attention I paid to my
morning shaves and (ah, vanity!) the oil I rubbed into my skin to keep it
youthful and supple. I had intended to stay as attractive as I could as
long as I could; it hadn't sunk in to me that I had succeeded, that I could
be desired as well as desire!

With the potency such realization gave me I began to thrust upwards into
Bijan and he sighed, closed his eyes and opened his lips, the image of
sheer bliss above me. It was an awkward position, the bench was narrow
enough to be almost precarious, but Bijan steadied me when he realized my
problem, and I continued to hunch up into him and he moaned in gratitude as
I did, and my orgasm was soon upon me and when Bijan saw me shuddered in
the first throes of my climax, he began to bounce upon my prick, driving it
deeper and faster into his body and I clenched my hands upon his arms and I
held on to him like this, three points of contact, my hands and my cock,
and the tripod is a steady form and I maintained my attitude and I reached
my orgasm.

I shot up into him a load that was nearly painful, so strongly it jetted
from my body, spurting up into his bowels, and Bijan grinned into my
climax-wracked face as I ejaculated into him, a grin of understanding, a
beam of acceptance, a smile that relished the joy he had given me and took
it for his own pleasure in the way that only lovers can, joy shared and
resonating within the body of the other.

When I was done, Bijan fetched a towel and gently dried me off as I still
lay there on the bench. It was a moment of commitment and I took it as
such, and drew him to me when he was done and took a kiss that was more
than a kiss, that was a promise.

We talked a moment then, but I must admit that I was so caught up in the
marriage of that moment that I don't recall what we said. It was a
beginning, and it was a wondering and it was an acknowledgment of our
changed condition. Then I rose and we both pulled our clothes back on and
straightened up the VIP locker room as best we could, and went back out to
get a much-needed drink to rehydrate our lust-drained bodies.

Annie and Cecilia were sitting in the bar having a drink and I wondered
where the business associate I had brought was. Turned out he was having
another game with a club member but I didn't know that then. But Annie was
there, and so was Cecilia and I walked with Bijan over to their table.

I kept my right arm below the table until the drinks arrived. Then, I said,
"I'd like to propose a toast."

And I raised my hand with the glass and they could see the wristband upon
my wrist.

"To the end of the contest." I said. "And the score is two to nothing. Or
as they say in tennis, 'Thirty-love.'"

				  THE END

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