Date: Mon, 04 Aug 2003 18:01:09 +0000
From: Brewster Hardy <brewsterhardy@hotmail.com>
Subject: Ballard Boys Part 3
Ballard Boys Part 3
By Brewster Hardy
The author claims all copyrights to this story and no duplication
or publication of this story is allowed, except by the web sites to
which it has been posted, without the consent of the author.
This story is purely a work of fiction and any resemblance to
person's living or dead, or to events that may have occurred, is purely
coincidental. Moreover, none of the actions of the characters in this
story is meant to condone, approve, or sanction their behavior.
*Chapter 11*
At precisely 7:00 PM, knocking on the plate glass front door of
Roberts' Cameras, the young man was a study in conflict.
There was a healthy component of, "I'm Bob Ballard, track and
field star, swimming champion, class valedictorian; of course you want
to take my picture."
Balancing that was a large chunk of, "Hey, I'm just a small-town
teenager who's trying to act like a knowledgeable, mature man, but I'm
really a little overwhelmed and confused."
On top of that, there was a smattering of, "I think I just sort of
had sex with my kid brother. What the fuck does that say about me?"
Paul led him to the small studio tucked away behind the main
store. He instructed Bob to sit on a stool positioned in front of a
white, paper backdrop, while he fine-tuned the lighting: backlight to
accentuate the disheveled, blond hair, sidelights to emphasize the high
cheekbones, a soft, white reflector in front, to enhance the luminosity
of the boy's golden skin.
The Temptations latest LP was playing on the stereo.
"Just My Imagination".
It was one of Bob's favorites; as the infectious groove filled the
room, his body began to rock just a bit. Paul made a mental note to
keep the music going throughout the session. The kid was clearly
uneasy, and tunes seemed to be helping him relax.
"OK, Bob, I'm just going to do a few test shots to start."
"Sure."
Click, click...Paul snapped a couple Polaroids. Not bad, he thought,
studying the results. The boy was brilliantly photogenic. He was still
visibly edgy, however, and it was reading on film.
"Would you like a glass of wine?"
Bob had never had more than a couple of sips of any sort of
alcoholic beverage but, not wanting to appear unsophisticated, said,
"Sure."
Paul always kept a supply on hand for moments like this. He had
long ago learned that a drink or two was the simplest and quickest way
to ease a case nervous tension.
He set up a little table near Bob's stool, just out of camera
range, and placed a large, full tumbler of white wine on top.
"Help yourself."
Bob took a large swig, and then another. Why was he feeling so
uncomfortable?
Click.
Click.
Click.
Fifteen minutes later, Bob was definitely calming down, as Paul
refilled the glass.
Click.
Click.
"That's great, Bob -- now turn your face to the left a little --
yes, perfect..."
Click...
Once he was over the initial uneasiness, the boy was a natural.
Those eyes, the lips -- without even trying, they read unadulterated
sensuality.
Click...
"Beautiful. Lean in towards me with your right shoulder, please --
good, good, great..."
Click.
Click.
Click.
Paul paused to refill the wine glass once more. The kid was
drinking it like water -- better be careful with that.
He turned the music up a notch and, handing the glass back to Bob,
said, "You appear to be in brilliant shape. How would you feel about
taking your shirt off for a few shots?"
"Sure." Bob had never been shy about his upper body. In fact, he
had worked hard to perfect it, and part of him enjoyed showing it off.
He took a gulp of wine and then peeled off the white, cotton top.
Handing the shirt to Paul, he took another sip of wine.
The photographer froze abruptly at the sight of the smooth,
wondrously sculpted torso and the large, dark nipples.
Focus, Paul, he chastised himself...
Click.
Click.
Half an hour later, with Bob well into a second bottle of wine,
Paul finally poured a glass for himself. He felt he had shot the superb
head and chest from every conceivable angle. Taking a moment to
reassess his model, he said, "Bob, stand up for me, please. Good."
Paul removed the stool.
"Now, turn away from me and face the backdrop. Yes. Good."
Something interesting was happening here.
"Bob, would you feel comfortable undoing the top button of your
jeans, and rolling the top down just a hair?"
The boy did as requested, but the image wasn't quite right yet.
"I'm sorry, Bob. I'm seeing the top of your under-shorts now,
which doesn't really work. Tell you what -- would you mind terribly
losing the jockeys? You can change behind that screen, if you like..."
As Bob moved behind the screen, he was vaguely aware that he was
becoming somewhat tipsy. Balancing himself carefully, he removed his
jeans and then the offending white jockeys, which he carelessly tossed
in a corner. He pulled the denims back on and, feeling a bit sheepish,
arranged his cock and balls so that they rested along his left thigh.
He looked down and observed his sexual equipment hanging, heavily and
obviously, against his leg. He virtually never went without underwear.
It felt much too exposed. Oh well, this was what Mr. Roberts wanted.
Besides, he was only shooting from the back. Whatever...
Giving his thick shaft a parting squeeze, he zipped up and came
out from behind the screen.
"Thank you, Bob. Now, if you return to where you were -- standing
right there - good -- face the wall, please, yes, that's right, turn
away from me -- now, let's undo that top button again - good -- now
roll the top of the jeans down -- just a hair -- perfect..."
Click.
Click.
Click.
Bob felt something happening deep inside. Perhaps it was the
combination of the wine, the deeply grooving music, the compliments,
the feel of the hot lights against his bare skin -- whatever; his body
had never felt this relaxed and warm.
When Paul asked him to pull the jeans down a little more, in fact,
he enjoyed the actions of unzipping another inch, and rolling back the
waistband.
Click.
Click.
Click.
More?
No problem.
He had another gulp of wine, slid the fly open another inch or so
and, as he exposed more of his flesh to the camera, he instinctively
and simultaneously arched his flawlessly formed butt toward the lens.
"Gorgeous -- just gorgeous -- keep your body exactly like that,
but turn your head towards me and try to look directly into the lens -
yes - yes -- yes..."
Click.
Click.
More wine.
This time, Bob didn't wait for Paul's request; his fingers
returned to the zipper, pulled down, and then the fly was completely
open.
His body swayed to the burning thump of the music, as the camera
continued to click.
Neither man spoke a word, as Bob slid the waistband down another
inch.
His renegade cock began to harden.
Somewhere, down deep, he felt the power of inevitability.
Paul held his breath as the young model revealed more and more of
the dazzling buttocks. The creamy tone of the illicit flesh was a
wonderfully erotic contrast to the warm tan of the upper body.
Just shut up and keep shooting, he thought.
Click.
Click.
Turn up the music.
More wine.
Still facing away from the furiously clicking camera, Bob didn't
have to look down to know that his pubic hair and an inch or so of the
base of his rapidly thickening organ were now uncovered.
Teasing the lens with the rippling strength of his back and the
undulating flawlessness of his almost fully exposed butt, he threw his
head back and reveled in the sweet torture of rough denim rubbing
against the increasingly sensitive cock head. He was barely able to
keep from crying out, as the fabric bent his now fully erect organ
backward, trapping it in a painfully unnatural position.
The swaying movement of his hips only accentuated the agony, and
he delighted in the excruciating torture.
His left hand grazed the taut skin of his right pectoral muscle
and then, with thumb and forefinger, began to punish the erect nipple.
The middle finger of his right hand slid into his navel, massaging
it deeply, sending electric signals directly to the throbbing head of
his cock.
Slightly delirious, his entire being now a purely instinctual mass
of sexual energy, he slowly revolved to face the camera.
Click.
Click.
Paul wasn't really thinking at all at this point. It was one of
those rare and precious moments; he felt as if he had become one with
the camera.
He grunted involuntarily when he recognized the exposed root of
the boy's substantial cock, weaving rhythmically back and forth, back
and forth.
By long-ingrained reflex, he swiftly changed cameras and zoomed in
on this new revelation.
Click.
Click.
Click.
The light outlined the beginning of a thick, pulsing vein; Paul
fleetingly wondered if it ran the full length of the organ.
As his lens traced a path along the form of the denim-covered
staff, he restrained a gasp; the contact sheet images had not shown a
trick of the light.
The boy's cock was enormous, and it was lengthening further as the
seconds passed.
Click.
Click.
Bob felt the camera and the attention focusing on his now fully
engorged manhood. As if in a trance, he continued thrusting his hips in
time to the incessant beat of the music, the exquisite torment of
coarse fabric against achingly vulnerable flesh lifting him to
previously unknown degrees of sexual frenzy.
A dark spot grew on the faded denim, where pre-cum was now flowing
freely.
Click.
Click.
He raised his arms above his head, tightening the burning muscles
of his buttocks even more, thrusting them forward, allowing the blue
jeans to begin, ever so slowly, to slip further down his hips. The
abrasive texture of the fabric relentlessly tore at his swollen,
seething, over-stimulated cock-head, every fraction of an inch of
movement causing a deep, harsh intake of breath, revealing more and
more of the thick, steel-hard shaft.
His entire body now bucked and writhed, balls were tightening,
distended, tormented cock rubbing harder, leaking, getting closer,
closer, a primeval cry rising from his gut...
The record stopped.
The camera stopped.
The room was suddenly whirling.
Stunned, the boy clenched his jaw, shuddering, now hearing only
the sound of his own jagged panting, as he frantically willed himself
back from the very brink of a cataclysmic orgasm. Oh, god, no, stop,
stop, stop, stop, stop, stop -- a pitiful whimper escaped his lips as
he clumsily turned away from the camera, clutching the waistband of the
blue jeans -- no, no, no, stop -- slowly, surely, he inched back from
the edge, shoulders heaving.
Paul hurriedly put down the camera and ran to the bathroom for a
towel. Quickly returning, he threw it over Bob's broad, trembling back
and murmured, "Are you alright?"
Bob mumbled something as his trembling fingers fumbled with the
zipper, and then pulled the towel tight around his shoulders.
After a moment of intensely difficult silence, Paul said, "That's
probably enough for tonight."
Bob mumbled again.
"I'm sorry?" asked Paul.
"What time is it?" the kid repeated, marginally louder.
"Oh...let's see...it's almost ten-thirty..."
Fuck...he was supposed to have met Annette at ten o'clock. Fuck.
He stumbled a little as he turned.
"I gotta go..."
Deeply mortified, drunk and panicking, he grabbed his shirt from
the counter where Paul had carefully laid it earlier. Hastily throwing
it on, not bothering to do up the buttons, he headed for the door.
"See you Monday, Bob..."
"Uh-huh."
"I think we got some great stuff..."
The boy was already out of earshot.
************
As he went about straightening up the studio, turning off the
bright floodlights, putting away the cameras and the lenses, Paul
mentally reviewed the evenings' proceedings.
Not at all what he had imagined -- not at all. He had always
assumed Bob to be a bright, friendly, but essentially reserved and
conservative individual. The ragingly sexualized performance he had
observed tonight was a remarkable surprise.
He decided that he must process the film immediately.
Passing by the changing screen, heading to the darkroom, something
caught his eye, stopping him in his tracks. Puzzling at the bright,
white object lying in the shadows behind the screen, he moved in
closer.
Ah -- of course -- in his rush to get away, Bob had forgotten his
jockey shorts.
Paul picked them up with his left hand, almost tenderly, and held
them to the light.
So.
This garment encased the marvel he had partially witnessed
tonight.
He stopped breathing, just for a moment, as the fingers of his
right hand reached out and caressed the noticeably protruding fabric of
the crotch area.
Astounding.
With both hands, he brought the soft, white cotton to his nostrils
and inhaled.
Deeply.
*Chapter 12*
Annette was about to give up and go home, when she saw the beloved
silhouette weaving towards her.
Weaving?
She got up from the park bench and frowned, mystified.
"Bob?"
The effects of the alcohol had intensified during the short walk
to Jefferson Park. He struggled to remain upright. Through the boozy
haze, he saw her delicate features, distorted with worry.
I love you.
"I love you, 'Nette..."
Overpowered by the smell of alcohol, she barely noticed her
boyfriends' slurred speech.
"Bob! Are you drunk? What's going on?"
He fell into her arms, and almost knocked her off her feet. She
somehow managed to maneuver the two of them onto the bench.
"I love you, 'Nette..."
"Bob..." Now she heard the slurring, and was really becoming
concerned; this was not like him at all. "What's wrong? Where have you
been?"
He mumbled incoherently, and tried to kiss her, sloppily. The
smell was overwhelming, awful...
"Bobby..."
Now his hand was under her skirt, clumsily pulling aside her
panties.
"BOB! STOP IT!"
Mercifully, he froze, and she was able to push his hand away. "I'm
going home, Bob. I think you should too."
He looked at her pitifully.
"No, 'Nettie -- please don't leave me..."
It broke her heart, but every alerted instinct within her told her
to get away. They could talk later.
"I have to go," she said softly, willing away the tears. "Good
night."
Her chin quivered as she turned to leave.
When she had gone half a block, she stopped to look back.
Bob was attempting to get up from the bench.
Almost standing, he stumbled and fell to the ground.
Wanting to scream, she stood and watched, forcing herself not to
run back.
Leaning into the bench, he managed to pull himself to his feet
again.
Lurching and stumbling, he faded into the night.
*Chapter 13*
Wide-awake, Ian looked over at his alarm clock again.
11:30 PM.
He and his parents had all gone to bed early. Tomorrow was going
to be an early day.
Where was Bob? The darkroom stuff couldn't be taking this long.
Could it?
That's when he heard the first thud.
Then mumbling.
Another thud.
Heavy footsteps coming up the stairs.
Bob?
The bedroom door opened, and a distinct odor wafted in his
direction, as his brother tripped through.
Whoa - boozerama -- Ian thought, stunned.
He watched and then listened, as all six-foot three-inches of Bob
maneuvered through the room and collapsed onto the bed.
Then there was nothing.
Holy shit.
"Bob?"
He waited a moment, then got up and began to cross the room.
"Bob?"
Remembering that the candle had burnt out the night before, he
went back to his side of the room and found a fresh one.
The soft snoring became audible as he moved to Bob's bedside and
jammed the candle into the holder.
He struck a match, lit the wick, and turned around.
Wow. That was booze for sure. He wasn't sure whether he should be
disgusted or impressed. Either way, this was certainly a novel turn of
events.
Studying his brother while distractedly scratching his butt
through his jockeys, Ian pondered the situation.
Bob was drunk.
Bob was passed out and snoring.
Bob was fully dressed, reeking of alcohol, and laying in a really
weird and awkward position.
If either Mom or Dad found Bob like this, they would freak.
He heaved a sigh as he realized what he had to do.
Thanks a lot, Bob, he thought, as he bent down to untie and remove
the older boy's sneakers.
The socks were next. Not too stinky, he grimaced wryly. Oh, there
would be some mileage gotten out of this exercise, he promised himself.
Oddly, the shirt was already unbuttoned.
Good -- I guess...
He climbed on the bed and, slipping behind his brother, attempted
to raise the upper body enough so that he would be able to remove the
shirt.
Jesus H. Christ. It was, like, dead weight.
Pushing as hard as he could, he managed to move the torso up and
forward.
Phew.
Now he twisted an arm back in order to remove a sleeve, now the
other.
Ta-da -- look, Ma -- no shirt.
With great care, he lowered Bob's upper half until the boy's back
was once again resting on the mattress.
Breathless, he stopped to calculate his next move.
A moment later, placing his hands against Bob's inner thighs, he
spread the legs apart until he was able to slip in between them. Then,
bending over from the waist, he slid his hands under his brother's firm
buttocks and slowly, carefully, pulled the boy towards him until his
hips rested exactly on the edge of the mattress.
Bob, blissfully oblivious, continued to snore quietly.
OK, Bobby, we're almost there, he thought.
Unbuttoning the waistband, he felt an unfamiliar sensation in the
pit of his stomach, a catch in his throat.
He paused for a moment, and then he nervously slid the fingers of
his left hand between the denim and Bob's pelvis. There was no need to
be accidentally pinching the skin with the metal zipper.
Soft skin, hard muscle, the tickle of pubic hair against the backs
of his fingers...
Huh?
No underwear?
Wow.
Bob squirmed a bit in his sleep and, for a moment, the older boy's
muscular thighs held Ian in a tight squeeze. Then they relaxed again,
and Ian began warily tugging on the zipper. Inch by inch, it fell open.
He gripped the waistband and, with some effort, slithered the jeans
over the curvature of the butt as he slowly backed up, allowing the
thighs to move together again. He continued pulling, and revealed the
length of the penis, the powerfully built thighs, the knees, now the
calves, over the feet...
Done.
He stood up, folded the jeans, and placed them, with the shirt, on
the floor by Bob's bed. Finally, his work done, he stopped and just
looked at the fallen man-boy lying before him.
Powerful arms extended carelessly above the head of tangled blond
hair, fingers gently curling. The almost unbearably handsome face
pressed against the sturdy arc of a bicep. The compelling muscles of
the sun-bronzed trunk stretched long across the width of the bed,
rising and falling with the passing of breath. Superbly formed, slim
hips perilously balanced at the edge of the mattress. The long, sinewy
thighs had fallen open once more, knees spread, and Ian scrutinized
this unfamiliar version of his brother, exposed and vulnerable in the
soft glow of candlelight.
He had always idolized his older brother. Bob was bigger, bolder,
stronger, smarter and seemingly in control of any imaginable situation.
Ironically, these very same qualities gave rise to a certain degree of
resentment in Ian, from time to time.
Now it dawned on him that the present situation was, in fact, a
sort of odd and unusual opportunity.
Whatever small amount of resistance he had within swiftly
vanished.
He lowered himself to his haunches, on the floor between Bob's
legs. Heart pounding, he placed the palms of his hands against his
brother's inner thighs and, cautiously, spread them further apart.
Even in its flaccid state, it was imposing.
His hands still resting on the sturdy thighs, he stared,
captivated, examining every visible detail, and memorizing the flawless
shape of the head, the lines of the thick shaft, the way the span of it
curved over the scrotum.
Now wholly engrossed, he reached forward and touched the wide base
of it with the tip of his index finger.
He let the pad of the finger glide lightly over the warm skin.
Velvety.
His finger delicately caressed the head, and the sensitive
underside.
Silky.
Emboldened, noting the steady rise and fall of the flat stomach,
he slid his fingers underneath the shaft, cautiously lifting it,
feeling the surprising heaviness, observing the several inches of
manhood extending beyond the width of his palm.
Shifting his fingers slightly, he held the mass of cock between
his thumb and fingertips and shifted the skin several inches forward,
then back.
"Mmm..."
Ian froze at the sound of the guttural moan.
He waited.
Steady breathing.
Safe.
Now the fingertips of both hands were gently manipulating the
magnificent shaft, and his heart began to race as he felt the organ
thicken and harden. His fingertips traveled steadily back and forth
across the rapidly increasing length as he stared, spellbound.
Now the pelvis was beginning to thrust, ever so slowly, up and
down.
"Mmmm..."
This time, Ian ignored the moaning, sure that the other boy was
down for the count.
There it was.
The first glimmer of pre-cum.
He had to make some effort, now, to keep the expanding head
pointing in his direction. The erection was gaining force and straining
to face the other way. Deciding to compromise, he relaxed his grip
enough that the organ stood straight up.
"Like a flagpole," he thought.
Raising himself to his knees, he moved in until his face was
barely three inches away from the cock-head, the new position of his
own hips stretching the tendons of his brother's groin, pushing the
thighs still further apart.
Wanting to see more pre-cum, he thought for a moment, and then
gripped the cock-base firmly between thumb and fingertips, squeezing
and stroking all the way up to the head.
"Mmmmmmm..."
A-ha.
As he had hoped, more of the precious fluid was emerging.
Enthralled with the new toy, Ian wrapped his fist around the blood-
engorged head, exerting pressure slightly downward causing the slit to
gape open. He dipped the tip of his index finger into the opening, and
then brought the liquid treasure to his tongue.
Amazing.
"Mmnnnnggggg..."
As Ian watched, Bob's hips began to pump more insistently, the
shimmering fluid flowing more freely.
Once again, Ian wrapped both hands around the now-throbbing rod
and, while stroking it firmly, steadily, aimed the head to his face.
Extending his tongue, he now moved it directly into the slit, the
wellspring.
His tongue burrowed into the opening, probing, exploring, then
moved on, licking up the copious spillage coating the head, running
down the shaft.
"Nnnnggghhhmmmm...!"
Ian, by now, was oblivious to the older boy's growling and
moaning.
The utterly distended head slipped into his mouth, and he sucked,
impatiently, sloppily, his spit melding with the surging pre-cum, his
own whimpering now merging with his brother's strangled cries.
************
In Bob's dream, he was finally making love to Annette. He had had
the dream before, but it had never felt so real, so tangible. Ecstasy
and yearning thundered through his being, as he felt the impossibly
warm, silken wetness of her insides. This was it. This was the
untouchable wonder of passion.
Close, closer, now reeling on the very edge...
************
With the force and fervor of the driving cock cramming his flying
hands and his consuming mouth, Ian glanced at his brother's face just
in time to see Bob's eyes fluttering open.
"Mmmphhngrrrr...."
Still stroking, tasting, holding onto the ride with all his vigor
and concentration, Ian watched as ardor, confusion, shock and horror
swept over the beautiful, passion-distorted face, each in turn.
Too late.
"Aaaaaaaaaaauuuuuuurrrrrrrgggghhhh..."
The orgasm, so cruelly interrupted earlier that evening, was
shattering beyond measure.
As his brother's body contorted and convulsed, Ian clung on,
swallowing, swallowing, while the texture and salty-fresh taste of the
thick semen shooting from the bucking cock filled his mouth to
overflowing, and the cock-juice covered his chin and neck, running down
to his chest and over his nipples.
Still, he hung on.
Riding.
Pumping.
Go.
Go.
Go.
It was over.
Bob's body lay limp, the mighty chest heaving, the legs, still
harshly separated by Ian's body, involuntarily twitched once, twice,
three times.
The soft snoring informed Ian of the older boy's return to sleep.
Probably, he had never been awake at all. It must have been just
some sort of weird dreaming thing.
Ian reluctantly released the hot, still-hard cock from his grasp.
He reached down and gathered the bounty of excess semen from his chest
and abdomen, then brought his fingers to his mouth and licked and
sucked until he had swallowed it all. He wiped hot cum from his neck
and chin, and then hungrily devoured that as well. Finally, belly full
of his brother's abundant ejaculate, the taste and the viscous quality
coating his inner mouth and throat, Ian stood up.
He lifted his brother's legs, and then lovingly maneuvered the
older boy's physique into a proper resting position, on his back, head
on pillow.
As he stood over Bob, and looked down at the face with the closed
eyes and slightly open lips, he wondered if he detected a bit of a
smile.
Now, without thinking, Ian lowered his jockeys until they fell to
his feet, freeing his own rigid, jumping cock. He knew that the
slightest touch would set it off.
He stared at his brother's handsome face as he gripped his balls,
drawn up tight now, yearning for release, and feverishly pulled on his
own throbbing, neglected cock. He bit down on his lower lip to keep
from bellowing, and watched and aimed carefully, shooting his cum all
over Bob's chest, his abs, his still semi-hard penis, his cheek, his
brow, his open mouth. Again -- into the open mouth -- again -- the
mouth -- again...
Shuddering, he squeezed the last of it onto his waiting fingertips
and, bending over, tenderly spread it over Bob's upper lip, just under
the nose.
There, he smiled, now you're gonna smell me all night.
Leaning in further, he kissed the forehead.
"Goodnight, sweet prince."
To be continued...
Thank you for all the great feedback. Any encouragement is welcome!
You can write to me at brewsterhardy@hotmail.com
BH