Date: Wed, 06 Aug 2003 19:56:08 +0000
From: Brewster Hardy <brewsterhardy@hotmail.com>
Subject: Ballard Boys Part 4

Ballard Boys Part 4

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 14*


     "Good Lord, Bob! What's happened to your face?"

     "Nghhuh..." Bob Ballard had no idea what his mother was talking
about, and was certainly not going to stick around to discuss it as he
stumbled and staggered as quickly as he could through the morning-
bright kitchen, then the den, to the bathroom.

     Slamming the door behind him, he knelt on the floor and raised the
toilet seat all in one swift move, just as the first volley of vomit
shot into the porcelain bowl. As the retching continued, fragments of
memories from the previous evening began to form. Oh no, no, no, no,
no...

     The photo shoot -- something happened -- it was all sort of fuzzy
and vague -- he remembered dancing -- wait a minute -- the underwear --
he had taken off his jockeys -- oh my god -- Annette -- something bad
happened with Annette -- and something else -- what?

     He raised himself up from the floor and, leaning on the sink for
support, looked at himself in the mirror.

     What the fuck -- the skin on his face looked all kind of cracked
and shiny and peeling -- what? He ran his finger over his upper lip,
and dried flakes fell away. Huh? His licked his lower lip, and
instantly knew the taste. He began to shudder with utter confusion.
Nauseous again, he fell to the floor and reached for the toilet bowl.


************


     Twenty minutes later, Bob was back in bed, lying on his stomach,
pillow over his head, shivering and bewildered, when he heard the
bedroom door open.

     He didn't have to look to know it was his father.

     Jerry sighed, "Alcohol poisoning."

     A moment drifted by.

     "You know, Bob, I'm not going to nag you for details -- at least
not for the moment -- but I hope you realize that your mother and I are
not very happy right now."

     Bob lay very, very still, wishing he could magically disappear.

     Jerry's heart broke a little bit as he stood by the bed, looking
down at his almost-18-year-old, handsome, hung-over son. Of course, it
was all part of growing up; still, that didn't make it any easier.

     The room reeked of stale booze and -- what? -- sex? Well, the sex
smell wasn't surprising. At 37 years of age, Jerry was young enough
that he had very vivid memories of his own teen years. He and Trish had
been sexually active from early in their relationship, but that hadn't
stopped him from wanting to jerk-off at any given opportunity. He
suspected his two sons had inherited his overactive sex-drive, along
with the oversized equipment -- a potentially overpowering combination.

     Still, the smell was especially intense this morning. Moreover,
there was the matter of the boys' face; Jerry could have sworn he'd
seen what appeared to be dried semen all over it when Bob had first
surfaced today. That made no sense whatsoever.

     He sat on the edge of the bed, and pulled the sheets around the
boys' shoulders.

     "I'm going to assume that you would rather not join your brother
and me for the hike-and-swim."

     "I'm sorry, Dad."

     "Don't you worry, Bobby." We rarely call him that anymore, Jerry
thought. "Just try to get some rest."

     Jerry kissed the boy tenderly between the shoulder blades, and
left the room.


************


*Chapter 15*


     Ian couldn't help feeling a bit guilty, as he sat in the front
seat next to his father. Jerry was driving along the highway at a fair
clip, as if getting to Fraser Falls was a life-or-death proposition.
The boy could see his Dad was deeply preoccupied. Hardly a word had
passed between the two of them since pulling out of the driveway.

     Ian knew he had taken advantage of his drunk, unconscious, older
brother last night, and he knew it was probably a rotten thing to do.
Still, as he recalled the sights, smells, and tastes, he had to squirm
in the car seat to reposition his mounting erection. He knew that if
the opportunity ever presented itself again, he would find it very
difficult to resist.

     He had been deeply engrossed with his own penis since the onset of
puberty. More than ever, now that he was sixteen, he continuously
monitored the developing size and contour, and took great delight in
exploring the physical sensations derived from its manipulation.

     He assumed that his interest in the apparatus of other males,
including his brother, was simply an extension of the fascination with
his own.

     Right now, as always, the vibrating seat of the moving vehicle had
caused him to have a roaring hard-on.

     He wondered if that happened to every guy, surreptitiously
glancing at his Dad's impressive bulge.

     Hmmmm...


************


     No matter what configuration he managed to come up with, Jerry
couldn't resolve the information to any sort of satisfactory end.

     Fact: Bob had consumed a serious amount of alcohol last night.

     Fact: Bob's bedroom reeked of sex, even more than usual.

     Fact: Bob woke up this morning seemingly covered in dried semen.

     Fact: Bob was clearly distraught and confused.

     Was it possible -- no -- he couldn't allow himself to think that -
- no -- absolutely not -- then again, teenage hormones -- oh, who am I
trying to kid, he thought, I still can barely control my own damn dick...
especially in a damn moving vehicle. As he shifted his position to
allow for the expanding erection, Jerry's thoughts wandered back to a
time and place he rarely permitted himself to dwell on.

     Damn -- I wonder...


************


     "Hey, buddy..."

     Young Jerry Ballard turned his head at the sound of the deep
voice. Standing at the opposite corner of the deserted intersection was
a brawny and clearly tipsy sailor, hands on hips, cap askew.

     "You talkin' to me?"

     "Don't see anybody else around..."

     "Right -- what can I do for you?"

     As the sailor meandered across the street, Jerry began to feel a
bit wary. Was the guy going to try and pick a fight, or something
equally as stupid? He decided to stand his ground, but scanned the area
quickly anyway, checking for possible escape routes.

     "Sorry, pal," said the serviceman who, on closer inspection,
appeared to be, maybe, in his early twenties, "I don't mean to bother
you -- I just don't know this town too good -- I was hoping you could
help point me in the right direction..."

     "Sure. What are you looking for?"

     "Well," he said, with a wink, "Girls, if I may speak plainly."

     Young Jerry's handsome face broke into a beaming, movie-star grin
and, tension broken, he laughed, "Just fell off the ship, did you?. I
don't know the city all that well myself, but I think I may have a clue
or two. Come on, let's go."

     And with that, he led his new pal down the darkened street.

     "Say, what's your name?"

     "Bartholomew Nathaniel Caldwell, but you can call me Bart. Drink?"
Bart was brandishing a fresh bottle of rum.

     It was 10:30 PM, August 1, 1953 in the city of San Francisco. The
Korean War had officially ended only a few days earlier.

     Jerry and Trish, newly married, had moved to the west coast back
in May, at the behest of their parents -- his and hers. The older folks
had pointed out that, despite the young couple's new legally wed
status, the timing of Trish's advancing pregnancy was premature and
awkward. It would be best for all concerned if the pair simply
disappeared for a short time. There were simply too many prying eyes
and wagging tongues in their small New Hampshire hometown.

     Initially, the kids had quite enjoyed the change of environment,
and took delight in playing the roles of independent, bohemian
sophisticates. Still, starting a new life in a new town was undeniably
stressful. Having a new baby due at any moment did not help matters.

     Earlier that very evening, a small disagreement had escalated into
a full-tilt, screaming fight; Jerry could barely remember how it had
started. Regardless, he had stormed out of their little third-floor
walkup and had been wandering the streets aimlessly ever since, feeling
miserable and lonely. New wife, new town, new job, new baby -- it was
all too much. Even though he had only recently turned 19 years of age,
tonight the fine-looking youth felt like his life was over, as if he
were the oldest man in the world.

     Now, Jerry took another generous swig of Bart's amber rum. As he
hadn't really had the time or opportunity to make new friends yet, the
male companionship was welcome and reassuring.

     The two lads made an eye-catching picture, as they swaggered their
way through the San Francisco night, sharing the liquid comfort. Both
men were tall, well built, tan and good-looking, but Bart was all in
his navy whites, while Jerry was wearing his hip, downtown blacks.

     Their laughter grew louder as they rambled. Jerry wasn't exactly
sure of his bearings, but as the streets grew more crowded, he felt
certain they were bound to find some action for his new pal.

      Suddenly, he saw the answer to their prayers. Jerry gripped Bart
around the shoulders and pointed across the street. There, lounging in
a doorway, was a pair of San Francisco's legendary hookers. The boys
looked at each other and grinned.

     "Let's go," said Bart.

     Jerry, though not intending to join the party, made a quick,
alcohol-enhanced decision to help his new buddy expedite the
transaction.

     As Bart went right up to the girl with the piled-up, black hair,
Jerry stood back, ready to move on. Even in his boozy condition, he
realized it was time to go home.

     "What about your friend?" he heard. The woman was pointing at him,
eyebrows raised.

     "Yeah, Jerry, what do you say?" Bart grinned.

     "Oh, jeez, no," Jerry panicked. "I gotta go."

     The second girl shrugged and wandered off.

     "Aw, c'mon, honey. Let's have some fun." The voluptuous brunette
had a mischievous glint in her eye.

     "Thanks, but no thanks. Hey Bart, nice meeting you..." he turned to
leave.

     "I got a two-for-one special tonight," she called out.

     Huh?

     "C'mon, pretty boy -- what's the matter? You scared?"

     He turned back to face the taunting woman. One of her hands was
reaching out to him; Bart was winking and nodding encouragement.

     Jerry frowned. In his wildest imaginings, he had never envisioned
such a situation. Shaking his head, and allowing the rum the upper
hand, he thought, hmmm -- well -- never say never.

     "What the hell..."

     Following the lead of the girl ("Call me Debbie"), who, on closer
inspection, was over-powdered, over-perfumed, over-rouged, easily into
her mid-thirties and well beyond "girl" status, Jerry and Bart were
soon crowded into a small, dingy hotel room.

     "C'mon, boys, let's get at it," she said, removing her red-and-
black striped blouse in the gloomy lamplight, "Clock's ticking..."

     Jerry looked at her, then at Bart, shrugged, and pulled off his T-
shirt. Crazy, he thought.

     Debbie stepped out of her skirt and, despite the questionable
circumstances, Jerry felt his cock begin to stiffen. As he lowered his
trousers, he locked eyes with Bart, who was already down to his shorts.
The sailor winked, and peeled off his last shred of clothing.

     Suddenly shy, Jerry turned away. Oh, well, it was now or never. He
pulled off his own underwear.

     "Good god," Debbie gasped as he turned back to face the room, "Honey,
you could hurt somebody with that thing!"

     Although Jerry's uncircumcised cock was only semi-erect, even Bart
was noticeably astonished.

     "Jesus Christ, Jerry..."

     Having abruptly developed a genuine interest, Debbie decided to
take charge. "Hold on," she reached into her bag and retrieved a jar of
lubricant, "I think we'd better use this. Alright, you black-haired
devil -- get on your back."

     Jerry lay down on the single bed, and Debbie began slathering his
oversized erection with the cream. He closed his eyes and moaned a
little as the woman's massaging fingertips stimulated his foreskin,
pulling it back from the glossy, swollen cock-head, then stretching it
out to its' full length, pushing, pulling, stretching, twisting until
he was gasping and his narrow, muscled hips were helplessly writhing.
When he opened his eyes again, he could see that Bart was standing
beside the bed, quietly stroking a sizeable hard-on in the dim
light. For some reason, the sight the half-drunk sailor manipulating
his own abundant endowment of foreskin only added to Jerry's
excitement.

     Debbie climbed up on the bed, grasped his now-throbbing cock, and
carefully began to lower herself onto the thickness of it.

     "Oh my god," she said, gasping, "Oh my god". As the head of the
enormous, hardened organ began to enter her, she reminded herself to
breathe deeply, and loosen up. "Oh, oh, oh-oh-oh..." another couple of
inches squeezed in, "Wait..." she reached for the lubricant, and spread
more of it over the remaining inches of Jerry's shaft. She also
attempted to work some into herself, and the slightly bewildered kid
moaned again at the touch of her fingers against his aggravated
manhood. He reached up, and tried to pull her face to his...

     "Uh-uh -- no kissing," she snapped, pushing his hands away.

     Suddenly, she slid all the way down his rigid pole, landing on his
pubic bone with a muffled thud. "Ohhhhhhhh -- honey..." the woman was
still for a moment, adjusting to the situation, damned if that kid's
third leg was going to get the best of her. She prided herself on being
the best on the block. She had been in the business for close to twenty
years -- hell, she was probably old enough to be the mother of these
two horny boys -- still, she couldn't recall as she had ever
encountered such a monumental piece of equipment. Breathe, Debbie,
breathe...

     "Don't forget about me," Bart leaned in and, catching her in mid-
reverie, grabbed one of her full, swaying breasts and slipped his wet
tongue between her parted lips.

     "NO KISSES, GODDAMMIT!" She sputtered and pushed his face away
with one hand, dexterously grabbing his rigid cock with the other. Now,
her insides gradually relaxing, she began to ride slowly on Jerry's
cock, up and down, while her mouth noisily sucked and licked Bart's
hard-on.

     Jerry was unexpectedly flooded with a torrent of emotions and
physical sensations. As the hooker slid up and down the considerable
length of his cock, the wet, warm walls of her insides contracted and
released, contracted and released, and the young man shuddered with
pleasure. He looked at her face and watched as Bart's pumping shaft
impaled her drooling, painted lips. Jerry had never seen another grown
man's erection before, and certainly not at such close range; with a
minimum of effort, he could have reached out and touched it. Instead,
he stared, breathless, mesmerized.

     Amazing.

     As the trio found their rhythm and began heating up, the woman
suddenly pulled her face away from the sailor's insistent thrusting
organ and, after holding him back and closing her eyes for a moment,
said, "OK, baby, you can climb on too."

     "Huh?" Bart, perilously close to orgasm, was confused.

     Debbie, now adjusted to Jerry's proportions, was breathing
heavily, thrilling to the new awareness of sensation and sexual
fullness. Leaning forward and tossing her head back, she repeated, "I
said, climb on, kid."

     Bart suddenly understood. Jerry still didn't quite get it, but was
too engrossed in his own pleasure to care. Still on his back, he once
again reached for her face.

     She brushed his hands away, "No, no, NO -- NO KISSES!"

     Then he felt it - a new pressure on his legs, and against the base
of his cock...

     "Easy, sailor," the hooker said, groaning with effort, "Nice and
easy."

     Jerry, stunned, stopped thrusting for a moment. Bart had climbed
onto the bed behind the woman. Now, Jerry felt weight of the other
man's muscled haunches crushing his thighs. He could feel the hair on
the back of Bart's thighs tickling his flesh and, yes, that had to be
the heat of Bart's hard cock pressing against his own. No. It wasn't
possible. Yes. It was. Jerry's heart pounded in his chest and he grew
almost hysterical with desire as the sailor's unrelenting erection
slowly crammed in next to his, into the woman's overheated, pulsating
vagina.

     "Oh, god, oh, god..." Debby groaned, half-delirious with agony and
rapture as she felt the second hard cock further expanding her well-
worn, feverish opening. "Yes, yes, yes..."

     Jerry felt the other man begin cautiously pumping his cock, and
Jerry, without thinking, began doing the same. As Bart slid in, Jerry
eased out, and in, and out, and in, and out -- with the now over-
sensitized underside of his cock, Jerry distinctly felt the force and
shape of every throbbing inch of the head and shaft of the sailor's
frenzied cock, thrusting deeply. Glans rubbing against fiery glans,
frenulum stroking against taut frenulum, foreskin gliding against
supple foreskin, manhood ramming hard against burning manhood, all
within the crushing, compressing walls of the woman's distressed,
pitilessly stretched orifice.

     He looked over the shoulder of the shuddering hooker, and Bart was
looking back at him. The sailor, sweat pouring down his face, smiled,
winked, and pointedly gave an extra push against Jerry's shaft. Jerry
groaned, and pushed back. The unbearably intense contractions of
Debby's insides meant the game couldn't last much longer, but the two
men continued, eyes locked, in this odd but exciting swordplay.

     Push, pull, push, pull, the intensity jumped another notch, and
the two were barely aware of the woman's cries as they suddenly began
thrusting in earnest, powerfully, desperately, sweating, straining,
battling cocks pushing together tighter, harder, as if they were trying
to meld, to become one monstrous, towering pillar of conquering
testosterone.

     As Jerry's eyes searched deep into the sailor's hypnotic, frenetic
stare, his hands gripped the hooker's shoulders, and then he felt the
warmth and strength of Bart's hands covering his. Instantaneously, he
was over the brink...

     "FUUUUUUUUUUUUCK MEEEEEEE..." Debby's shout filled the room, as the
rush of semen pummeled her insides, with both ragingly engorged,
hammering cocks shooting their pent-up fluids deep within her.

     "AAAAAAAAAAUUUUUGGGHHHHH..." She cried again, as the two shafts kept
thrashing, thumping, beating against her quivering cunt-lips.

     "FUCK ME -- FUCK ME -- FUCK ME..."

     "Ohhhhhhhhhhh -- ohhhh -- ohhh -- oh..."

     The sound of panting and heavy breathing filled the air. The three
drained bodies clung to each other for a long moment.

     Bart moved first, still semi-hard, carefully sliding out.

     "Easy, baby..." Debby whispered, with her voice raw from screaming.

     The sailor threw himself back onto the narrow mattress, wedged
tightly between the nicotine-yellowed wall and Jerry's hot, sweating
body.

     The woman lingered in position for a while, still savoring the
feel of the remaining, formidable organ that filled her almost to
capacity.

     As she finally, somewhat reluctantly, separated herself from
Jerry, she saw that the kid had passed out. Poor baby, she thought,
must be exhausted.

************

     When Jerry awoke, he shook his head, disoriented. As it all came
rushing back, he sat up and quickly surveyed the dismal little room.
How long had he been asleep?

     Bart was sitting on the floor in a darkened corner, fully dressed,
staring at him.

     Jerry, realizing he was stark naked and suddenly feeling extremely
bashful and uncomfortable, grabbed a rumpled, cum-stained sheet to
cover himself.

     "I didn't want to wake you," said the young sailor, quietly, "But
it didn't seem right to leave without saying goodbye."

     "Where's our girlfriend?" Jerry asked, falling back onto the bed.

     "Long gone," Bart laughed, softly. "That was something, eh?"

     "Yeah, it sure was."

     The room became very still.

     "'No kisses'," Jerry whispered.

     "'No kisses'."

     After another moments' silence, Bart stood up and approached the
bed.

     He stood over Jerry and, as the two young men locked eyes again,
Bart placed his hands on the pillow, on either side of Jerry's head.

     Jerry's heart began to race, as the big sailor leaned in closer,
then closer again.

     The lips were surprisingly soft.

     The moment was crushingly tender.

     Then, another whisper, "There's your kiss, Jerry Ballard"

     As Bart moved to pull away, Jerry unthinkingly reached up with
both hands and, after the briefest hesitation, pulled the man's face
near again.

     Another silent moment passed, as he memorized the deep, brown,
questioning eyes, the long, heavy lashes.

     Then, Jerry's lips searched and found a deeper kiss -- mouths
falling open, tongues beginning their dance, lips hungry, craving - and
he felt his cock begin to harden again.

     "I should go," Bart said gruffly, pulling away gently.

     Jerry watched, trembling and defenseless, as the sailor walked out
the door.

     He never encountered either the woman or the sailor again.

     Over the ensuing months, memories of Debbie-the-hooker mercifully
faded.

     The kisses lingered.


************


     Now, here it was -- Saturday, July 10, 1971 -- almost exactly
eighteen years later. Where had the years flown?

     As he pulled the car over to the side of the dirt road leading up
to Fraser Falls, Jerry recalled the days immediately following his San
Francisco misadventure.

     He remembered making some sort of lame excuses and apologies to
Trish who, for whatever reason, had accepted it all without question.

     He resolved never to touch hard liquor again. To this day, with
very rare exception, he allowed himself only wine or beer.

     He tried, without success, to make sense of the extraordinary
evening, the complete recklessness he had felt, the kisses -- the
longing.

     Then, three weeks later, Trish gave birth to their first son, Bob,
who was now lying at home in bed, nursing a hangover following what
must also have been a night of debauchery.

     Oh, dear, he thought.

     Looking over at his younger son, he said, "OK, Ian, let's go!"

     They started their hike up to the Falls.


To be continued...

Thank you all for the great emails. Keep 'em coming!

BH
brewsterhardy@hotmail.com