CONRAD                                                           

by Jon Reel


       I was fifteen when my mother remarried.  His name was
Conrad, Conrad Pruitt, and I guess to Mom he was everything my
father was not.  He wasn't bookish, he wasn't intellectual, and
he didn't wear horn-rimmed glasses or boring gray suits.  No,
Conrad was a pilot for American Airlines, complete with a
navy-blue uniform, aviator shades, and a Rolex watch on his broad
and hairy wrist. Before flying for American, Conrad had been a
pilot in the Air Force, and even as a civilian pilot the military
aura still clung to him.  

       One look at Conrad told you he was the Right Stuff.  He
stood tall and broad-shouldered, and a smile came readily to his
well-formed lips.  Conrad's blond hair, just graying at the
temples, might have been curly if he hadn't kept it cropped
short.  His perpetual tan, and the squint lines around his light
gray eyes -- eyes shaded by a pair of perfectly straight blond
eyebrows -- bespoke a lifetime spent outdoors.  He was from Texas
originally, and he had a hint of a cowboy's drawl -- not much
,but enough to make him a natural at soothing the passengers he
shepherded six miles high through the blissful American skies. 
Conrad was a man's man.  I hated him.  

       No, scratch that, I didn't hate him.  But he made me feel
gawky and insignificant.  None of the things that mattered to me
meant anything to him, and I didn't care about the stuff he liked
either, like fishing and football.  To be fair, Conrad never
deliberately belittled me or my interests, and he never pushed me
to toss a ball around, but we had nothing in common.  And on top
of that -- or beneath it -- was the inescapable fact that he had
horned in on me and Mom.  Of course I was happy for her, or tried
to be, because she was obviously in love with him, but it still
felt weird having this stranger around all the time, and
everywhere, for our house was now his house too.  So Conrad was
in the kitchen.  By the pool.  In her -- their -- room. Don't get
the wrong idea, I never heard crude moans through the walls or
anything like that.  But of course I knew the story.  I mean,
something was bringing that contented smile to Mom's face. 

       I beat off a lot in those days, -- every day, often twice,
and always before going to sleep.  I'd draw up my legs so that my
feet were together and my knees apart, and then vibrate two
fingers on the spot below the head of my cock, holding it with my
thumb.  Flicking rapidly back and forth, I'd let my thoughts
wander.  Usually I thought about my favorite cuties at school,
guys I'd seen naked in the showers, or guys I'd never seen naked
but wanted to, guys with pert butts and narrow hips.  In my
fantasies I had x-ray vision and could see through their jeans to
their underpants, and through the underpants to the flesh
beneath.  

       Once Barry, a friend of mine, told me he got a lift from
some guy in a little red Mazda.  When the guy shifted gears he
put his hand on Barry's knee.  Barry told the fag (Barry's word)
to let him out right away or he would hit him, and the guy had
let him out.  Barry didn't know about me -- nobody did, at least
I didn't think so.  Anyhow, Barry's story provided me with j-o
fantasies for well over a month.  What if Barry hadn't said
anything, and the man had driven them to a secluded spot and
sucked his cock? I tried to imagine the stranger fumbling with
Barry's zipper until he got Barry's cock out, tried to imagine
him taking it into his mouth and sucking on it.  What would it
feel like to get my own cock sucked?  Would the guy doing the
sucking bob his head up and down in my lap, or would he hold my
cock and lick it?  For that matter, what would it feel like to
close my lips around Barry's boner?  Would there be a taste?  

       I'd work the head of my dick trying to envision it, making
the sexual ache grow and grow.  The pressure would build until I
sensed I couldn't hold out much longer.  Then I'd grab my balls
with one fist, take the my cock in the other fist, and really
jerk it, jerk it until great wads of cum erupted over my
shoulder, onto my neck, my chest, my belly -- and then one final
jerk and contraction would send a ropey length of cum back up to
my chest again, before my dick, with two or three mini-spasms --
mere ghosts of the previous gushers -- dribbled the final trickle
of cum down into the circle of hair at its root.  For a moment
I'd lie back exhausted.  Then I'd pad over to the bathroom to
clean up.  God only knows how guys who have to share a bathroom
with their parents, or worse, with inquisitive brothers and
sisters, ever make it through adolescence.  Socks, I guess.

       But after Mom married Conrad, when I beat off I couldn't
keep from thinking about them doing it together.  I would imagine
him lying on top of her, covering her body.  She'd have drawn up
her legs, maybe even lifted her heels off the bed, and spread her
legs wide apart to give him access.  Her fingers would dig into
his back.  In my mind I could see his butt lift and push back
into her, his butt-cheeks clenching together in order to wedge
his cock in up to the hilt.  I imagined her abstracted look as
she concentrated on the sensations inside her, eyes glazed,
tongue sticking out just a bit at the corner of her mouth.  Would
she fuck back, clutching and grinding up her hips, or would she
just lie there underneath him, giving herself up to the passive
enjoyment of his thrusts?  I imagined it both ways.  

       I was horrified at myself, and I knew I must be depraved
to visualize such things, but the thoughts were so exciting I
couldn't stop myself.  As my own climax approached I imagined him
starting to really fuck her rough, both of them sweating and
rutting like animals.  I put the sluttiest phrases I could think
of into her mouth, egging him on:  "Oh Conrad, fuck me, fuck me,
that's right, fuck me deeper, deeper, Oh God I'm cumming again,
I'm cumming, Conrad fuck me, fuck me, Oh God fuck me or I'll go
crazy."   

       In my fantasies he picked up his tempo in response to her
pleas.  I saw him ram his cock way into her, and then buck
forward a jot more, so that his pubic bone mashed against her
clit.  "Oh Christ! that's right, that's right, ooooooohh that's
right, oh yeah, like that, nnnnnnnhhhh, nnnnnnnnnhh, nnnnnhhh, oh
Conrad! unh . . .  unh . . . unh . . . unh"  I'd make her moan,
beside herself, as Conrad's butt rose, sank and clenched, rose,
sank and clenched. He mashed into her, churned her pussy, made
her snap her head back and forth on the pillow and plead for it
and call his name.  Afterwards, as I lay panting with cum all
over myself, hot cum going cold and runny, I felt sick with
self-disgust, and vowed I'd never wallow in those fantasies
again.  Sometimes I kept those promises a day, sometimes half an
hour.    
               
       At some point I became obsessed with seeing Conrad's cock. 
I had to know what Mom was taking up inside her.  Judging from
the rest of him it would be large -- he stood well over six feet
tall.  I'd seen him in a bathing suit often enough, and secretly
admired his furry slab-like pecs and the ghost of a washboard
stomach.  His broad wrists and long, thick fingers suggested a
large penis, but I had heard such proxies were unreliable.  

       How different we were!  A thin layer of baby fat lay under
my skin and hid any trace of musculature -- it made my skin as
soft as a girl's.  Worse, my eyebrows were thin and feathery, and
the wretched peach-fuzz sideburns I cultivated trailed off into
nothingness.  To top it off, my cheeks had a constant pink blush
on them, like the dots of rouge on a toy soldier's cheeks, and
when I was embarrassed the pink would deepen to crimson and
spread over my entire face, in miserable contrast to Conrad's
manly tan.  Even my dick was small, less than six inches fully
erect, I'd measured it.  

       It wasn't going to be easy to scope out Conrad's
equipment, but I thought about it all the time.  I considered
bursting in while he was drying off after a shower, but I
couldn't think of a pretext for being in their bathroom instead
of my own.  Luck finally gave me the opportunity I needed.  I was
walking down the upstairs hall when I heard the sound of a man
pissing.  It had to be Conrad, and more important, he must have
left the door at least part open for the sound to be so clear. 
On cat's feet I made my way down the hall, heart pounding for
fear of going too fast . . . or too slow.  

       I reached my goal and yes, the door was open about a foot,
and yes, I was in time!  The yellow stream was just trailing off. 
I stared, bug-eyed.  I could see his reflection in the mirror in
front of the toilet.  In his hand he casually held the manliest
cock I had ever seen.  Nothing I had glimpsed on my classmates in
the gym showers came close.  The circumcised head was like a
soldier's helmet, full, round, and flared where it met the
weighty shaft.  The blond thatch of his pubes surrounded the base
like a glory.  Jesus, I thought.  Jesus fucking Christ.  So that
was what she was taking inside her.  I was mesmerized by the
sheer beauty and power of it.  To possess such an instrument!  My
imagination couldn't encompass it. 

       Conrad shook out the last few drops.  I came to my senses,
walked briskly down the hall and into my room, leaned back
against the door, wrenched my pants down about my knees, and
jerked off.  I was so aroused by what I'd just seen that I didn't
try to prolong it, but just whipped my dick like crazy, frantic
to cum.  Seconds later I shot long stripes of cum onto the rug. 
I wiped it up quickly, then got naked and lay down on my bed to
do it again, properly.  That night, when I jerked off yet again
before going to sleep, my fantasies were still of Conrad's hand
shaking the last drops of urine from his glorious thick-helmeted
cock.  

       Over the next few nights, however, images of Conrad making
love to Mom crowded back into my j-o thoughts.  But now, in
addition to imagining the rear view of his ass plowing into her
crotch, I fantasized about the heart of the matter, about his
large penis -- for erect it must be truly monstrous -- actually
entering the lips of her vagina.  Her pussy would be wet and
slippery with her juices, for Conrad would have warmed her up
with his fingers before he pushed up her knees, crawled forward,
and put his cock to her pussy lips.  

       Maybe he would tease her for a while, nudging his head at
the coral folds, seeming to enter her and then pulling back,
dipping the head in and then withdrawing it again, like a swimmer
testing the water with his toe.  Would she beg for it, beg him
for God's sake to do it, to fuck her, to fuck her with his big
cock before she went crazy with desire for it?  Suddenly and with
no warning he would follow through on one of his teasing strokes,
and plunge his cock all the way in.  

       In my mind I would follow his cock as it slid deep up her
pussy, pulled up, and sank back into her again.  I imagined the
helmet-head parting the folds deep, deep inside her, lunging and
dragging along her sensitive inner walls.  I imagined it gleaming
with natural pussy-lube.  Maybe he would grasp her by the tits
and kiss her, filling her mouth with his tongue while he rammed
her with his cock.  How would it feel to be supporting that
massive hairy body, to be gripped by those big hands?  

       He would surely grow sweaty with the exertion of it.  I
saw her buck her hips up against his to force the utmost
penetration, saw her grasp and knead his muscular butt, saw her
face contort with agony as she came, milking him with the salmon
contours of her innermost cunt.  And still Conrad would fuck her
mercilessly, making her cum and cum and cum.  The hair at the
base of his cock would become matted with her secretions.  This
vivid image disgusted me and yet aroused me almost more than I
could bear.  And eventually he would shoot his sperm deep inside
her, feeling the same contractions of overpowering pleasure that
would any minute send my own load racing up from my nuts, and he
would jerk spasmodically and shudder as jets of cum coursed out
through his cock, drenching the depths of her cunt.  He wouldn't
make crude sounds, he was far too manly for that, but his eyes
would squeeze shut as he tasted the summit of his pleasure.  

       By then I was whipping my cock like a demented person. 
The pressure in my cock and balls grew so strong that it
momentarily verged on torment.  A quaking spasm, release, and a
wad of cum flew past my field of vision and splatted on the
headboard, followed by several more quick contractions that
coated my chest and belly with pearly swags of cum.  I wiped it
off and fell asleep, my consciousness slipping down, down beneath
my shame and into contented slumber.     

                              .       .      .       .      .     
 .      .       


       One weekend towards the end of the summer the three of us
together went to the beach.  Conrad rented a cottage.  From the
beginning, Mom made it plain I was grown up now, and wouldn't be
expected to cling to her apron strings, in fact I got the
impression that, apart from meals, they didn't expect to see me
much at all.  That was fine by me, in fact, that made it
tolerable.  After dinner on Saturday, Mom and Conrad "took a nap"
and I walked the boardwalk, watching the crowd, looking for
cuties.  Eventually I got bored with watching people, but kept on
walking; I guess I wanted to be alone. 

       Night had fallen by the time I got to the end.  The
boardwalk extended quite a distance in either direction from the
swarming center, and as I walked, fewer and fewer people were to
be seen beneath the streetlights.  Towards the end, the boardwalk
was deserted except for an occasional drunk.  Not long after
turning back I was surprised to see Conrad walking my way, alone. 
Had he followed me?  As he approached I was once again struck by
how utterly unlike we were, he the cowboy-exec in his madras
shorts and alligator shirt, me the would-be punk in oversized tee
and cut-off sweats. 

       "Hey Josh, how's it goin', Sport?"  Conrad came up to me,
his hand raised in friendly greeting.  He was going to give me a
comradely punch, either on the arm or the stomach, as was his
manner.  The first few times he had done this I was appalled by
the jockish gesture, but there was something disarming about the
way he delivered it -- a friendly fist to the body came naturally
to him, and I grew to recognize that these punches were an
attempt to establish some sort of familial warmth between us.  It
was brave, really, in the face of my unwavering unresponsiveness.

       But I was wrong.  His hand didn't form a fist and it
didn't land on my arm or my stomach.  Instead, Conrad thrust his
open hand up between my legs, and gently but unmistakably
squeezed my cock and balls.  "On a night like this, we need to go
out and find you a chick."  

       He had felt me up!  A thousand thoughts exploded through
my mind:  What was this about a "chick?"  Obviously a cover, in
case I freaked.  No real man ever felt another guy like that, not
ever. So what was up with Conrad?  He couldn't be gay . . . could
he? And what made him think he could touch me that way?  Did I
have to hit him now, or at least threaten to, the way Barry had
threatened to hit the guy in the Mazda?  Or was it already too
late?  Yes, too late, too late, surely that had to be done
immediately, in the first instant or not at all.  

       And anyhow, I wasn't sure how to hit with a fist, I could
only slap him, which would hardly establish my manliness.  But
did this mean he knew I was gay?  Could he tell?  Had others then
guessed as well?  Had he -- sickening thought -- discussed it
with Mom?  Or she with him?  Or -- O Jesus, not this, not this --
had he seen me that day when I watched him pissing?  Had he
glimpsed my face in the mirror, transfixed as he shook the last
few drops from his cock?  

       All those thoughts and more exploded in my brain. 
Suddenly the surf seemed far away, and even my field of vision
seemed to have come unmoored and float before me.  Blood was
pounding in my ears.  Conrad's smile had melted into a
questioning look.  It washed over me how much he'd risked.  Yes,
how daring he was!  I felt unsteady on my legs.  The landward
rail offered support and was mercifully out of the light . . . I
didn't want Conrad to see how badly I was blushing.  With effort
I unfroze myself and walked over to the darkness.  I leaned back
against the rail, and gazed across the boardwalk and out to sea. 
In the distance were lights on freighters.  Conrad came over and
leaned back against the rail too, close beside me. 

       "You know, Josh, when I first came here, twenty years ago
or so, none of that stuff on the other side of the highway was
built yet.  The first thing to come was that shopping center with
the Safeway in it." He talked on like that, as if nothing were
happening, and as he talked he put his hand to my crotch again --
and this time left it there.  

       I didn't move.  I let him do it.  And that was that --
there was no going back, Conrad was feeling my penis, rubbing it
to throbbing hardness, and I was letting him do it.  It felt
wonderful, but I could hardly concentrate on the sensation, so
many questions surged into my mind at once.  If a masculine man
like Conrad touched other guys' dicks, who then did not?  Did Mr.
Hartmann, my History teacher?  Did Mr. Marsh, the coach?  Was
there a vast conspiracy of silence I knew nothing about?  I
surrendered to the thrill of Conrad's hand on my cock -- I'd have
to sort it out later.

       Conrad's hands explored my crotch purposefully, like a
blind person reading a face by touch.  Through my sweats he made
out the length and thickness of my cock, discovered where the
head began, felt for my balls.  Had he perhaps been curious too? 
Through the pliable material he felt the head with his fingers. 
The sensation of another man's hand  -- of Conrad's hand  --
touching me was astonishingly pleasurable, and strangely unlike
the feeling of touching it myself.  My cock strained forward to
meet his touch.  

       When he satisfied himself with his exploration, Conrad
began to squeeze my cock gently up and down through the cloth. 
It tented out the loose material.  Conrad ran his fingers down to
my balls and then pulled up with the flat of his hand over the
shaft and head, over and over, in easy strokes.  And all the
while he talked on about unrelated things, about when restaurants
had come and gone, about storm damage in previous years, as
though his hand demanded cover not only of darkness but of small
talk, too, as I let him stealthily squeeze and pleasure my
stiffened cock. 

       I let him ramble on as he stroked me.  But what was
expected of me?  Was I likewise permitted to feel his cock
through his pants?  If Conrad could touch me like he was, what
then was forbidden?  I reached over and put my hand against his
thigh, and haltingly brought it to the fly of his pants.  In a
trice (and without breaking the flow of irrelevant pleasantries)
Conrad clapped his free hand over mine, securing it to his groin. 
So then this too was allowed, in fact, desired.  My tentative
touch steadied to a grip as I processed the information that
Conrad wanted me to play with his cock.  I swallowed hard as I
took in the size of him.  It felt like a baseball bat.  The thick
tube reached from his groin practically all the way to his hip
bone, his jockey briefs crushing it flat against his belly.  It
was hard as stone, as hot, living stone.  As he had mine, I read
the size and position of his cock with my fingers.  Then I did my
best to mimic Conrad's rhythmic stroke.  

       I would have liked to have run my hand up under his shirt
as well, to have run my fingers through his chest hair, and felt
his pecs and nipples, but I wasn't sure of the rules to this new
game, and didn't dare risk it.  Maybe dick-rubbing was okay, but
betraying further interest would shock and disgust.  Anyway,
Conrad stroking my cock and me stroking his was excitement enough
for now.  He thrust his hips and cock gently forward to meet my
hand, letting me know he wanted me to rub it harder.  My own dick
quivered under his masterful massage.  Fortunately no one came
by, because although where we stood was dark compared to under
the streetlight, it wasn't dark enough to hide what we were
doing. 

       In the distance a lighted ferris wheel and a few carnival
rides marked the center of the boardwalk, there was a pier there. 
It seemed unnaturally far away, as did the crashing of the surf. 
The freighters at sea passed each other.  I felt as if I were on
some powerful drug.  Conrad drew back his hand and stuck it under
my sweat pants, touching my cock flesh to flesh, the first time
anyone had ever done that.  My breathing had gone uneven.  His
fingers closed around my cock and began to pull.  The heightened
intensity frightened me.  I wanted to respond in kind, but surely
he didn't expect me to unzip his pants right there on the board
walk?  Had he gone berserk?  Yet how I longed to touch his cock
for real, and not through his shorts.  Oh God, to make him shoot!

       I stole a glance at his face, but his eyes were focused on
the far horizon.  He had stopped talking now that he was sure I
wouldn't bolt.  I looked back out to sea myself, afraid that if I
continued looking at him he'd turn and look me in the eyes, and
maybe the magic spell would break.  The insistent tug of his hand
on my cock was unspeakably pleasurable.  The full handed
skin-to-skin stroke intensified the sexual ache, and my nuts were
drawn up tight.  Suddenly Conrad was rubbing a drop of something
wet and slippery onto the head of my cock -- pre-cum.  He rotated
his moistened thumb around and around the underside of the head. 
A sharp stab of pleasure emerged through the more general ache,
and it flashed on me that I was very close. What then?  Was I
supposed to walk back through the center of town with cum all
over my shorts?  Was I supposed to pull down my shorts and shoot
it right there on a public boardwalk?

       We were both of us breathing pretty hard by then.  I
caught his glance:  "Do you . . . do you want to walk on the
beach?"  

       "You bet, Josh."  His tone was suddenly entirely different
from before, focussed, with me.  I felt reassured, and realized I
had for the first time given him verbal permission, even an
invitation.  Now it was up to him -- he knew I would let him do
anything he wanted.  We broke apart, and he led me across the
boardwalk to the stairs to the beach -- he led me down to the
sand.  The moonlight seemed brighter away from the streetlights
on the boardwalk.  The crash, boom, and slow withdrawal of the
surf seemed closer, yet still unreal.  Conrad drew me along the
boardwalk, his hand against the small of my back.  He took my
shoulders and leaned me back against a massive wooden pier.  As
my eyes adjusted I could see the beach was bright with moonlight,
but it was also totally empty, and we couldn't be seen from
above.  

       In one adroit movement Conrad hunkered down in front of me
and tugged my shorts down to my ankles.  My cock stood out from
my body at an upthrust angle -- small, but straight and eager.
Before I knew what was happening, Conrad had taken my whole cock
into his mouth so that his nose crushed against my belly.  The
sensation was strange to me -- wet, warm, yet strangely empty. 
The touch of Conrad's hand had been recognizably like my own, but
this was new and different.  So this is it, I thought, a blow
job.  But it wasn't "it."  Not yet.  In a moment I found out what
a real blow job was, when Conrad began to suck in earnest.  

       The vacuuming sensation as he devoured my cock was a
hundredfold more powerful.  Conrad rocked his head back and forth
rapidly and purposefully, sometimes twisting it slightly to suck
me even harder.  "He's really gobbling it" I thought to myself. 
I could feel his tongue working the underside of my cock.  At
times he seemed to lodge my cock in the back of his throat and
actually milk it by swallowing, but mostly he just sucked back
and forth on it quickly, almost deliriously.    

       I looked down.  Somehow he'd loosened his own pants too, I
could see his arm whipping back and forth.  I wondered what to do
with my hands.  I laid them on top of his head, but lightly, not
wanting to impede his sucking, and then drew them around to the
back.  I realized I had always wanted to touch the nape of his
neck, where the hairs formed a golden chevron.   I ran my hands
through the locks of hair on his head, stroking it.  How soft his
hairs were!  I had imagined they would be bristly, but they were
soft instead.  I was short of breath by then, almost gasping. 
Conrad's vigorous sucking was pushing me nearer to the brink.  No
one had ever made me feel that way before, and at that moment I
adored him. 

       The insistent pressure in my cock and balls rose to a
dangerous pitch.  I was afraid I might not be able to get my dick
out of his mouth in time.  What if I ended up spraying cum all
over his shirt!  What a geek he would think me!  "Conrad"  I
said.   At the sound of his name he seemed to suck even more
intensely, if such a thing were possible.  "Conrad . . . I  . . .
uh . . . I need to pull out.  I . . . I can't hold it."  

       Evidently he was so lost in what he was doing that he
hadn't heard me -- he was sucking like crazy.  If I had seen a
dog go after a bone that way, I would have been afraid to come
between them.  "Conrad?" I said again, the pitch of my voice
rising.  To my own ears I sounded like a little boy begging to be
taken to the bathroom in time.  "I'm gonna . . . I'm gonna . . ." 
Conrad seemed to nod without breaking his rhythm.  I fought
desperately to choke back the surge rising inside my cock.  Then
Conrad reached up behind me, grabbed me firmly by the butt with
both hands, and pulled me to him, forcing my cock all the way
into his mouth, making it absolutely impossible for me to
withdraw.  The message was unmistakable.  Conrad was telling me
to cum in his mouth!

       The thrilling lewdness of the thought brought me up and
over the edge.  Conrad wanted me to shoot in his mouth, wanted to
feel it spew onto his tongue and throat, to taste my cum, to eat
it!  He grasped my butt and sucked like crazy.  I was close to
losing consciousness with shock and need and pleasure.  I
couldn't hold out for another second.  Mighty contractions racked
my groin and balls, and my pleasure-tortured cock squirted
streams of cum into his mouth.  The first spurts shot out with
enormous power.  Conrad swallowed and swallowed.  I surrendered
to it, heaving and gasping for breath.  It was so strange, to cum
and not to see it fling itself up my chest.  Instead, I was
feeding Conrad my cum! 

       Gradually the force of the spasms diminished, until just
small amounts of cum were hiccuping out.  I consciously
contracted my pelvic muscles to squeeze out the last drops. 
Finally he let my cock flop out of his mouth.  Conrad ran his
tongue around inside his mouth, gathering the rest of my cum, and
swallowed it.  I looked down at my cock, amazed, and then at
Conrad.  I slumped, spent.  

       Conrad stood up.  He fisted his cock furiously for a few
seconds.  Still panting, I marveled at the sight of it.  His cock
was easily twice the length of his manly fist, longer, actually,
and his hand, the hand that had so easily circled my cock, didn't
reach all the way around it.  Conrad stood with his feet some two
feet apart and his knees slightly bent.  He was maybe a yard
away, jerking his big cock, holding it underhand, his thumb
against the glans, and aiming downward.  He was breathing hard
and his athletic chest rose and fell quickly under his shirt.  He
looked at me, taking in my face and body in a raking glance.  My
pants were still crumpled at my ankles.  A drop of after-cum hung
at the tip of my deflating cock. Then he shut his eyes and locked
his handsome face in an expression of deepest concentration.  A
few more pulls and he froze.  His body went rigid, and he
trembled almost imperceptibly.  He stroked himself again and
stopped, his face twisted, his lungs expelling short, shuddering
gasps of air.  Then he pulled one final time, hard, and let it
happen -- his pulsing cock strafed the sand with cum.  Later I
would replay that image many times in my mind's eye. 

       He opened his eyes and looked at me.  I looked back.  I
couldn't read his face.  Perhaps like me he was totally drained,
beyond thought or feeling.  Recovering somewhat, I bent over and
pulled up my pants.  I was no longer dizzy with lust, and the
significance of what had just happened seized me by the throat. 
I had just had my first sex, and with a man, a grown-up.  With
Conrad.  With Mom's new husband.  There came to me the image of
her leaning back against him, laughing, happy and secure in his
love.  What had we two done?  We had betrayed my mom.  "Conrad, I
gotta go" I said, seized by guilt and horror, and I lit off down
the beach in a desperate sprint.  I didn't look back until I was
far, far back towards town.




Chapter II

       On the streets of the town, away from the ocean, the
August air was warmer, almost sultry.  I was out of breath and
sweating from my sprint down the beach.  Although I felt bad
about having bailed on Conrad, I knew I had to be alone to sort
things out.  The alternative -- strolling back down the boardwalk
together -- would have been grotesque.  On the far side of town
was a 7-Eleven.  Still dazed from what had happened, and blinking
in the fluorescent light, I bought a coke and took it to a side
street, sat down on the curb, and considered the situation.  Not
the sex so much (that I was saving for later), but how things
stood with me and Conrad and Mom.  Laughter and car sounds from
the main drag occasionally pierced the crickets' and cicadas'
edgy racket. 

       So Conrad wasn't exactly the straight arrow he seemed to
be.  Just who had Mom married, anyhow?  Was he some kind of Don
Juan, a seducer so compulsive that he'd even go after a scrawny
kid like me?  If he wanted to cheat on Mom, Conrad certainly had
every opportunity.  The airline scheduled crews to fly for
several days in a row, putting them up at airport hotels.  I
thought about Conrad and the flight attendants -- stewardesses
with Miss Texas hair; complaisant stewards -- and imagined them
holed up together in the dreary hotel lounges.  It seemed obvious
that he could have his pick of partners a lot more desirable than
me.  The notion of Conrad feeding his cock to some eager little
uniformed flight attendant made my dick stir in my pants, but I
fought the image back -- I needed to do some serious thinking.

       On the whole, I decided, there had been something about
Conrad's manner, some clumsiness or awkwardness, that argued
against his being an inveterate sexual predator.  And yet surely
he'd had a cock in his mouth before.  Inexperienced as I was, I
could tell that technique like Conrad's wasn't something you were
born with.  There was an almost military precision to Conrad's
competence.  Maybe that was the clue -- maybe his years in
Colorado Springs had included drills he never spoke about.  Yes,
that was probably it.  Conrad had sucked my cock as though to
satisfy an exacting sergeant.  But how had he known I'd let him,
and that I wouldn't tell?

       Hours later I finally crept up the creaking wooden steps
that led to the cottage.  Putting my ear to their bedroom door, I
satisfied myself that both Mom and Conrad were there and asleep. 
Then I brushed my teeth and went to bed.  In the darkness I
summoned up vivid memories of what Conrad and I had done.  I spat
on my thumb and rubbed it around the head of dick, reproducing as
best I could the feel of Conrad massaging my pre-cum onto it. 
Images flooded past me -- Conrad squeezing my crotch, Conrad's
fingers in my pants, Conrad so excellently hoovering my dick,
Conrad willing me to shoot in his mouth, and finally Conrad
jacking himself off in front of me, legs apart, back arched, arms
bulging like an action figure's.  I drew up my legs as I
remembered Conrad's sharp, repeated intake of breath when he held
himself at the brink, and shot my load to images of Conrad's own
ejaculation.  After the contractions subsided I drew the back of
my hand up my belly, put it to my lips, and licked off the sperm. 
So this is what he was so eager to taste, I thought, and drifted
off to sleep.  

       Over my cereal the next morning Mom really let me have it
about being out so late.  

       "You know, Josh, being old enough to go out at night by
yourself also means being old enough to be considerate of other
peoples' feelings.  We had no idea what had happened to you." 
She warmed to her topic, painting me pictures of a mother's
helpless anxiety, of Conrad sent out into the night to find me,
of their considering whether it might not be wiser to alert the
police, of there being creeps out there who preyed on youngsters
. . .  

       At this Conrad broke in.  "Aw, Helen, let the kid alone. 
Josh is okay; he isn't reckless or dumb.  He was probably with a
girl."  

       Mom blanched at this possibility.  "Josh . . . ?  Oh,
alright you two, I guess it's a guy thing."  

       Which, in a manner of speaking, it was.        

       I had been afraid it would be awkward, being with Conrad
and Mom, but somehow it wasn't.  It was easy -- in fact, it was
better, because I wasn't so much on the outside anymore.  It
wasn't just me-and-Mom, and Conrad-and-Mom.  Now there was
me-and-Conrad, too.  We had a secret.  It made us somehow more
like a real family, where everyone has something going with
everyone else.  And Conrad was as easy and sunny as ever -- the
total alpha male.  Which was funny, because after all it was
Conrad who had been on his knees before me, with my cock in his
mouth, which was supposed to be the most humiliating posture one
male could show to another.  It occurred to me I still had a lot
to learn about life.  

       And it washed over me that my being queer wasn't a secret
anymore, because Conrad knew about it.  Finally someone knew,
someone who obviously didn't think it was weird or sick --
someone I could talk to.  And that someone was Conrad, Conrad of
the jockish gestures, my stepfather!  I almost laughed out loud. 
But as much as in the abstract I liked the idea of being able to
talk to Conrad, the thought that he himself might broach the
subject filled me with anxiety bordering on nausea.  Maybe he
sensed that, because he didn't make the slightest allusion to it. 
But that night, after we got home and went out for burgers and
shakes, and I sat watching him suck up the dregs of his milkshake
with in-drawn cheeks, I felt myself blush.  Conrad saw me color
up and looked at me for a moment, puzzled.  Then a gentle smile
spread over his face.  

       "What's with you guys, anyway?  What's the joke?"

       Conrad chuckled.  "Aw, Helen . . . "   

               .      .       .      .       .      .       .     
.       .      .       

       Before I was up the next morning, Conrad left for a
three-day tour of duty.  When Conrad was away the household
settled down to a lower pitch, and I had time by myself to
further get my bearings.  The conviction grew in me that it was
no accident that things seemed brighter than they had in a long
time.  The net effect of what Conrad had done was to take away my
alienation and lift the terrible burden of my secret.  Conrad was
deep.  It came to me that he must have guessed, have somehow
known, that the only way he could get through to me, get past my
resentment and distrust, and transform me from a sullen outsider
into a willing member of his new family, was through our doing
something sexual together. 

       But at what a risk!  I dimly knew that what he had done
could get him in a lot of trouble, with Mom, even with the law,
-- he played for high stakes, did Conrad.  And skillfully.  I was
overcome with admiration for his audacity and his generosity. 
For surely there hadn't been much in it for him sexually -- I
mean, I was about as removed from sexy as you could get, with my
baby-fat cheeks, my peach-fuzz sideburns, my awkward legs. 
Bitterly I reflected, not for the fist time, that I looked like
Snow White with a buzz cut.  If it had been cock Conrad wanted,
he could have done a lot better than my little dong.  Yes, Conrad
had been magnificent.  As I worked it out I felt terribly ashamed
of the way I'd run off and left him under the boardwalk.  When he
returned I would let him know that I would be totally grown up
about it, that I got it, that everything was cool. 

       Conrad spent the day after he got back from his tour of
duty lounging by the pool.  Mom was off showing houses; after the
summer doldrums the real estate market was picking up.  I just
hung out, watching TV, watching Conrad.  I wanted to speak to
him, to let him know that everything was alright and that I
appreciated what he'd done for me, but somehow I couldn't.  I
guess I just couldn't talk about what had happened between us --
I mean, for Christ's sake, I'd shot a load in his mouth.  So we
were both hanging out, him by the pool, me in the house, both of
us waiting for something to happen -- the air was thick with it,
like humidity.  I kept thinking about taking a nonchalant dip in
the pool.  In my mind I rehearsed diving in and pulling myself
dripping up the ladder to dry out casually in the sun beside him,
but something held me back.  Maybe it was the idea of being alone
with him with only a bathing suit on.

       So I went to the kitchen for a coke.  As soon as I walked
in I saw Conrad's back at the refrigerator.  He was barefoot and
his Hawaiian shirt hung unbuttoned over his bathing suit.  I
wanted to pad quietly back out, but the thought had no sooner
formed itself than I realized that Conrad had already sensed my
presence.  I couldn't run out on him again.  Conrad continued
rooting about in the refrigerator, perhaps to give me a chance to
bolt, but then he turned around, empty handed, and looked me in
the eye.  For a moment neither of us said anything.  Then he
broke the silence.

       "You okay?"

       "Yeah.  Yeah, I'm fine.  Really.  And I'm sorry.  I'm
sorry I . . . I'm sorry I ran off like that." 

       "I was worried at first.  But then I guessed it was just
natural.  Probably just what I would have done when I was your
age, I guess."

       This was a courteous untruth.  I was pretty sure no one
had ever seen Conrad turn tail and run.

       "It's just  . . . It's just I was, like, upset about . . .
"  I paused and swallowed.  This part was hard.  ". . . about you
and Mom, that's all."

       "There's nothing wrong between me and your mother," Conrad
instantly replied.  "Me and your mom are like this."  He held out
two fingers pressed together.  His tone was stern, the tone of a
man who would brook no conversation about his wife under any
circumstances whatever.

       "Yeah.  I know.  But it . . . I . . . I didn't get it."  

       Conrad looked at me, eyebrows pulled together.  "Didn't
get what, Josh?"

       "Like, you just wanted us to be . . . to be more like . .
. ."  I stumbled.  For what precisely had Conrad wanted us to be
more like?  Surely not father and son, unless you saw getting
blown by your dad at the beach as a typical filial activity. 
"You know . . . to be more like a real family.   I mean, for us 
. .  for you and me . . . and, like, to let me know it was okay
about being . . . you wanted to let me know that you knew, and
that, you know . . . (why wasn't he helping me?)  . . . and you
wanted us to be more close, you know, more
like . . . ?"

       My straggling sentence had turned itself into a question. 
Conrad looked at me in blank puzzlement.  After a moment or two
he squinted his eyes and cocked his head just slightly to the
side.

       "You mean you think I wanted to be your daddy?  To send
you a message?  Josh, Sport, you been reading too many of them
damn novels!"

       I didn't know what to say to this.  In my confusion I
finally stammered "  Then 
why . . . ?

       "Why?"  He paused, considered.  Then he took aim and
fired:  "Because I couldn't keep my hands off you any longer, you
sexy little fucker, that's why.  

       "Hunh?"

       "Yeah, from the moment I set eyes on you I wanted you.  I
hadn't wanted a boy for a long, long time, but you look just like
. . . well, like someone I was once real close to, back in high
school.  It doesn't matter who.  And you had a way about you,
like you were sulking but trying real hard not to let it show . .
. it got right to me.  But I never would have done anything about
it.  That is, not until I noticed you sort of studying my
zipper."  The customary twinkle had returned to Conrad's eye.

       I had of course guessed that he must have had something to
go on to have dared to do what he did, but it shocked me to hear
it put so baldly. 

       "So I reckoned I'd show you what you seemed to want to
see.  I started leaving the door open when I changed clothes,
even pissing with the door open.  To give you your chance.  I'd
stroke it a bit, keep it nice and big.  I could tell you wanted
to see it.  And I was pretty sure it'd beat anything you'd have
seen in gym class.  I was beginning to think you'd never come
along at the right moment, but then you did.  Oh yeah, I heard
you in the hall alright.  Heard you stop.  I figured you could
only have stopped to watch me, there was no other reason for you
to stop like that.  And after I flushed and you ran inside your
room, I just walked on up and put my ear to the door.  You sure
weren't doin' your homework, Sport."  He said this last with a
broad grin.  Conrad flopped his tongue wetly in and out against
his upper lip, making a lewd slip-slop sound.  "I knew then that
you were at least a little bit more interested in me than you'd
been willing to let on.  And I just took the first chance that
came along to do what came natural."

       While he was telling me this my blood began to beat a
rhythm in my ear.  It all came back to me, the dizzy way I'd felt
on the boardwalk.  And it seemed to me the whole elaborate
explanation I'd spun about Conrad's motives was nothing more than
a defense against this sick dizzy feeling, the confusion I felt
when I came face to face with the heat of his desire . . . and
mine.

       So after shaking the piss from his dick, Conrad had
listened through the door while I'd jerked off leaning against
it!  Jerked off in a frenzy over the forbidden sight of his
grown-up cock!  The shaming thought was incredibly exciting.  I
wondered if he had heard me lie down on the bed immediately
afterward to do it again.  And here he was telling me about it,
and suggesting it had led to what "came natural."  What then was
natural now?  Was there an invitation in his words?  The thought
made my cock pump up and ache for it.  Surely he could guess that
it would arouse me to hear him talk this way . . . he must want
me to be turned on to him.  Thinking about how he knew he was
turning me on made me all the more aroused -- it was like a chain
reaction.    

       Conrad's eyes dipped to where my cock was straining
against my shorts.  From the shine in his eyes I was pretty sure
that he was hard too, but I was afraid it would commit me to
something if  I looked.  The refrigerator hummed against the
pregnant silence, and then the more vigorous purr of the
air-conditioning kicked in.  The breeze from the vent caught his
flimsy open shirt and blew it slightly back, so that the fabric
caught on his left nipple, which held it open, like a curtain.  I
stared at that nipple as though mesmerized -- I knew it was out
of bounds but I couldn't look away.  Besides, if Conrad had all
along caught my furtive glances, what point was there in
pretending not to look now?  Conrad followed my gaze.  A long
moment passed, and then he simply shook the shirt back off his
shoulders and let it slither to the floor.  He didn't say
anything -- he didn't have to.  The gesture said it all.  "Go
ahead . . . or not.  We both want it.  Choose."  

       So now it was in the open between us.  I couldn't swallow. 
I could hardly breath.  I stared at his chest, at the swirls of
hair all over his chest and stomach, at the barely noticeable
rise and fall of the beefy slabs of his pecs.  His shoulders were
lightly dotted with freckles.  You could just make them out
through the tan.  But his nipples fascinated me more than
anything else.  They were so big, as big as the erasers on those
real thick pencils they teach you to write with in first grade.  
I looked down at the shirt on the floor, then up again.  And sure
enough, his cock jutted out the material of his swimsuit.

       My own cock was pulsating to my heart beat, and I longed
to take his nipple into my mouth and suck it.  To chew on it. 
But I was frozen.  It was too weird.  There was something so
strange in his offering me his chest right there in the middle of
Mom's kitchen!  But then I panicked that Conrad might decide he'd
given me enough of a chance, that he might pick up his shirt and
coolly walk away.  I felt sick with need -- to have him, to cum
-- the thought that he might suck my cock again was intoxicating. 
But I was paralysed.  I felt as if we were at the edge of some
divide; we were off the path, but not yet in the thicket.  My
mouth hung open as I looked back up at his face, pleading.  He
must have read my look, because he raised his hand and rested it
lightly on the back of my neck.  

       Did he pull me, or did his hand merely rest there as I
slowly bent to take his nipple in my mouth?  I don't know, and as
I ran my tongue over it I forgot everything except the sensations
of the moment.  I pushed the sturdy nipple back and forth with my
tongue, tasted it, then sucked at it.  Conrad sighed his
satisfaction.  From pleasure, perhaps, or perhaps with relief at
having won on the strength of a dubious hand.  A mild scent of
chlorine and sun- warmed skin rose off him as I buried my nose in
his chest hair.  

       I sucked on his nipple cautiously at first, but with
increasing freedom, testing the rubbery nubbin with my teeth and
swirling my tongue over it.  As I licked and suckled at it I felt
it harden in my mouth.  I started to lap the hairy pec it sat on,
slicking his hair down with my saliva.  Then, embracing him, I
returned to the chewy knob.  My nose was jammed against his
chest.  Whether or not he had pulled me to him, he was holding me
there now.  Then suddenly I was airborne.  With one arm under my
knees and the other about my shoulders, Conrad picked me up as
easily as a duffle bag and carried me through the house. 

       As he swept me along in his arms with a powerful loping
stride, I lolled my head against his shoulder to drink in the
smell of his underarm.  I couldn't remember when I had last been
picked up and carried, and it stirred vague yet potent memories
of my father carrying me through the house.  He lay me down on
the living room rug, and pulled a pillow off the sofa and put it
under my head.  I let Conrad pull off my tee shirt and shorts --
everything about me but my dick was limp.  Then he pulled down
his bathing suit.  This was the first time I'd ever seen Conrad
totally naked.  It was astonishing what thick and bushy pubic
hair he had, and how white his ass and belly gleamed against the
deep tan of his chest and legs.  His hard-on swung out in front
of him, like a club, and his enormous balls hung low.  

       As helpless as a dreamer I lay there stunned while he
knelt beside me.  Conrad lightly ran his big hands over my body
in sweeping stokes, from my thighs to my chest and down again,
drawing thrills of electricity in their wake.  He took my
straining cock in his cupped hand and started jerking on it,
pulling it insistently away from my body.  His stroke was rough
and could have been painful if I hadn't been so thoroughly
aroused.  As it was, the roughness of his stroke matched the
intensity of my desire for it.  He was quickly ratcheting me up
to the point where I would shoot.  

       Then he let go of my cock and swung his huge body over me,
so that his thighs were on either side of my of head.  Although
his ass grazed my chest, his lower legs bore the brunt of his
weight.  He towered over me as he stroked his massive cock right
at my face, just inches from my mouth.

       "This is what you really want to suck on, hunh, Sport . .
. this big fat cock of mine.  Isn't it . . . isn't it."

       I nodded, witless.

       "Go on, say it.  Tell me."    

       "Unh-hunh."

       "Tell me."

       "I want . . ."  Why was it so hard to say?  I guess
because at that unreal moment there was nothing left of me but my
throbbing cock and wordless cravings.  Looking up at him I tried
to focus, and finally brought it out:  "I want . . . I want it."

       "Come on and say it, Josh. Tell me how you want to suck my
cock.  Go on.  Tell me how you want to suck my cock."  Conrad was
coaxing but firm, as though training a puppy.  "Tell me how you
want to suck my cock."  Panting, I felt the last reserve drain
from me like water from a broken pot.  

       "I want . . . to suck your cock."

       "There, that wasn't so hard now, was it, Sport?" crooned
Conrad as he fed his cock head to my open lips.  He held the
thick base of his cock with his fist, and gradually fed me just
the head, then stopped.  I had to open wide for it, and he put
the head part way in and pulled it out again several times before
he let me really close my lips around it.  With his other hand he
held the back of my head, not forcing me, but rather supporting
me.  Cautiously I licked and sucked on the bulbous head filling
my mouth.  With the tip of my tongue I searched out the piss
slit, then licked the undershaft and finally sucked on the whole
round head.  At first I was afraid that after a moment he might
sink the rest of it down my throat, and that I would gag or even
puke on it, but Conrad never gave me more than I could handle.  I
only hoped I was doing it right and that it felt good to him.

       "Yeah, that's what you wanted, isn't it, Sport.  You
wanted that for a while now, didn't you?  You even beat off
thinking about it, didn't you?  And you thought I didn't know. 
But I knew.  Oh yeah, I knew alright.  Now suck it.  Suck it. 
Lick it.  Suck it.  That's right.  That's right.  Use you tongue. 
Suck it.  Yeah.  Yeaahhhh."

        I sucked and licked on the big, firm, plum-shaped head of
Conrad's cock.  It filled my mouth.  Sometimes he half fucked my
lips with it, pulling it a bit back out and inserting it again,
but mostly he just held it in my mouth and let me suck on it. 
Soon I was rewarded by a little slippery salty taste that I
recognized as pre-cum.  This was a great relief, because I knew
it signaled Conrad's pleasure.  It made me want to suck harder. 
I realized that I very much wanted for Conrad to cum in my mouth,
and then I knew how it must have been for Conrad when, on the
beach, he gripped my butt and pulled me deep into his mouth, in
those shuddering moments just before I came.

       "Whoa, slow down there, Sport -- do it like before.  Yeah. 
Yeah.  That's it.  
Yeaahhhh . . ."

       Obediently I resumed the easier lick and suck motion I had
been using.  Conrad stopped giving me instructions, but merely
drawled "Yeaahhhh" over and over again.  His low tone suggested
immense power held in reserve, like the purr of a leopard, or the
rev of an expensive sports car growling at the light.  With
anxiety and desire I wondered if I could swallow all of it if he
came in my mouth.  As much as I longed for it, when I remembered
how much he'd cum at the beach, I was afraid.  But instead,
Conrad pulled out of my mouth, crawled backwards, and lay down on
top of me, pinning me to the floor with his massive body.  He
began to eat at my neck and shoulder, and dry-hump me, rubbing
his undercock in a silky rhythm up and down my belly.  

       Conrad closed his mouth on the sinews of my neck and
shoulders and half bit and half sucked on them.  He thrust his
tongue hard and deep against my throat.  I could hardly believe
what intense pleasure he was causing in my neck.  It sort of
tickled, yet mostly it threw flashes of delight up and down my
body.  I wanted to scrunch up to protect my vulnerable neck and
throat from his attack, but I forced myself not to, because it
felt so good.  Conrad reached under and grabbed my cock again and
jerked it vigorously as he continued to fuck my belly and mouth
my neck.  I was half disoriented from the intensity of the
sensations.  Then for a moment I heard the sound of the sea as
Conrad pushed his tongue deep into my ear.  

       Squirming and pinioned by his weight, I gave myself up to
it.  Conrad licked my face, licked my sideburns, pushed his
tongue deep up under my chin, chewed on my neck.  He pinned back
my arms and lapped at the cornsilk hairs that had at last begun
to grow in my armpits.  All this without ceasing to rut his cock
up and down my belly.  He was a hungry lion, and I was his
helpless prey.  All I could do was moan for it, moan, and try to
meet his fucking motion with answering upward thrusts.  I felt
his thick cock shearing hard along my belly in repeated strokes,
and wondered how this compared for him with having sex with Mom. 

       Then he paused and, supporting himself over me with his
elbows, gazed down into my face.  I looked back up at him in
total surrender.  He lowered his face towards mine, never for a
moment taking his eyes from mine.  His lips parted; I could see a
thin string of saliva hanging from one lip to the other, and
behind it the dim lustre of his teeth.  He was breathing hard,
and I felt the moist warmth of his breath on my face. "He's going
to kiss me," I thought, "he's going to French me like he kisses
Mom."  It had never occurred to me that Conrad would want to kiss
me that way.  In actual fact, I'd never seen Conrad do it even to
Mom, although I had imagined it was one of the many sexual things
they did when they were alone.  

       Even more than his cock, the thought of Conrad putting his
tongue in my mouth was overwhelmingly hot, and all of a sudden I
knew I was going to cum.  The very weight of him had become
almost too sexy to bear, and the sense of my cock mashed up hard
against his hairy naked body was more than I could take.  A
squirt of excruciating pleasure, and I grunted hunh - hunh - hunh
- hunh - hunh - hunh as stream after stream of cum gushed out
between us. 

       Conrad froze over me as he felt my cum shoot out against
his belly.  His pupils dilated as the liquid pulsed urgently
beneath him.  He hung fire -- maybe he thought that since I was
shooting my load I wouldn't want him anymore.  But I did -- and I
had to let him know it.  So with both hands I grasped his meaty
butt and pushed my cock, drooling but still hard, into the hairy
fold of his groin, and opened my mouth.  His eyes widened as he
read how much I wanted it, and after hanging suspended for
another split second, he dove down and kissed me square on the
mouth.  It was as if he was going for my tonsils.  His lips
mashed down in an airlock as his tongue swirled over my teeth and
gums and tongue.  Instinctively I licked back.  I couldn't tell
anymore where I stopped and where Conrad began.  I didn't care.

       He started humping me again, shearing down hard into the
creamy mess on my belly, sliding his cock up and down.  I thrust
my cock up into his bush and the crease where his thigh met his
trunk.  I could hardly tell where the pleasure was coming from,
whether from his fucking down on me or from my own upward
thrusts.  The cum on my stomach began to get thick and jammy from
the stirring it was getting from Conrad's cock.  His lunges got
shorter and more controlled, and he murmured words I couldn't
quite make out.  He no longer slid his cock in broad stokes up
and down, but rather ground it into one sticky spot, then even
that slowed to the merest vibration.  He was evidently close.  He
twitched a couple of times but held on, and I knew he must be
ready to cum and prolonging it.  I tensed, waiting.  Then I felt
it: -- his cum shot out in hot wet spurts like blood from a
sliced artery.  He panted over me as he splattered me with his
cum.  Then he rolled off onto his back and, cock in hand, milked
out the last few spasms.

       Feeling Conrad shoot made me need to cum again badly.  I
scooped up some of his load, rubbed it on my dick, and jerked off
with the slimy goo.  Conrad reached over and ran his fingers
through the rest of his cum, which lay in streaks all over my
chest and neck.  He put two dripping fingers to my lips.  Eagerly
I sucked them into my mouth and licked them clean.  His cum was
tangier than mine, and thicker.  It felt slippery against my
tongue and teeth.  He left his fingers all the way in my mouth
even after I'd licked off the cum, and I sucked on them as I beat
off, yanking my cock like crazy.  "He's teaching me how to do
it," I thought.  I remembered him feeding me the thick
plum-shaped head of his cock.  And with that I shot another load.


       Conrad lay on his side, watching me, holding his head up
in the palm of his hand, elbow to the floor.  When I stopped
gasping and came to my senses I looked over at him.  His eyes
twinkled merrily, as if to tease me for my earlier hesitation. 
We both laughed, then stopped.  Conrad's eyes grew serious and
his grin melted away.  He leaned over and put his lips to mine. 
Gently he licked my lips with his tongue, as if politely
knocking.  I opened the door a tad to let him in.  He pulled back
and looked me in the eyes again, then kissed me again, gently. 
It was as if to say "See how good this is, even now, even
afterwards?"  I felt such love for him, and as trusting as a
baby.  It was amazing, but obviously Conrad thought I was . . .
well, hot.  Hadn't he called me a sexy little fucker?  I wanted
to hear him say it again.

       "Conrad . . . ?"

       But just then from the driveway came the sound of brakes;
a moment later a car door slammed. 

       Mom was home!

To be continued  . . .