Date: Thu, 9 Feb 2017 09:40:57 -0500
From: Xavier Stewart Belle <excessbelle@gmail.com>
Subject: Uncle Terry

We fucked for the first time in the musty dark of my room while my mom was
out shopping. He smelled likes sweat and cut grass, and he grunted every
time I brought the weight of my body down on him. But it had started
earlier, in the garage, while mom was at church.


After driving home from Tony's I'd been sitting in my truck, slowly
submitting to a blinding headache, regretting every beer I'd had the night
before. I hadn't planned on a night of drinking, but Troy's dad had
surprised us with a case of beer, thanking us for spending a month of
summer Saturdays helping him clear an acre behind their house. So I'd
called home and told mom I'd be spending the night. After Troy's parents
had gone to bed, Troy and I had squeezed into a tent in the back yard. We
stayed up late, huddled around the dim light of an electric lantern,
talking, drinking, and waiting to see who would make the first move.


The next morning after I pulled into the garage I sat in my truck feeling
sorry for myself. As the engine pinged and I smelled the fumes coming out
of my own mouth, I tried, without much hope, to think of a way to get out
of the day's chores. While I took after dad, who was happy to fly out of
town at a moment's notice whenever work needed him, mom liked structure.
For me, that meant Sunday was a work day. After church--converting to
Catholicism had been mom's version of an early mid-life crisis--we'd have
brunch and then I'd take care of all the things she thought needed doing.


But that morning I didn't even have the energy to fall out of my truck, and
the thought of pushing the lawn mower around in the sun made my stomach
churn. I put my seat back to lay down for a while. Part of me hoped an
excuse would come to me as I listened to the engine tick, but mostly I
wanted to close my eyes and will the headache away.

I must have dozed off, and I woke up in a panic when I heard shoes scuffing
the concrete floor outside my truck. I tried to compose myself as I sat
up. What was I going to tell mom? She'd see the guilt on my face, smell the
beer on my breath and I'd be grounded for a month. But that wouldn't be so
bad. When dad got home, I'd be dead.


I looked out the tinted windows and tried to feel normal, hoping that
would, in turn, help me look normal. But I didn't see mom's car. Instead I
saw Uncle Terry. He stood about ten feet from my window, hands on his hips,
looking back out the open garage door. He was wearing nothing but running
shorts that stopped just above mid thigh and he was breathing hard. Sweat
matted the generous layer of hair that ran from his collar bone all the way
down over his abs. His shoulders and thick arms looked slick, and I could
see drops of sweat running down his sides to soak into the waistband of his
shorts.


Relieved, I glanced at the clock on the dashboard. I still had time until
mom got home, so I lay back in my seat. Sinking into apathy again, I waited
for Uncle Terry to turn toward me so I could wave.


He didn't turn right away. He just stood there, sweating, his chest heaving
as he caught his breath. I shifted slightly to better enjoy the view. My
dad had gotten soft years ago, but Uncle Terry still kept fit. He was
younger than dad by just a few years, but in his late thirties had the body
of a guy in his late twenties. He was the one who'd shown me how to use
weights, how to eat, and sometimes we still ran together. He was almost
always shirtless and he liked the kind of shorts that let his legs get
color all the way up his thighs,

Uncle Terry had always been around. Mom had gotten pregnant young, and when
family had rejected them, dad's friends rallied. Uncle Terry, a perpetual
bachelor and a friend since school, had been the most involved. He helped
around the house, played with me, and in the early years when money was
tight, he'd entertained my parents when they couldn't afford to go
out. Sometimes I thought of him as an older cousin, but more often he acted
as a second, more attractive father figure.


So I didn't mind the opportunity to look him over. Growing up I took every
chance I got. I'd always loved his deep voice, his big hands, and the
casual, dominating presence of a man comfortable in his own body, but when
I realized I liked guys, I really started paying attention. As I grew into
myself I used to imagine that we would go on camping trips, just the two of
us, and he would let me explore his body. I'd try things I thought he would
enjoy, and he'd give me pointers. By the time I turned eighteen and I'd
stumbled into experiences with Tony and other guys at school, I began to
imagine that he would be impressed with my skill and my maturity. Seeing me
as an equal, he'd let me do things he never did with other people.


I pushed the thought away as my dick began to harden. I didn't want him to
see me at half mast if he came over to say hello, so I gave myself a quick
squeeze and tried to think of something else. But he still hasn't noticed
me. He'd turned so that the garage door was to his right and he was facing
the truck, then he raised one arm slightly and sniffed at his armpit. It
was a casual, intimate gesture, something you'd never do in front of other
people, and watching him do it awakened a little surge of heat in my
chest. I sat very still and began to wonder what else he might do when he
was alone. The thought was only half formed when he slipped a hand inside
his shorts and reached down between his legs. I held my breath, afraid that
if I moved he would look up and see me watching through the tinted
window. I watched as his knuckles pressed against the thin nylon of his
shorts, and my dick, already hard, lurched as he smelled under his arm
again.


When he reached up to pull his phone from the band fastened around his
bicep, I wilted a little. I wanted more. I'd never seen him so unguarded
and casually appreciative of his own body. But what else could I expect?
He'd enjoyed a little post-run grope while his endorphins ran high, but
that was the end of it. If he was horny, he'd turn off his music and head
inside to stroke off in the shower. That's what I always did.


But Uncle Terry didn't turn toward the door that led into the house. He
stood right there in the middle of the garage and kept stroking as he
studied the phone in his other hand. An achingly long minute passed as he
peered down at the little screen, absently stroking or looking out the
garage door. I thought my heart was going to explode when he glanced up at
my truck, but I relaxed as he looked away again. Unable to help myself, I
moved my hand slowly back to my dick, freeing it by pulling up the leg of
my shorts. Slowly, barely moving, I began to stroke along with him.


My whole body vibrated with an electric energy. I couldn't take my eyes
from the hard, sweat soaked man standing just a few feet from my car. A
small part of me noted, as it sometimes did, that this wasn't some guy at
the gym, he was family in everyway but blood, but the brain between my legs
didn't care. He was perfect. He had strong, thick arms and a broad
chest. The sweat matting his body hair revealed the symmetrical mounds of
his abs, and his legs, corded with muscle, tensed each time he shifted his
weight. He was exactly my type, and I'd been watching him since before I
realized I had a type.


My neck had started to ache and I was debating the wisdom of shifting my
position again when Uncle Terry took a step forward. Hand still on my dick,
I froze. In retrospect I knew I should have moved my hand from my dick,
should have reached for my phone and pretended not to have seen him, should
have lain back and acted like I was sleeping, but all my hung over, hormone
soaked mind could process was the sight of that hard, toned man walking
toward me with his hand down his shorts.


And then he was there, right next to my truck.


All he had to do was look up and even through the tinted windows he would
have seen me staring back at him, my hand on my dick. But he didn't look
up. Still staring at his phone, he turned and leaned against my door. As
his back settled against it, the whole truck wobbled.


I froze, holding my breath. He was right there, right next to me. I sat
still, light headed with adrenaline and waited to see what happened
next. When his right shoulder began to move back and forth in a slow,
steady rhythm, I felt my mouth open. Just inches away from me, leaning
against my truck, he was jerking off.


It took about fifteen seconds for me to process the unbelievable situation
and develop a burning need to know what he was looking at. What--aside from
the smell of his own arm pits--got him off? I waited long enough to observe
his pace and convince myself that he wasn't racing to a finish, then I
began very carefully to raise myself up in my seat. Miraculously, nothing
beneath me groaned or creaked. When I was sitting up, I paused. This was a
once in a lifetime event. Should I risk shaking the car in order to look
over his shoulder, or should I lay back and stroke one out while I felt his
pleasure shake my truck?


I decided to attempt both.


I ran my hand up and down my shaft and watched my uncle's shoulder bunch
and roll. He varied his rhythm, speeding up and slowing down, and I matched
it, squeezing the head of my dick on every upstroke so I could last. When I
couldn't stand the anticipation any longer, I let go of my dick and gripped
the armrests on each side of me. Then, slowly, with an effort that made my
shoulders ache and my head pound, I began to push myself up off my seat.


It was a stupid thing to do.


As soon as I shifted my weight to the door, the metal groaned and shuddered
and Uncle Terry whirled around almost before I realized what was
happening. He stared at my dick where it stood at full mast in the center
of my lap. Eyes wide, he looked up to my face. Then, as we stared at each
other, I saw realization wash over his face. With my heart beating
violently in my chest and not knowing what else to do, I fell back into my
seat.


On the other side of the window Uncle Terry continued to stare. He looked
at my dick again, still throbbing in time with my heart, then opened his
mouth to speak. I expected him to shout an accusation, to launch into some
kind of tirade about what I'd been doing, but he didn't say
anything. Instead he shut his mouth, straightened his back, and pulled his
hand from his running shorts. Then, despite the obvious bulge pointing up
toward his hip, he walked around the front of the truck to the passenger
side door. In the few seconds before he climbed in, I tugged the leg of my
shorts back down over my dick and hunkered down for way I expected to be
the most embarrassing conversation of my life.


When he climbed in and the door closed, I sat, mortified, with both arms
across my lap to hide my bulge. I could feel him watching me.


"So," he said, his voice neutral, "What just happened here?"


The silence in the cab of my truck roared around us.


"I'm sorry," I said, my voice barely a whisper.


"For what?" Then he added: "You like watching people?"


I winced and hung my head.


"I am so, so sorry," I said. "I'm just really hung over and I wasn't
thinking straight and--"


Uncle Terry interrupted me. "Obviously not."


The paternal tone in his voice made me wince and I stared at the steering
wheel in front of me. I thought about all of the one-on-one conversations
we'd had over the years: about sports, lifting, my parents, my friends,
school, my dreams for college. He'd always offered a friendly ear or a
shoulder to lean on, and now that my lust was beginning to fade I realized
that all of that might be about to disappear.


"I'm sorry," I said again. "It won't happen again."


"What, exactly, won't happen again?"


Still unable to look at him, I gestured awkwardly at my crotch and then in
his direction. "This."


"Why don't you go ahead and explain to me what 'this' was."


I swallowed. He didn't seem as angry as I thought he'd be. Maybe this was
salvageable. Maybe honesty really was, in this case, the best policy.


"I saw you come in," I said, "and you didn't see me. Then you started..." I
rolled my free hand wordlessly as I groped for a euphemism.


"I was jerking off. You can say it."


"...then you started jerking off," I said, stunned at his frankness but
grateful for permission to say the words bouncing around in my head. "And I
got excited."


I chanced a look in his direction and saw his dick still outlined by the
thin fabric of his shorts.


"And why were you excited?"


His words were low and soft, but insistent. Maybe it was my hangover, maybe
it was my adolescent desire to escape my embarrassment, but I felt a sudden
surge of resentment at his tone. Why was he making me say all of this out
loud? Why couldn't he just let me apologize for an embarrassing situation
and let it go? And why had he gotten into the truck? Couldn't he have gone
inside so we could talk after my hard on went away? Why would he think it
was a good idea to sit next to me in those barely-there shorts?


"Fuck," I said, despairing, angry, and unable to stop myself. "Why do you
think I was fucking excited?"


"Alright," he said, lifting his hands. "Alright. You don't need to get
upset." We sat there in deafening silence for a few heart beats before I
heard him take a breath. "So you liked what you saw," he said.


It was true, and a selfish, horny, reckless part of me wanted him to know
it. Another part of me resented the question just the same. How long was he
going to drag this out?


All I could do was nod.


He was quiet for a minute, so I chanced a look over at him, at his
near-nakedness and the still-impressive bulge under those nylon shorts. My
dick jumped. Embarrassed all over again, I hunched over farther to shield
my hard on from inspection.


"Well," he finally said. "I'm flattered. A guy like you getting off to a
guy like me."


That sentence blew through me like a cold wind and I froze, all my anger
and embarrassment gone.


He settled back into his seat, spread his legs slightly, and gestured at
himself with both hands.


"So," he said, "this does it for you?"


Invited now to look him over, I gave him my full attention. I ran my eyes
over his powerful body, starting with his legs and moving up over his bulge
to the hard planes of his chest. Unsure what to say, I just nodded again
and let my eyes linger on the thin fabric struggling to contain his
dick. Had it just twitched? Finally, as the silence stretched between us, I
said the only stupid thing I could manage.


"Yeah," I said.


"Yeah," he echoed. "I can tell."


I looked him in the face for the first time and realized he was studying my
crotch.


"Here," he said, putting a warm hand on my shoulder. "Sit back. You don't
have to be embarrassed. It's just us."


Still covering myself with my forearms, I let him push me back into my
seat. Curiosity and anxiety waffled around in my stomach. This wasn't the
way I imagined this nightmare scenario unfolding. I expected a lecture
about decency, privacy, boundaries. Instead I heard compassion and patience
in his voice, along with something else I couldn't quite place.


I thought about my next move carefully. I had a half formed hunch in the
back of my head, too tenuous for words, but as I felt his eyes continue to
bear down on my crotch, I decided to take a risk. I was already in pretty
deep--what else did I have to lose? Holding my breath, I let my hands fall
to my sides. My dick, still more than half hard, lifted up the leg of my
shorts.


I don't know what kind reaction I expected, but I liked the one I got.


"Jesus," he said. "That all because of me?"


Emboldened, I looked him in the eye for a long moment, then looked down
again. I nodded. When he didn't say anything, I looked down at the
impressive length that had come back to full attention in his shorts. It
jumped as I looked at it. I licked my dry lips, unable to take my eyes
away.


"And where'd that come from?" I asked. My voice came out smaller than I
wanted it to be, but it was steady.


Uncle Terry looked down at the narrow expanse of fabric that barely
contained him and then looked up again at me. He frowned slightly, then
lifted his phone so I could see the dark screen.


"You didn't see?"


I shook my head again. "Was trying to."


Uncle Terry nodded, still frowning, and looked down again. I could see his
eyes moving quickly around the floor and I wondered what he was trying to
work out in his head. Was I old enough to see what he was looking at? Would
I understand? Was he afraid I'd tell someone what he looked at when he was
alone? Fear, anxiety and excitement all snarled into a knot in my
chest. Finally, he shifted again in his seat, making his dick bounce, and
looked up at me.


"Can you keep a secret?"


I nodded.


"You sure? If I tell you, we're in this together."


I nodded again, excitement tightening my chest.


He drew in a deep breath and his face took on a fixed, almost grim
expression. He unlocked his phone, stared at the screen for a moment, then
turned it in my direction.


I squinted at it, eager to see what got him hard. I frowned as I recognized
the picture. It was me on the field at one of my lacrosse games. Uncle
Terry thumbed to the next picture. It was me again, this time in my trunks
by my parents' pool. He swiped once more and there I was, shirtless, doing
squats with the weights in the basement.


Understanding hit me like a truck and I looked up at him, searching his
face for confirmation.


He smiled.


"Looks like maybe we're in the same boat," he said. His voice was calm, but
his eyes darted back and forth between mine.


I stared at him, trying to wrap my mind around the impossibility of the
situation. This man, a man who'd featured prominently in my fantasies my
entire sexual life, had a folder on his phone filled with pictures of me
and he looked at them when he wanted to get off. And we were sitting
together in my truck, our dicks hard, staring at each other.


Relief flooded through me, followed by a wave of excitement. I stared at
him a moment longer. I knew I had to say something. One of us had to break
the ice, or we sit there until the excitement turned to anxiety and we had
second thoughts. So I shrugged.


"Show me yours and I'll show you mine," I said.


It was a stupid thing to say, childish, but it was all I had. And it did
the trick. I could see the tension in his chest dissolve as he let his
phone drop into his lap. He grinned.


"Jesus," he said. "Yes."


Without stopping to think, afraid in the back of my mind that if we stopped
we'd come to our senses, I lifted my ass off the seat and pushed my shorts
down to the middle of my thighs. My dick sprang up and it bounced around
before settling against my stomach. I gripped it at the base and
squeezed. I was proud of my dick and I liked showing it off, but I resisted
the urge to start stroking. I looked expectantly over at Uncle Terry.


"Your turn," I said.


He stared at the pipe in my hands a few seconds longer, then pulled himself
together. He looked over his shoulder through the back window of the truck
and jabbed a finger at the gray controller velcroed next to the rear view
mirror. With a clanking hum, the garage door behind us began to close.


"Just to be safe," he said, and then he held himself up off the seat so he
could push his shorts down around his knees.


The dick that leapt into view was beautiful. It was about seven inches long
and massively thick from base to tip. It had a large vein snaking around
the side and the head was a perfectly round bell shape.


"That's a nice piece," I said.


He lifted a hand, then let it rest on the console between us as he looked
up at me. "Can I?"


I scooted down lower in my seat and pulled my shirt up to give him better
access. I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came to me, so I
just nodded.


His hand was hot as it wrapped around my shaft. He held me firmly,
knowingly, and I let my head rest against the back of my seat as he began
to pump up and down, slowly at first, then with more enthusiasm. I felt
light headed, but grounded in a way I'd never experienced before. Besides
Troy, I'd been fooling around with a few guys from school--a guy on the
swim team loved to give me head in the locker room after school, and a guy
on the intramural rugby team swore like a trucker when I drilled him in his
car--but I'd never experienced anything like this. I couldn't believe it
was happening. I fought through my hangover to stay in it, to savor it and
let every sensation soak into me. My mind swam as Uncle Terry continued to
stroke me and I reveled in the danger of what we were doing, of sitting
half naked in my truck while this strong, mature man in his prime, gave me
a hand job. It was the fulfillment of all my adolescent fantasies.


But even as a wave of pleasure began to build at the base of my dick,
another part of my mind began to turn. What else would he be into? What
else could we do? I thought about all the fantasies I'd invented when I was
younger, and I returned to them, trying to imagine how I could use my body
to make him happy, to make him proud of my strength and my sexual appetite.


My orgasm began to build behind my balls, but I wasn't ready to finish
yet--we'd just started. So I caught Uncle Terry by the wrist and I held his
fist down at the base of my dick. When I looked over at him he was staring
at me with an intensity I'd never seen before. His eyes roamed all over my
face, moving from my open mouth, to my eyes, to my cheeks, and all around
again, like he was seeing me for the first time. Finally, his eyes settled
on mine and he just stared at me, waiting. When I didn't say anything, a
line of worry appeared between his eyebrows and I realized that I liked
that. I liked that my reactions could excite him or fill him with doubt.


"This is incredible," I said, and he broke into a wide smile. "I just don't
want it to stop yet," I said. "Let me take a break."


"Yeah," he said. "Sure. No problem." He gave me one last squeeze, then sat
back.


I don't know if he did it on purpose or if it was something he just
couldn't help, but as he settled into his seat he brought his hand up to
his face. As his palm met his mouth and he stroked the stubble on his chin,
he hauled the scent of my dick in through his nose. For just a second his
eyelids grew heavy, then he sighed and let his hand drop onto his
thigh. Still staring at my dick, he used his right thumb to push at the
base of his own shaft until it pointed at the dash board, veins bulging.


I waited for him to start stroking or to invite me to touch him, but he
just sat there staring down at his lap, making his dick bounce.


I put an elbow on the arm rest between us and leaned toward him. "What do
you want me to do?"


He looked up at me. "Whatever you want," he said.


My stomach did a little flip as I absorbed what he'd just said.


The patronizing tone was gone and in its place I heard a request. He wasn't
allowing me to do whatever I liked, he was asking me to. I knew then,
instinctively, wordlessly, that something fundamental about our
relationship had just shifted. I could see it in the way his eyes searched
my face and in the way his lips had parted in anticipation. I could see it
in the tightening of his his chest and in the rigid set of his
shoulders. He was waiting, his whole body bent toward my response.


"Put your seat back," I said, adrenaline pushing my hangover to the edges
of my awareness.


Without a word, he pulled on a lever next to the door and his seat reclined
to an almost horizontal position. He looked up at me expectantly, his dick
pointing at the ceiling, and I drew a breath to tell him exactly what I
wanted.


The words had just formed in the back of my mouth when a metallic clang
filled the garage and jolted us both upright in our seats. We stared at
each other, our eyes wide with horror, as the garage door behind us began
to open. We barely had time to lay back in our seats before mom's car
pulled into the space next to us.


For two excruciating minutes we lay in our seats, shorts around our knees
and hands covering our laps, as we listened to the sound of rustling
plastic bags. Too scared to move, I looked up at the felt ceiling of my
truck and prayed mom wouldn't notice through the tinted glass that both of
the fronts seats of my truck were down. When the last car door closed and
the house door clicked open and then shut, we scrambled to pull up our
shorts.


"Alright," Uncle Terry said, putting his seat back in position. "Let's
go. She'll wonder where you are."


His tone had shifted again. The breathlessness was gone, replaced by the
authoritative depth I'd always known.


"Hold on," I said. "I'm trying not to get sick."


Uncle Terry stopped, his hand on the door handle, and turned back to looked
at me.


"What?"


"Hangover," I said.


He smiled, relaxing just slightly.


"Better get your shit together. That grass is pretty long."


"Honestly," I said, "I don't know if I can."


Uncle Terry frowned at me.


"You really that bad? You seemed fine a minute ago."


"Pretty bad," I said, putting an elbow over my eyes as I willed my stomach
to settle. "And I had better motivation a minute ago."


Uncle Terry made a thoughtful noise that came out of his chest.


"Alright," he said, "l'll see what I can do. Pull it together for now."
When I didn't sit up he reached over and punched me in the
shoulder. "Move."


We climbed out of the truck as quietly as we could and huddled by the door
to the house. Uncle Terry opened it a crack and we both leaned in to
listen. From the kitchen I heard the sound of plastic bags rustling, mom
humming. Uncle Terry opened the door wider and pushed me through.


"Up to your room," he said in a whisper. "I'll tell your mom you didn't get
enough water yesterday. You're dehydrated and need to rest. I'll do the
lawn."


I nodded gratefully as he joined me in the hallway and closed the door
behind him. When he took a step toward the kitchen I caught his arm and
pulled him around to look at me. I had questions, but I lost my nerve when
the Uncle Terry that turned to face me wasn't the eager, open mouthed man
I'd seen for the first time in my truck.


I took a breath to ask him the question I couldn't swallow, but it came out
as a stutter. "Are we--when--"


Uncle Terry twisted his arm out of my grasp.


"Upstairs," he said. "Now."


So I went, and a cloud of anxiety followed me all the way to my room.


Not long after, mom knocked on my door. She put a pitcher of ice water on
the table next to my bed and felt my forehead with the back of her
hand. She told me I should know better than to work outside without getting
enough water and that I should shower before I slept. After she left, I
drank two glasses of water and lay back in bed, staring up at the shadowy
ceiling as the sound of the lawn mower droned in the yard beneath my
window.


I don't know how long I slept before a knock at the door woke me.


I squinted into the light coming through the door. I could see Uncle
Terry's silhouette in the hall. He was still wearing only his running
shorts.


"Hey," he said. "You awake?"


"Am now," I said.


He moved into the room and closed the door behind him, then came and sat on
the edge of my bed.


"How you feeling, bud?" His voice was low and soft. Intimate.


"Better," I said. "Thanks for running interference."


I watched the dark shape of his head nod.


"Any time."


And I did feel better. Almost human. A nap and a little bit of water had
cleared my head, and now I looked up at my uncle, wondering what would
happen next. In the soft warmth of his voice I thought I could hear the man
who'd sat in my truck and invited me to do anything I wanted to his body,
but I couldn't be sure. Maybe he regretted what we'd done. Maybe this was
my uncle from the hall downstairs, the one who pulled out of my reach and
didn't have time for my questions.


But he was here now, maybe wondering how to recapture a lost moment. I
decided there was only one way to find out.


Stretching, I tucked my hands behind my head. As my shirt rode up to expose
my stomach, I let my knew settle against his ass.


After a moment's hesitation, Uncle Terry reached out to lay his hand on my
left hip. His fingers grazed my stomach and sent a jolt up into my
chest. As the heat of his hand soaked through my shorts and into my skin,
he shifted on the edge of the bed and leaned forward slightly.


"Your mom's gone out."


My dick, which had begun to swell at his touch, hardened. As I processed
the implications of his conspiratorial tone, the confidence I'd felt in my
truck began to creep back. I wanted to reach for the prize hiding in those
tiny shorts, but the memory of his face in the hallway downstairs kept my
hands where they were.


"Where'd she go?" I asked.


"Shopping. She'll be a few hours."


I considered his posture as he let the statement hang between us. He'd
assumed that same tense, expectant hunch he'd had in my truck.


"Alright," I said. And I waited again.


I heard him open his mouth and take a breath, but then he paused. A few
moments passed. Then, with a decisive movement, he lifted his hand from my
hip and laid it on my stomach. He let it rest there, his palm flat and his
fingers spread wide to cover my abs. My dick thickened a little more.


"Listen," he said. "In the garage." He was quiet for a half beat, then:
"What we were doing. What I did. Did you like that?"


That was good enough, I decided.


"I loved it," I said. "Wish we could do it again."


Uncle Terry sighed and I could hear the smile in his voice.


"Well," he said, "we can do it now. How about that?"


"Maybe I should shower."


"No," he said. "I like you like this. You smell amazing."


I thought about the way he'd sniffed at himself in the garage.


"Ok," I said. And I waited again.


Slowly, maybe trying not to seem too eager, he hooked his fingers inside
the waistband of my shorts and used both hands to pull my shorts down to my
knees. Then, putting a supporting hand on each side of my hips, he leaned
down to run his nose along my shaft where it lay against my stomach. He
grunted.


"You smell incredible."


"Yeah?"


"Like you've been working. I can smell the sweat on you. The heat." Letting
the stubble on his jaw scrape along the side of my dick, he lowered his
face until his nose and mouth were buried between my balls and my leg. He
inhaled a long, deep breath, then sighed.


My dick, hard as it had ever been, bounced as he nuzzled his face around my
crotch, tasting and smelling as he went. The heat of his mouth, of his
breath, alternated with the little chills of his inhalations. Finally he
raised himself up on one hand and wrapped a fist around the base of my
dick.


"One of these days we'll take a shower and then run a few miles in the
sun," he said. "Work up a nice sweat. Then we'll do this and you'll see
what I mean."


One of these days, he'd said. Whatever this was, he wanted it to last. He
wanted to do it again.


I looked up at him, with my arms behind my head and my dick in his
hand. "And what do you want to do now?"


"Anything," he said. "Everything."


I thought about that. He was already there between my legs and he liked the
smell of me. It would have been easy to reach up and pull his mouth down
onto my dick. But then I thought about all the things I'd imagined us doing
in my adolescent fantasies. I thought about the daring positions I'd
invented and the sounds I wanted to hear coming out of his mouth. I wanted
to see him, to feel him, all of him, pressed against me, under me, moaning
my name as he gripped my body with those strong hands. A blow job, as
incredible as it would be, seemed too easy.


And there was something about the way he asked me what I wanted, something
about the way he sat there with a hard dick in front of him and still
waited for me to decide.


I propped myself up on my elbows. "What would you do if this was the only
chance we had?"


The room was quiet after the rustling of my sheets died. Beyond my bedroom
door I could feel the big emptiness of the house surrounding us, cocooning
us into that quiet moment.


Uncle Terry licked his lips. His voice was low and deep when he finally
spoke.


"You ever fuck someone?"


I barely found breath to answer.


"Yes," I said.


"I want you to fuck me."


Hearing him say those words, firm, commanding, vulnerable, unlocked all the
shackles of caution and timidity I'd wrapped around myself. I sat up and
pulled his face to mine with both hands. He fell onto me, climbing onto the
bed to chase my lips.


As he explored my mouth with his tongue and his stubble scraped against
mine, I struggled to kick off my shorts. When I'd managed it, Uncle Terry
tugged me forward so he could pull my shirt off over my head. Then he
pushed me back down and leaned his forehead against my shoulder so he could
shove his own shorts down past his feet.


I would have preferred for him to keep his shorts on for a while longer. I
would have enjoyed having him partially clothed as he lay on top of me,
grinding his nylon covered dick down onto mine, as his chest, still covered
in sweat from his time in the sun, slid against me. But when he pushed his
shorts away and brought his hips down again, crushing our dicks and our
bodies together, the thought flew from my mind. All I could think about was
the heat of him, the weight of him. I moaned into his mouth and he grunted,
coming up for air.


"This is one of the hottest things I've ever done," he said, and he pushed
my face aside with his forehead so he could apply his mouth to my neck.


I arched against him as he slid his tongue, hard and wet, against my
skin. I could feel the muscles of his jaw working and I reached up around
to grip his sweaty back and pull him harder against me. I could have
climaxed that way, thrusting myself against him as I drowned in the smell
of his body. The thought of finishing that way, each of us shuddering as we
emptied ourselves onto the slick heat of my stomach, pulled another moan
from me. But that wasn't what I wanted.


I reached up to wrap my fingers in the hair at the back of his head. I
pulled his mouth from my neck.


"If you want me to fuck you," I said, "we'll need lube."


He covered my mouth with his and let his tongue dance against mine. When he
stopped, I could feel him smiling against my lips.


"Not a problem," he said, and then climbed off the bed.


I watched his dark shape walk passed the door of my bathroom to the closet
at the other end of the room. He slid the left door open and reached up to
the top shelf above my shirts. I heard him lift the lid off an old shoe
box, then he turned and came back to the bed.


"Catch," he said, and I put my hands up just in time to catch the small
shadow he tossed at me.


I held the small bottle up to my face.


"What's this?"


"Guess," he said, as he straddled me with a knee on each side of my hips.


I could feel the slick, oily texture on the outside of the bottle. I didn't
need to guess.


"What's it doing in here?"


Uncle Terry lowered himself onto me so that our dicks lay against each
other.


"Sometimes I like to relax in here while you're out," he said.


I felt my mouth drop open.


"You fucking pervert," I said. "You jerk off in here while I'm out?"


"Yeah," he said, and reached down to wrap our hard ons together in one of
his big fists.


I shook the bottle.


"This thing's half empty."


Uncle Terry began to stroke us together. "Yeah," he said, and I could hear
the smile in his voice again.


"That's so fucking hot," I said, a little breathless at the idea that we'd
been getting off in the same space and I'd never known it.


"You have no idea," he said. "We can do it together next time."


"I'm going to fuck you first," I said, feeling a little thrill as those
dangerous words left my mouth.


"We'll get there," Uncle Terry grunted. "I want to taste you first."


Backing off me so he could plant his knees between my legs, he lowered his
face into my crotch again and took me into his mouth. For a moment my world
shrank and I knew nothing but the sensation of his hot, wet mouth wrapped
around my shaft. Then, almost before I could fully appreciate it, he bobbed
once, twice, then opened his throat and swallowed me down to the root.


I threw my head back against my pillow, my mouth open wide and my voice
stuck in my throat. As he tongued the underside of my shaft and pressed his
nose into the coarse hair above my dick, I was suddenly, intensely grateful
we hadn't skipped right to the fucking.


He worked me with his mouth for a few long, slow minutes, pausing now and
then to inhale the smell of me or to pump my dick with his fist. He finally
stopped just as I began to lose myself, writhing underneath him and
struggling to push more and more of my dick into his throat. Still holding
my dick in his fist, he looked up at me.


"How'm I doing so far?"


I lay back on the bed and caught my breath, my hips still bucking like they
had a mind of their own.


"You're a fucking genius," I said.


"I didn't over do it?"


"The hell are you talking about?" I said, rolling my hips so that his hand
slid up and down my shaft.


"Are you close? You've still got a job to do."


"Yeah," I said. I lay still. "Yeah, I'm good. I wanna do it."


"Ok," he said. He sat back on his heels. "Where do you want me?


The question caught me off guard. With his tongue and his throat he'd just
shown me that he was an expert in ways I'd only ever dreamed of and that
authority had melded seamlessly with my memory of the Uncle who had taken
charge in the hallway downstairs. I'd expected to keep following orders,
but now he just sat there, between my legs, waiting for me to order him
into position.


I felt a little surge of anxiety that my performance wouldn't meet the
standards of his apparent experience, that I wouldn't live up to my own
adolescent fantasies, but he was looking at me, waiting, so I thought about
the ways I liked to manhandle Tony.


"Get on your back," I said. And then, not wanting him to think I knew only
one position, I added, "For now."


Without a word he rolled onto his side and lay next to me. I crawled over
him to kneel between his legs. He looked up at me, waiting again.


"Grab your knees," I said.


He pulled his knees to his chest, obedient and silent.


I looked down for the first time at his powerful ass, spread open in front
of me. Even through the shadows of my room I could see the darker patch of
his hole, there, right between two pale globes of muscle, and my heart
began to race. I reached out and dragged a thumb across the hair that lined
his ass and as soon as I felt the sweat-slick warmth of it I wanted to lean
forward and sink into him with one long thrust. But I waited. If he could
be patient, so could I.


I popped the cap off the lube and squirted a little jet onto his hole. He
jumped, then grunted.


"Sorry," I said.


He breathed a laugh. "It's fine. Show me what you got," he said.


With one finger I pushed the lube around his hole. When the muscle began to
give, I pushed my middle finger in to the first knuckle. I waited for him
to react. When he said nothing, I pushed in to the second knuckle. Still
nothing. With steady pressure I pushed all the way in until my fist pressed
against his ass and finally I was rewarded with a faint grunt. Encouraged,
I curled my finger the way Tony liked and pressed the knob behind Uncle
Terry's dick.


He reacted immediately, like I'd pushed a button, and threw his head
back. I watched his Adam's apple jump as his mouth fell open. I fingered
the knob again, pushing my fist against his hole as I did, and a small
breath escaped him as his head arched further back.


"How's that feel," I asked


"Fuck me," he said. "Please."


The urgency in his voice triggered something within me. I liked the way
Tony moaned like a porn star when I climbed on top of him and loved the way
my rugby buddy growled a constant stream of obscenities while I slammed my
dick into his hole, but what I heard in Uncle Terry's voice hit me in a
completely different place. He wasn't performing for me. He wasn't telling
me what I wanted to hear. He needed me, needed my dick, and that was all
that mattered to him. When I heard those words leave his mouth, something
primal in me responded.


I pulled my finger from the hot, tight grip of his hole and stroked my dick
as I thumbed the lube open again. I poured it generously along the length
of my shaft, then applied more to his hole, pushing it into him with my
thumb. Satisfied that he was ready, I rolled my hips forward so that the
head of my dick pressed against him.


"Open up for me," I said.


Without a word, Uncle Terry pulled his ass apart with both hands. I leaned
against him and his hole swallowed the first inch of my dick.


I swore and put both hands against the backs of his thighs to steady
myself. I pushed in another inch, pulled out, then pushed in again. I
repeated the cycle, taking my time so he could adjust. Half my eight inches
were inside him when he spoke.


"I'm not gonna break," he said, and I could hear a faint edge of
exasperation in his voice. "Fuck me."


Hearing that challenge, I brought my knees under me for better leverage. I
hesitated, then took a breath and slid all the way in with one thrust. As
the hair between my legs ground against his hole, I heard something between
a moan and a grunt come from Uncle Terry's throat.


I leaned forward so I could look down into his face. I saw the eager,
opened mouthed man I'd seen for the first time in my truck. He looked back
at me, his eyes heavy, his mouth slack.


"You sure you're not gonna break?" I asked


"Fuck me," he said, his voice urgent. "Hard."


So I did.


Letting the back of his knees rest on my shoulders, I leaned into him and
began to pound.


With each thrust, each slide into the intense heat of his ass, I felt the
primal part of me gain more control. I liked the way his whole body shook
beneath me as I brought my hips down on him with a slap that filled the
room. I liked the way his mouth hung open as he looked up at me, his eyes
roaming over my face the way they had in my truck. I liked the noises I
forced out of his throat when I varied my rhythm, plunging into him with
smooth, regular strokes, then pulling all the way out and hammering back in
with enough force to push him across the bed.


I spent the rest of our fuck chasing those noises. I felt a thrill of
satisfaction, of a job well done, each time a moan or a gasp or a strangled
grunt passed his lips. For a while I even kept a hand on his throat so I
could feel each moan against my palm.


I did my best to keep the end from finding us too soon. I slowed when I
needed to and pulled out when I was getting too close. While I was backing
away from the edge I fingered him, fucking my fist against his loose
asshole until I was ready to fuck again. Sometimes I pushed all the way in
then stopped, enjoying the heat of his gyrating ass while I stroked his
half hard dick.


I don't know how long we were at it, but eventually the orgasm I'd been
keeping at bay couldn't be ignored. I pulled out and plunged two fingers
into him. As he gasped, I put my other hand on his chest so I could lean
down and look him in the face.


"I'm close," I said. "Where do you want it."


He looked up at be with half-glazed eyes, his body moving back and forth as
I pumped my fingers into him.


"Inside," he said. "Fuck it into me."


"You sure? Think you can handle it?"


"Fuck you," he said, breathless. "Give it to me."


I reached down between us and began to pump his dick while I stirred my
fingers around inside his ass.


"No," he gasped, pushing at my hand. "Please. Fuck me."


I pulled out of him and sat back.


"Turn over," I said.


Obediently, he rolled over onto his stomach.


"Hold your ass open."


Without a word, he reached back with both hands and stretched himself wide.


"Stay just like that," I said, and slid back into his wet hole, trapping
his hands between us.


I lay on top of him, letting my heat and weight crush him into the bed,
then I hooked one arm over his shoulder and across his neck so I could hold
him tightly against me.


I started slowly, moving just an inch or two out of him before grinding
back down. He moaned into the sheets and I enjoyed the sound as it rose up
through his back and into my chest. I worked him that way as long as I
could, letting the heat of our bodies fuse us together, but it wasn't long
before I could feel the pressure rising in my balls again.


I pushed off him quickly. Propping myself up with a fist next to each of
his arms, I began to fuck him with the full weight of my body, pulling
almost all the way out before slamming back down.


He grunted into the bed each time my dick rammed through his hole and slid
across the hard button in his ass, and I looked down at him, enjoying the
way he used both hands to keep his ass open while I battered away at him. I
could hear his moans rising in pitch.


"I'm going to fill you up," I said.


He groaned.


"You want it?"


"Yes," he moaned.


"Tell me."


"Fuck your load into me. Please. Fill me up."


I opened my mouth to respond, but all I managed were a series of gasping
grunts. I slammed into him twice more, then stopped, struggling to hold
myself up as my dick surged and exploded. Uncle Terry bucked wildly beneath
me, his hands now clutching the sheets as he fucked himself back onto
me. He shuddered, made a strangled noise, then collapsed.


We lay there for a while, him against the sheets, me still deep inside him
as I lay against the broad muscles of his back. When I'd caught my breath I
rolled off him and lifted an arm to my forehead. I looked over at him where
he lay against my arm. He was looking away from me, so I watched his back
rise and fall as his breathing returned to normal. The hair on the back of
his neck was drenched and he smelled faintly of grass.


"How'd I do?" I asked. "Did I break you?"


After a moment he rolled away from my arm so he could face me. He looked at
me, then down at himself.


"I think you did." He gestured at the large wet patch on the bed in front
of his softening dick. "Never done that," he said.


"Done what?"


"Finished without touching myself. You fucked it right out of me."


We lay there for a while longer without speaking. I basked in the drowsy
afterglow, contentment and pride hovering in my chest. He closed his eyes
and drifted away.


We must have slept for a while. When the jarring sound of the garage door
came vibrating through the walls into my bedroom, waking us both, the light
around the edges of my window had shifted.


Uncle Terry was out of my bed and pulling his shorts up his muscular legs
before the noise had stopped. He was at the door before I could speak.


"Wait," I said, propping myself up on my elbow.


"What?"


I hesitated. That voice again. Uncle, not fuck buddy. What could I say?


Then I remembered myself, remembered the control he'd given me, the
pleasure I'd given him. I lay back on my bed as he opened the door.


"We're doing this again," I said.


I watched see his nervous agitation disappear as he looked back at me from
the hallway.


"Yeah," he said. "Soon." He pulled the door behind him until I could only
see his face. "Now get dressed. And hide that bottle somewhere."


Then he was gone.


I lay back in bed and listened for the sound of the shower turning on in
the bathroom down the hall. What I heard instead was the sound of the door
closing downstairs, then a male voice.


Dad.


My heart skipped. What would we have done if he'd found us?


Didn't matter. He hadn't.


As I lay staring up at the ceiling, sated, content, I realized I felt
better than I had all day. I slid across the bed, over the wet patch Uncle
Terry had left behind, and pulled on my shirt, then my shorts. It would be
a little strange talking to dad and making a sandwich while I had Uncle
Terry's scent all over me, but I needed to eat. And I realized I kind of
liked the idea. It was like going commando in public. My own little secret
parade.


I was halfway down the stairs when I heard voices in the kitchen. Dad and
Uncle Terry. I stopped, wondering what he was saying to dad while my load
was buried in his ass.


"Been out for a run?"


Dad.


"Not since this morning," Uncle Terry said.


"What's with the shorts?"


"Easy access. Was just spending a little time in Bobby's room. Thought I'd
use the lube you left in the closet."


My heart stopped. What?


"Oh yeah?" Dad's voice sounded amused. "Should have let you know I was on
my way." I heard the fridge open. "Where's Bobby? His truck's in the
garage, I thought he was home."


"Just saw him. He's up in his room."


Silence followed Uncle Terry's casual pronouncement. My heart thundered
through it.


When dad spoke next, his voice was slow, careful.


"What do you mean?"


"Easier to show you," Uncle Terry said. "Here, give me your hand."


The next fifteen seconds happened in a jumbled flash. I heard dad's
unbelieving "Jesus Christ!", then a pause, a shuffle of feet, and a heavy
weight falling against the kitchen table that sent its legs scraping
against the floor. I took the stairs three at a time, ready to fly into the
kitchen and pull them apart, but I froze when I saw them.


Uncle Terry was bent over at the waist, his chest on the kitchen
table. Dad, in a pressed shirt and pants, had a hand on the side of Uncle
Terry's face, holding him down. His other hand was down the back of Uncle
Terry's shorts. Both were looking away from me toward the living room.


"Bobby did this?" I could hear wonder and disbelief in dad's voice as his
hand moved around inside Uncle Terry's shorts.


"Sure did," Uncle Terry said, his words muffled by the table, dad's hand,
or both. "Put you to shame."


"Fuck you," dad said. Then: "Seems like he enjoyed himself."


"Not as much as I did. Thought maybe I'd stick around after dinner, see if
he's up for round two."


I didn't hear dad's response. It was drowned out by the sound of the garage
door rumbling to life again behind me. Before I could move, both of them
had turned toward me, composing themselves and pulling on the faces they'd
use to greet mom.


Dad's eyes met mine. Only when we heard a car door slam out in the garage
did the moment break.


"I think we have a lot to talk about," he said. "Go wait for me in your
room." He must have seen the questions forming on my face, because his face
grew stormy. "Now," he barked.


I ran up the stairs.


I sat in the dark on the edge of my bed for twenty minutes, waiting for my
door to open. When it finally did, Uncle Terry's face appeared framed by
light from the hallway.


"Your dad wants pizza," he said.


"Ok."


"Your mom's going to run out and pick it up."


"Ok."


"I'm going to jump in the shower."


Before I could answer my bedroom door swung wide.


Dad stood next to Uncle Terry. He pulled his tie loose, then began to
unbutton his shirt collar.


"Why don't you join us," he said. "I hear you might be able to give me a
few pointers."


_____


Thanks for reading! If you liked this story I think you'll like the others
I have in the pipeline. You can follow me on tumblr at xsbelle.tumblr.com
where I post pictures I like and where I'll be making announcements about
other fiction projects. Thanks again, and feel free to shoot me an email if
you'd like to say hi! (excessbelle@gmail.com)


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