Date: Mon, 17 Sep 2001 01:13:13 -0700 (PDT)
From: einhard <einhard@excite.com>
Subject: My Bill

My Bill (M/M, oral, anal)

by einhard

PLEASE NOTE: This story is fiction from beginning to end. The characters
don't exist, and the things they do, never happened.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: The lyric excerpts in this story is from the song "Bill". It
was written by P. G. Wodehouse Oscar Hammerstein II in the 1920ies, and
eventually used in "Showboat", with music by Jerome Kern. It's copyrighted.



I used to dream that I
would discover the perfect
lover someday.
I knew I'd recognize him
if ever he came round my way.

I always used to fancy then
he'd be one of
the god-like kind of men,
with a giant brain and a noble head,
like the heroes bold
in the books I've read.



"You know, I still can't understand why you stay with me", Bill said. I
sighed. In the old days, that kind of comment would herald the onset of a
depression. This time, I knew he just wanted my old speech. He wanted to
hear again how much I loved him, and why, and he wanted to hear it because
he loved hearing it.

"What do you mean?" I asked, falling into my assigned part with the ease of
long practice.

"I mean, you got it made. At 24, you've got a career. You're a lawyer. Okay,
you didn't go to an Ivy League university, but you did get a degree and a
job, and now you're making good money. You've got brains, looks, prospects.
Me, I'm a 22-year old who only got his high school diploma last week. I
don't look good, I'm not athletic or artistic, my brains are nothing to
write home about, and I've got a crappy job. Why do you stay with me?"

"Come here!" I told him. He moved over in the bed to lay with his head on my
shoulder, my arm wrapped around him.

"Now let me tell you something, Bill. You remember the guys I used to be
with before we got together? The hunks, the studs, the desirable ones? The
ones I used to pick up and have sex with once or twice, then moving on?"

He nodded.

"You know what they gave me?"

"Tell me", he prodded. As if he hadn't heard this a million times before.

"They gave me what they had to offer. Their bodies. A little of their time.
And it was good. At least most times. I enjoyed those days. But those guys
weren't friends or companions. I couldn't just be with them and be content.
And they didn't love me. They didn't offer me themselves. Not one of them.
And I didn't love them. I gave them the same as they gave me, but it wasn't
what I wanted to give. That never happened until I met you."

"Go on!" I could hear the pride in his voice. God, how that boy loves to
hear his own praises sung. I guess it's because I'm one of the few people
who seem to think he's worth it. I know my mom isn't too keen on him. She
isn't too keen on me being with a guy at all, but she seemed at one time
resigned to making the best of the situation. Only trouble is, Bill's hardly
the best I could make of it, at least not by her standards. I looked at him.
Short, skinny and plain. Heck, he's not even well hung. Not that 5 3/4
inches is anything to be ashamed of, but to a size queen like I used to be,
it had seemed laughable at the time I met him, two years back. He was a
high-shool dropout back then, working at McDonalds and living in a shitty
rented downtown apartment. The only thing he had going for him was the great
big smile he seemed to wear all the time. To me, he was at first sight
pretty much a non-entity. So how it came to pass that two weeks later I was
hopelessly in love for the first time in my life, was a mystery. I tried to
understand it for a while, but I couldn't. Now I don't try, I just accept
it.

I kissed him gently on the cheek and kept going.

"You make me laugh. You make me feel good. You make my heart race whenever
you look at me in that special way of yours. And that's not the best part of
it."

"It isn't?" Christ, what a big baby. This was just like telling a
two-year-old the same good night story for the hundred and fiftieth time.

"No, Bill. The best part of it is that I know I can make you feel good,
wanted, loved. Because I do desire you. And I do love you. That, and you
feed me well."

He tittered stupidly at that last remark and snuggled closer. His left hand
moved back to tickle my balls. I gasped as desire welled up in me once more.
Did that guy never get enough? Then again, why should he? I couldn't get
enough of him.




But along came Bill,
who's not the type at all.
You'd meet him on the street
and never notice him.
His form and face,
his manly grace,
are not the kind that you
would find in a statue.



I met him at an end-of-term party two years earlier. I was in a good mood
that night. Law school was going well for me. I wasn't in en elite
university, but it was reputable, and I was in the top third of my class. I
had prospects, and I looked forward to a comfortable career. Plus, there
were guys a-plenty to fuck around with. I barely noticed Bill at the party,
but he was there when suddenly, on the way home, the guy I was hoping to
manouver into some steamy action started depositing his insides in some
bushes. I would probably have dropped him right on top of the recent
contents of his stomach (I wasn't altogether sober myself) if Bill hadn't
rushed to the rescue. Then we got the guy home. Even if alcohol did loosen
sexual inhibitions, I preferred my tricks to be conscious, so we left him
there. One thing led to another, and two hours later I was having my ass
plugged by a dick I would have thought of as puny only hours before. I don't
know what it was that made sex with Bill so great. Maybe his enthusiasm.
Anyway, we met again a couple of days later, and then once more, and the
ball got rolling. By the following weekend, I was all trepidation at the
mere thought of seeing him, and a week after that I acknowledged the truth
that everybody else had seen a lot sooner than me: I was in love. The
sickening, puppy-dog kind of love. The kind where every moment spent without
Bill seemed wasted.

"You remember those first few weeks?" he asked. I almost gave a big sigh in
exasperation. That was exactly what I was doing, wasn't it? But then, he
could hardly tell if I didn't say anything.

"Mmm", I answered lazily, rubbing my fully erect manhood against his probing
hand. We did have places to go, but there was still time.



And I can't explain,
it's surely not his brain,
that makes me thrill.



It quickly transpired that Bill wasn't excactly a Great Mind. Not that I was
either, but compared to him, I was Einstein. He had trouble figuring out
simple sums, he barely read anything except comic books, and even then he
was a slow reader. I couldn't for the life of me understand why he wanted to
go back to high school to get a diploma. There was a very real risk he
wouldn't make it, and then all he would get out of it, was hurt. But he did
want to. So what could I do, except tutor him, bolster his confidence and
tell him constantly how well he was doing, even if he wasn't? Any
suggestions? I think I worked it out on my own. I could love him, and I
could tell him and show him constantly that I did. That, and conceal from
him that I was spending more money on the joint household than he did. Yeah,
we moved in together about three months after we met. Despite his
cheerfulness, he had zero self-confidence. He had hardly ever been told he
could do anything well, or that he himself was worth having. So, whenever he
would ask me why I bothered with him, I'd tell him why. And eventually, he
started believing me. And with the confidence that gave him, he started
doing much better in his schoolwork. Not least, I discovered the two things
in life he really excels at. For all I know, there may be others. I hope to
have at least another 50 years to figure that out, but at the moment, I know
that Bill cooks like a demon. Which proves him wrong; he is artistic. The
other talent is in his fists. You don't happen to work at a fun fair or
something, do you? Run one of those machines which is basically a big ball
that people are supposed to punch? Be on the lookout for Bill. That boy
packs such a mean wallop that he just might wreck the machine.

It's just as well he can cook, because I can't. It's become one of my
favorite activities these days, just standing in the kitchen door, watching
Bill cook and listening to him sing (not one of his great talents). It's
like he isn't even working; he's just dancing around, somehow ending up with
a wonderful meal. Except sometimes, when he's making one of his bold
experiments. Like when we watched "Four Weddings and a Funeral", and he got
so inspired by the mention of "Duck a la Banana" in the funeral speech, that
he decided to make a dish to go with the name. Don't try it.

"Tim?" Bill was stroking me slowly, and the precum was beginning to flow
again.

"Yeah?" I answered, recognizing that tone of voice.

"What time do we have to be at the Zoo?" We were babysitting for my brother
and sister-in-law for the rest of the weekend (for their kid, duh!), and the
plan was to pick up the little brat at the Zoo, where she would goggle at
the giraffes for an hour before getting back here to be spoiled rotten by
one William, with me trying to be the sensible one, hoping to soften the
temper tantrums when her parents came to take her away from "Uncle Bill" and
his cakes and his ice cream and all the other stuff he loved to feed her.
Not to mention the stories he told. Actually, that might be his third
talent. He's getting pretty good at making up stories to delight a kid.

"Not for another two hours."

"Good." He got to his knees and brought his face down to my groin, sticking
his tongue out to lick my balls. I groaned and hissed (one after the other;
it's easier that way), and he sucked one testicle into his mouth, pulling at
it. I gasped, and he pulled harder, painfully, then letting go just at the
right time. He repeated it with the other testicle, and by the time he was
done and his tongue was moving up my shaft, I was on my back, breathing like
the proverbial beached whale.

"Ooohh, I like this!" he whispered, letting his tongue swirl round my
exposed cockhead a couple of times before taking three inches inside his
mouth. He bobbed up and down a few times, and had me thrashing wildly on the
bed almost at once.

"Soft or rough?" he asked, lifting his head off me.

"Rough!" I told him. He lost no time, and within thirty seconds, he had
lubed us both up, raised my legs in the air, and penetrated me with his full
length. I was trying to regain my breath. It's not that he's very long or
thick, and I am used to him, but still, such a violent entry is painful. It
soon stops, though, so this is not what "rough" means. "Rough" is the way he
slams himself into me, like he's trying to push all of his body up my ass at
once. "Rough" is the loud slapping of his groin on my ass. "Rough" is when
both he and I have bruises after he's done. "Rough" is when I'm almost
unconscious after he's been straining half his muscles to hold back his
ejaculation and the other half to penetrate me with all the force he can
muster.

"Oh, yes, Bill! Fuck me hard, man! Harder! Faster! Yeah! Don't cum yet, keep
going!"

He didn't reply; he needed all his concentration to make sure he didn't slip
out. I did what I usually did; I counted. I couldn't go by the feel of his
cock hitting my depths, it was simply too fast. I had to count by the sound.
40 hits, 60. He was just finding his pace now. 80, 100. Still, he seemed
pretty relaxed, fucking me steadily. 120, 130, 140. His breath was getting
just a little bit ragged, and I reached for my own seven-incher, now spewing
pre-cum in large quantities. 150, 160, 170. I began stroking, slowly at
first, then a little bit faster. 180, 190, 200. Time to speed up; somewhere
between 250 and 280 was usually Bill's limit.

"Oh, my! Oh, yeah! I'm getting close, Tim!"

I knew. He was just passing 230, and I was up to full speed with my hand.
Another 30 or 40 strokes would probably do it. My balls were almost inside
me, and it was only because of my long practice that I could keep up the
count. 250, 260, 270...


"I'm gonna cum, Tim! I'm gonna shoot, baby! Yeaaahhh!"

He was past 290 when I lost the count. Freezing, with all my muscles tensed
up, I felt the first shot hit my nose, then a long string landing all over
my chest, another on my belly.

"Waaaaooouuuwww-haaaaaahhh-unnnnnnggggghhhh!!!!"

Bill shot inside me, and my involuntary contractions pushed another spurt
out of me. The next few seconds were spent watching the strange contortions
of my lover as he continued orgasming inside me.

"Wow, Bill! You must have passed 300! Good one!"

He shook himself, smiled and then slowly, gingerly, he leaned in to kiss me.
Not hard, but soft, our lips touching lightly. Then he withdrew, slowly
again. Still, it hurt just a little bit. He lay down behind me, pulling me
into a tender embrace.

"You sore?" he whispered.

"A little, but I'll deal with that in the shower. Let's just stay here for
five minutes."

He didn't answer, and I just relaxed, basking in the warmth of him. My ass
needed a bit of care, but nothing I hadn't tended to before. Anyway, we only
did it rough once a month or so. Right at the moment I was busy enjoying the
afterglow of coupling with my Bill.



And I can't explain,
it's surely not his brain,
That makes me thrill.
I love him because...
Oh, I don't know...
Because he's wonderful,
because he's just my Bill!



This story is copyrighted by me, einhard. (c) 2001. All rights reserved.

Any comments? Did you like the story? Hate it? You can mail me at:
einhard@excite.com