reading

MY FIRST SUMMER BACK

Jeffrey Hartinger

“Why aren’t you out there with the other guys?”

I snapped out of my daydream and turned my head towards the voice.

Mr. McAllister stood in the doorway bare chested, his sweaty gym shirt tossed over his left shoulder. His 6’4” frame looked even bulkier in the narrow door that connected his family room to the garage, which his four kids used as a hangout during the warm and healthy summer months.

At forty-five years old he maintained his boyish charm, which was coupled with a burly manliness. He’d been my crush growing up, and while away at college, he’d become one of my main jerk-off fantasies.

“Ah, I don’t know,” I replied. “I’m just thinking about stuff. Thinking about high school. And, well—going back to Brown.”

He tossed his shirt into the hamper across the room then made his way to the other side of the garage, where he opened the running dryer and pulled out a fresh one. He pulled it over his head and let out a sigh. Then he came and sat next to me.

“You know,” he said, “Bradley told me about your announcement last semester. I’m proud of you.”

“Bradley told you? Or you heard it at some cocktail party?”

“You’re right—a cocktail party,” he said with a laugh.

At eighteen, I was pretty familiar with how things worked in my hometown of Warwick, even though I’d been out of Pennsylvania for the majority of the past year. The announcement was my coming out during the first few weeks of freshman year. I let my parents know first, then my friends, and the news quickly swept through the town.

“They say you can tell when someone is gay, but I didn’t know with you,” he added after a moment’s silence. He adjusted his position, putting his right arm on the back of the couch we were sharing. He wasn’t that close, but I felt my heart race.

“You didn’t? I mentioned it in my graduation speech,” I joked. “I suppose I was right when I believed no one was listening.”

Mr. McAllister left out a hearty laugh as he tossed his sandy blond hair out of his eyes and put his arm on my shoulder.

“Just have fun with it, buddy. That’s what college is all about …” His voice trailed off, as if he’d wanted to say something else but had stopped himself.

I felt uneasy. His hand gripping my shoulder was making me uncomfortable—mostly because my cock was starting to grow and I was wearing gym shorts. I thought about that night a week before I left for college when I walked in on Mr. McAllister stroking his cock in front of the TV in the basement.

It was around 2:00 a.m. Bradley was blackout drunk and slumped over in his room. I was merely tipsy as I crept down to the third or fourth stair and glanced around the corner. There was Mr. McAllister with his navy dress pants around his ankles and his white oxford unbuttoned all the way. His tie was on the sofa next to him and his eyes were fixed on the screen. I wasn’t sure where Mrs. McAllister was, but I didn’t care.

His legs were arched and his hairy chest dripped with sweat as, for whatever reason, there was no air conditioner in the basement. The TV’s volume was so low I could hear every moan and whimper he made as his left hand vigorously jerked his nine-inch cock that was thick and full of veins.

“Aaron? Bud?”

“Huh?” Mr. McAllister’s voice snapped me back to the present. “Sorry. I guess the heat is making me spacey …”

“Well, that’s one thing I remember from your high school days,” he said with a laugh, “you were always daydreaming!”

“Aaron, what the fuck are you doing?” Bradley was yelling from the backyard.

I got up, walked to the opposite side of the room, and screamed back through the open window. “I’ll be right out!”

“Dude, we’re all going to Amelia’s. Call your mom and see if you can stay over. No homo, though!”

While Bradley knew I wasn’t attracted to him, he found it hilarious to throw me a “no homo” whenever inviting me to crash at his place. Of course, he had no idea who I was attracted to. Or that I had a thing for older guys.

“Yeah, ask your mom if you can stay over,” Mr. McAllister said. “Tell her it’s fine by me.”

I smiled. “Thanks.”

“It’ll be a guys night. Mrs. McAllister is at her sister’s in Philly …”

With that, he grabbed a can of beer from the mini fridge and walked out the door.

It was around 3:00 a.m. when I returned to the McAllister’s. Maybe 4:00. We’d all gotten drunk, and Bradley had decided to stay at Amelia’s. It wasn’t unusual for our high school friends to pass out or randomly sleep at one someone else’s house.

“Well, well, well,” I heard as I walked in.

I hadn’t expected Mr. McAllister to be at the foot of the stairs—but he was, so I went with it.

“Hey. How are you?” I said awkwardly.

“I’m doing good, buddy. I was waiting for you to get home. I mean, you and Bradley …” There was a sly smile on his face. “Where is he?”

At that moment, I realized there was a reason I’d gone back to his place alone.

“He’s a little drunk,” I slurred, “he’s just gonna crash there.”

“My son? Too drunk? No …”

I just stood there, both of us looking at each other.

“Excuse me for a second,” I said.

I made my way to the bathroom on the upper level, where I took a piss. And afterwards when I looked in the mirror, it occurred to me that I was finally maturing into the man I wanted to be. My face was finally becoming more masculine and, although it took a few years, my facial hair was growing at a consistent rate. I splashed some water on my face.

Was Mr. McAllister acting flirty today? Or was it in my head?

Either way, my hard dick was pushing through my shorts—and something needed to happen soon or I was going to cum right through them.

I walked out of the bathroom and made my way into the kitchen. Mrs. McAllister always had some sort of snack or dessert on the table and tonight was no different, even though she was out of town. I dug my hand into some brownies and realized how drunk I was.

“You doing OK up there, bud?” Mr. McAllister’s voice from the living room.

“Uh, yeah … I’m doing well. How are you, sir?”

“Oh, sir, is it?” he asked. Seductively? “Why don’t you come down here? I’ll turn off the TV.”

“OK,” I answered shyly, wondering what was going to happen. I made my way slowly down the steps, just as I had the night I watched him jerk off. He was now standing in the living room.

“You know, I saw you that night,” he said, as if he knew what I was thinking. “That night over the summer—right before you went away to school.”

“What …?” I responded, nervously. “Were you reading my mind or something?” Stupid.

“No, buddy. Your shorts were pretty much giving it away.”

I looked down at my black Adidas mesh shorts: my cock was completely hard. I should have been embarrassed, but I wasn’t.

“You saw me?” I asked.

“Well, technically, you saw me.” He laughed.

I looked Mr. McAllister square in the face. His bushy eyebrows were filled with sweat, and the scar to the left of his eye—although small and practically unnoticeable—was red from the summer heat and from being in the sun.

He had opened his mouth, causing a smirk to sweep across his face.

Was he gay? Was he bi? I knew he wasn’t completely straight. And I knew that regardless of what happened tonight, Mrs. McAllister wasn’t going to be impressed.

I walked over and turned off the television. “Figured I would just do it myself,” I said.

“Wow. Look at you. Already taking care of me, huh?”

“I guess you can say that.”

I walked over to him and, for the first time that night, noticed what he was wearing: a dark blue sweater that read canisius and super baggy sweatpants, which, for whatever reason, made me super turned on.

“What’s ‘Canisius?’” I asked.

“It’s where I went to school. In Buffalo.”

“Buffalo, New York?”

“Yeah, it’s where I’m from.”

He smoothed out his shirt and looked up. Holy shit, he looked hot. So fucking hot. Why didn’t the guys I went to school with look this good?

I tried to play it cool. Tried.

“I like the sweater,” I said. “It’s nice.” He just looked at me. I tend to talk too much when I’m nervous. “What were you watching that night that I saw you?”

“Porn,” he said, nonchalantly.

“What kind of porn?”

“Kink-wise? It was a gangbang flick.” When the tail end of his sentence slurred slightly, I could tell he was drunk, too.

“With girls and guys?” I asked.

“Actually, yeah. Four guys and a girl.”

He put his masculine arm on the ledge of the couch, much like he had done earlier that day. I wanted desperately for him to make a move.

“I’m just going to throw this out there, Mr. McAllister—but that sounds pretty gay to me,” I said, trying to hide a smile.

“Yeah, maybe it is. Maybe I just like watching someone take a huge cock—guy or girl.”

He laughed. As he stood up, he looked at me, and I realized once again how tall, masculine, and strong he was.

My mind started racing again. Was Mr. McAllister into me or not? “Do you have a huge cock?” I asked. I was horny and drunk and feeling bold. I also didn’t know what else to say.

“Are you kidding me?”

Oh, shit. He was mad. He was being friendly, not flirty. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

“I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I was just kidding.” I managed a fake laugh. He really looked pissed. But rather than make me fearful, it turned me on even more.

“You know what you saw,” he said, not giving anything away. “What did you think of it?”

“Do you want me to be honest? I thought it was amazing. And I wanted you to cram it down my throat so bad—to gag me with it. Is that what you want to hear, Mr. McAllister?”

“I asked what you thought of the size.”

“It’s fucking huge.”

He grinned at me, got up, and grabbed me by the back of the neck.

“That’s what I wanted to hear.”

He led me across the room to the couch by the window. I glanced out, not really knowing why, and noticed that the sky was filled with stars. How beautiful, I thought.

“Put your legs up,” he demanded, “and relax.”

His forceful nature was really sexy. So much so that for the first time in my life, I let someone take complete control of me. Whatever he wanted I would do.

Next thing I knew I was propped up and, once again, I was looking out the window. Mr. McAllister was rubbing my asshole.

Were we actually going to have sex? Although I’d thought about it for the past year, I wasn’t quite sure if I was ready. And quite honestly, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to take Mr. McAllister’s huge dick.

“Uh … Mr. McAllister …?” I moaned.

“Yes, handsome?”

While I trusted him completely, I was still nervous. “Go slow?” I asked. It sounded more like a statement.

“Yes, beautiful.”

I braced myself against the couch. There was some fumbling around, and within a minute, Mr. McAllister was applying lube to my ass and working in a thick finger. When he tried to put in two, we both realized it was too much.

“Wow,” he said, “you’re even tighter than I thought.”

“I’ve never done this before,” I said timidly.

He stopped fooling around, grabbed the back of my neck again, and spun me again. “You’re a virgin?”

“Yeah … is that an issue?”

He looked around the room for a second and then looked me in the eye.

“No, not really—I just thought you’d sex before. Bradley said you had a boyfriend or something at school.”

“Yeah, but I never said I had sex with him.”

He looked away. Did he not want to take my virginity? Was it better for him if I’d been sleeping around?

His 6’4” body caved in over me and he took me into his arms. I sighed, louder than I should have, and for the first time he put his mouth on mine.

My cock instantly sprang to attention. In some sort of rhythm, I scooted my ass up and he cupped it in his right arm, all the while kissing me more and more passionately.

“You’re beautiful. If only I were twenty years younger …” he said.

“Nah,” I moaned. “I like you just the way you are.”

Then it hit me: This is the father of my friend. He has a wife. He has a life. What are you doing?

I looked back up at Mr. McAllister.

You’re drunk. Who cares?

I sighed, let the thought pass, and continued kissing him. This was all that mattered in the moment.

He spun me back around and put two fingers in my mouth.

“Suck on them,” he demanded.

I sucked on his manly digits for a few minutes and then he spun me around, faster than before. I was now on my back. He scooted himself up, placed his huge cock at the tip of my mouth, and slowly relaxed down into me.

“You’re not a cock sucking virgin, too, are you?” he asked roughly.

With his throbbing cock in my mouth I shook my head no.

His cock was larger than any I’d taken before and it went deep into my throat. But I wanted him. I needed him. As I took it even deeper, I grabbed his meaty ass with my right hand, pulling him deeper still—more so than he probably would have dared to go himself.

He started to moan, and, out of nowhere, he screamed out, “Are you ready? I want to bang that hot, tight ass!”

His enthusiasm caught me off guard, but I’d been waiting all night to hear it.

“OK,” I said.

“Are you ready to take this, buddy?”

Within a few seconds, a condom was on his cock and he was lubed up. He started by working a few fingers into my asshole—then after a few minutes and tons of lube, he withdrew.

“Here we go,” he said with a sneer.

I was still on my back when his huge cock began inching its way into my ass. Even though I was drunk, it hurt as much—possibly more—than I’d expected it to. The first cock in your ass is not the best feeling right off the bat.

“Ah, ah, ah …! Oh, Mr. McAllister! Please … go slow!”

He kept going and going and going. Then when I thought I couldn’t take it any longer, he glanced down and slowed a bit.

“I’m sorry, buddy. Are you OK?”

It was just starting to feel good. “Slower,” I gasped. I didn’t want to cum and I’d been close from the minute he’d started plowing me. “Please …”

I reached up to touch his face. As I did so, my arms lifted off the couch and he pushed further into my ass, pinning me down as sweat poured from his body. He dipped low; his lips were almost touching mine. “You know,” he whispered, “you were the one I was thinking about when I was stroking my cock that night.” I tried to break from his grip so I could grab my own cock, but there was no way I could get away from his strength. “That’s what got me off—you know that, right? The thought of you watching me?”

That nearly pushed me over the edge. Fuck, I thought to myself, I’m going to cum without even touching my own cock …

“Too bad Bradley called you from upstairs,” he said, still whispering. “Or this could have happened sooner.”

He continued pumping me for a few minutes, and right when I was about to cum, he slowly withdrew from my ass.

“I love looking at that beautiful face, but I’ve been dying to fuck you doggy style—think you can take me?”

I couldn’t say anything but “yes.”

Mr. McAllister began propping me up on the couch, but then appeared to have a change of thought. Grabbing me by the hand, he pulled me off the couch and led me out of the room. “Come on,” he said, “let’s go to a place where no one will hear you scream.”

As we walked through the house, he continued holding my hand but walked in front of me. His ass was perfectly defined: meaty, muscular, and hairy. His years of playing sports—mostly hockey and lacrosse—still showed even though it had been twenty years since he’d graduated from college.

I think Mr. McAllister wanted to plow right into me, but the minute we reached the garage, I dropped onto my knees and attempted once again to take his entire cock into my mouth. As I gagged on it, I played with his hairy balls while managing to look up at him. He was in complete ecstasy—and knowing that I was the cause of it was such a turn-on.

“Yeah, wrap your sweet little lips around my cock, baby. You might be used to college dick, but you’re gonna take the dick of a real man. Are you ready?”

I pulled his cock out of my mouth just enough to say that I wanted him to bang the fuck out of me. He grabbed me by the jaw with his right hand and jerked my head upwards.

“Do you realize what you just said?” he asked.

“Yes, sir—I said I want you to bang the fuck out of me.”

Within seconds, the condom was on again and—much faster than before—Mr. McAllister was balls deep inside me.

“Holy shit!” I screamed out, hoping it was true that no one could hear me. Almost instantly, his large hand clasped over my mouth. I screamed as loud as I could, but my sounds were muffled by his hand—and eventually by the pillows on the garage sofa.

He fucked me for about ten minutes, during which my moans became as loud as my screams, and suddenly I could feel Mr. McAllister tensing up. He was about to cum.

He stopped for a minute, rubbed my back, then pushed me down so I was completely on my stomach and slid into me all … the … way.

“Ahhhhhhhhhh …!”

It felt so good having every inch of him inside me. And being pinned down, his huge body thrusting into me, made it that much hotter.

“Oh, Aaron—you’re the best fuck I’ve had,” he moaned—and with that, he withdrew his dick and spun me around on the sofa.

With his right hand, he grabbed my neck and held me in place while his left hand was jerking his cock and bringing it closer to my face.

“Open up. Hurry!”

My mouth was already open. I grabbed Mr. McAllister’s balls and felt his stream of cum shoot into my mouth, filling it completely.

I looked up at him and he pulled me into an embrace, kissing me and patting me on the ass.

“When do you go back to school?” he asked after a full minute, still panting.

My mind went blank. When was I going back to school? What night was it? The biggest thought in my mind was … When am I going to fuck Mr. McAllister again?

“I’ll be around for a bit,” I told him.

“Good,” he said. “I’ll turn you into a man before you head back there. Sleep tight.”

“Uh, but Mr. Allister …? I didn’t cum.”

“And your point …?” he asked.

He stood there in silence. I began jerking my cock. He winked at me and walked out the garage door, shutting it behind him.

THE TATTOO SHOP

Mark Wildyr

The boy pressed a fine Mediterranean nose against the glass while his bright, brown eyes skittered over the patterns in my window display. His handsome features sharpened with interest as he spied the ornate tattoo design he had raptly studied so many times before.

I knew neither his name nor his origins, but I had watched him ripen over the past months. He’d emerged from his skinny phase last winter when his shoulders abruptly broadened. Spring saw the flaring of his ribs and a pleasing definition of the torso. Spindly legs and his fetching posterior filled out pleasantly to stir my imagination.

Of course, the flawless olive flesh of his face and arms really claimed my attention. That organ, the human skin, was my life’s work, the object of veneration among generations of the Balzac family, all dedicated body artists. Zadoc is my given name, although there is only a trace of the Semite in the line. The Zadoc Balzac before me and the one before him and his antecedent had all been eastern European masters of the art: Titians of the tattoo, Michelangelos of the motif, Botticellis of the body.

For two long years, he had come from nowhere to peer into my window. Two years during which he built his courage and awaited the legal age of eighteen. And when he crossed my threshold at last, my first challenge would be to turn him away from the great Prussian eagle that had obviously claimed his heart. I must seduce his mind with something small and sedate to be shared between us, not a huge, garish, disfiguring brand. I relished the coming duel.

Alas, this was not the day. Reluctantly, the beautiful youth pushed away from my glass and dashed across the street in an unconscious display of manly grace that left me weak with palpitations. So I returned to the never ending process of sterilizing the old-fashioned tools of stainless steel that had been handed down from my father, as was the equally archaic bell over the shop door, which chose to ring at that moment.

My heart leapt with joy and constricted with sadness when I saw young Matthew in the doorway. He had first entered Balzac’s Fine Tattooing five years back when he, too, was but a teen. Unfortunately, the tattoo he chose exceeded his financial grasp. Casting about for a way to achieve his heart’s desire, an oriental dragon draped across his broad back, he somehow perceived my secret and proposed partial payment in cash with the remainder rendered in “personal services.” When I accepted, he shyly exposed a rampant adolescent penis. Average sized, it was easily swallowed. For the second tryst, he gave me what I truly desired—he mounted my quivering body and fornicated quite enthusiastically. That arrangement has survived to this day and was the reason for my joy.

My depression was spawned by the young man’s addiction to ink. It happens occasionally, although the reason is never the same. Matthew covered himself with elaborate decorations to hide his low self-esteem. Alas, he merely revealed it to the world. To refuse him additional tattoos would merely drive him to another shop. Today, when I finished his latest addition, he obligingly reclined on the table and spread his legs. Unable to demand what I truly craved because of the fresh tattooing, I settled for a taste of his strong, pulsing cock.

In early summer, when searing heat vied with the unrelenting spring winds going through their annual death throes, I spotted the boy across the street watching the shop. Intuitively, I understood our wait was at an end. He touched the hip where his wallet rested, drew himself erect, and stepped off the curb. At last, I would caress that beautiful flesh.

He paused to glance yet again at the Prussian eagle before easing through the door and drawing to a hesitant stop. After two years of anticipation, he flashed an uncertain smile and then pointlessly examined the dozens of patterns and photographs of tattoos adorning the walls.

“May I help you, young man?”

“Uh, yes, sir. I was wondering if I could get a tattoo? I like your work.”

“Thank you. Whether or not you may have a tattoo depends upon several factors.” His face fell. “I will need some information. For example, your name.”

“Uh, Steven. Steven Pales.”

“How do you do, Steven. My name is Zadoc Balzac.” I offered a hand and made first contact. His grip was pleasingly firm; his hands were somewhat rough as if he labored for a living. With difficulty, I drew myself back to business.

“First, I must have proof of age. As the sign in the window says, you are required to be eighteen to get a tattoo without parental consent.”

“Yeah, sure. Driver’s license OK?”

I scanned the little scrap of plastic, greedily devouring the information that turned a charming waif into a vital individual. He had turned eighteen no more than a week earlier. Five ten and a half, one fifty, brown eyes, brown hair. Even his picture was fetching, something rare for a state document.

“Very good, Steven. Now tell me why you want a tattoo.”

He gave me a peculiar look. “Because they’re beautiful.”

Patiently, young Steven answered my questions. He had no allergies. No dermatitis, eczema. He was not diabetic and had imbibed no alcohol within the past twenty-four hours. He denied drug use altogether.

When finished, he led me to the Prussian eagle, frowning in response to my grimace.

“What?” he asked.

“That is very ambitious. Although you show excellent taste, I can hardly recommend that you commit yourself to such a large tattoo when you have no experience with them. What if your skin does not react well to color pigments? What if you simply get tired of it?”

“No way!” he exclaimed confidently.

“That tattoo, rendered in those dimensions at any rate, is quite expensive. Perhaps we should experiment first. Permit me to suggest a small tattoo in a private place where you can it view for a few days. In that manner, we can observe your aesthetic, as well as your physical, reaction to it. You must understand, Steven, tattooing is not for everyone. Not even for everyone who believes he wants one. A small one as a test, please. It is a prudent thing to do, and you appear to be a prudent young man.”

The boy’s frown alarmed me. Perhaps he would abandon me for some fly-by-night shop across town. “You sound like you don’t want to give me one.”

“Believe me, I have seen more than my share of regrets. Candidly, I would never drape that beautiful eagle, the symbol of Royal Prussia, across your chest or back until I know your system can tolerate it.”

“So what do we do? Put a skull-and-crossbones on my arm?”

“I suggest a small tattoo, perhaps of your favorite animal, on your hip or buttock. Somewhere no one can see the design unless you choose to reveal it.”

He pursed his lips. “On my butt?”

“Or hip. Although the cheek would be better. More private. Smoother skin. Less hair, so no shaving is required. If you’re modest about your person, we can drape you with—”

“It’s not that. I just never thought about drawing on my butt.”

Charming! Adolescent reticence, adult nonchalance. My pulse quickened.

“Perhaps there is some symbol that is special to you.”

“You mean you can freehand it?”

“Yes. You describe it to me, and I will render it on paper before it is transferred to your fetching butt.” I chose the words deliberately.

He slapped his cheek. “Here, right?”

“Right on the dimple.”

“My mom’s got a little Indian blood, and her family had something to do with wolves. Their totem or something. Anyway, she collects ceramic wolves. Can you do a wolf’s head?”

In moments, I had sketched a fierce lobo. He examined it critically. “It’s good, but it’s not quite right. She’s got this quirky sense of humor. Always laughing about things. Can you make it … I don’t know … goofy?”

The beast became less fearsome when a long, red tongue lolled from the side of its mouth.

“That’s it! Can you put that on my cheek?”

My excitement was so great I feared I’d botch the job. The handsome Steven moved to the privacy of the back room to disrobe. He hesitated momentarily, and then slipped out of his jockey shorts, nearly sending me into heart failure.