[This story contains a homoerotic scenario. If it's not your thing, skip it. If you wanna read, please feel to enjoy the following.]

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(by mdguy)

We’ve all had those moments, those which make our normally-mundane activities less so. For some, it’s buying the blueberry muffin instead of the cranberry one. For others, it’s listening to Kelly Clarkson instead of Metallica. For others yet, it involves naughty thoughts on the train.

Ted is the picture of routine: Every morning, he awakes at 6:33 a.m. (without aid of an alarm clock); he showers for nine minutes, seventeen seconds; he shaves only on Mondays and Thursdays; he wears blue shirts on Wednesday and Fridays; white shirts on Mondays and Tuesdays. His only variance from routine is the Thursday “grab bag”, where he picks any of his myriad shirts and enjoys a dash of colour. His partner Peter jokes that he could set his watch by Ted’s habits. At 7:35 every morning, Ted walks out the door, gets into his car, and drives himself to the Shady Grove Metro station and waits for the train to take him downtown to his K Street office where he seeks on a daily basis to represent his clients’ best interests.

Ted is meticulous with his schedule, and his life overall, because of his rebel years. He had a kindly father who enjoyed the whisky of his native Scotland a bit too much at times; until he was ten, he had a patrician mother who despite her stern nature doted on her little “Teddywinks”. He became caretaker to both his father and his younger sister when his mother passed away. At age nineteen, he left home and began to live a little . . . perhaps too much. He developed a taste for the same wee beastie his father suckled. He also delved into harsher vices; he marveled that he survived to twenty-two, much less that he finished college without washing out. During his wild days, he also realised that he loved the company of men, often rough, sometimes abusive; this dark past of Ted’s was something he turned away from when after one particularly vile night he was battered by a particularly aggressive man while in a drunken haze. He came to at St. Vincent’s hospital in Manhattan next to his gaunt and weeping father and his stoic but non-plussed teen sister. He found out later that his doctors told him that his beating was so severe that his survival was in doubt. But Ted survived. It was a long road for him, but he began to pull his existence together. He worked to save enough to go back to school. While in graduate school, he worked two jobs to help put his sister through university. He helped his father get himself clean as well. At his first job, Ted was set up on a blind date with a guy his sister met in her Renaissance literature lecture. His name was Peter.

Ted ascends to the platform, Washington Post under his arm, and walks to the waiting train. He sits in the centre of the car, by the window, facing backward. He reads the Metro section first, then the Business section, then the Front Page. It is a habit he sticks to, and has followed for the six years he’s travelled this route. He knows that with traffic and with Metro delays, he varies in when he arrives at work, no more than a five-minute walk from Farragut North. But, he also knows that this time is his “alone time”, when he gets to filter out the world a little. Of late, Ted’s long-buried naughty side, the one he needed to put behind him, has started to bubble through the cracks of the veneer he spent twelve years to build.

It started in mid-March. Ted had been reading about the latest financial scandal (knowing he would have to deal with that issue at work) when he glanced up for just a second. The train had pulled into Bethesda, the halfway point of Ted’s journey. The first crumbles of that veneer appeared in the form of him. Ted hadn’t had this reaction since he met Peter, and it troubled him. The man boarded the train, and stood next to the pole in the aisle. He was dressed for the unusually warm weather of the day, and it afforded Ted a good point in which to imagine . . . things. He had a clean hair cut, dark hair with gentle brushes of silver and soft spikes. The same light and dark were found in his low-trimmed goatee; the rest of his chin was strewn with stubble. Ted, today, started to pretend to read the paper when he was in fact studying the gent. He could not get a good view of his eyes. “Damn”, he thought to himself, if he would just turn a bit. He could see the slope of his Roman nose and fairly slim lips. In just the five seconds between boarding and the “Step Back - - Doors Closing” of the train chimes, Ted had photographed this man’s face in his mind. Ted would take several mental photographs that day. The man’s long-sleeved shirt fit a bit tightly on his frame; the arms seemed to strain at the fabric, the back was broad and suggested that he was fastidious about his exercise. Ted lowered his gaze to the man’s trousers, which like the shirt above seemed to be form fitting. It was a long ride, almost three minutes between Bethesda and Friendship Heights, long enough to fill several hotel rooms and several beds with invented trysts. The fantasy came to an abrupt end when this ‘stallion’ got off the train at Friendship Heights. “One lousy stop!”, Ted wondered. If any on the train had been looking at Ted’s defeated brows, they’d know the disappointment on his face but might not guess at the why. Ted continued on his journey, knowing at least that day the highlight would be that three-minute span.

Ted is a man of routine, and in the coming weeks that would work in his favour; it turns out that ‘Stallion’, as Ted has come to name him, is also a man of routine. Every Thursday, he boards at Bethesda. Every Thursday, he stands as close to Ted’s location as possible. Every Thursday, Ted gains new “insight” into this man. In week two, Ted finally saw Stallion’s face full on; the eyes were a pleasing mix of light blue and hazel. In week three, Ted could finally stop calling him ‘Stallion’ and call him “William”, based on the ID badge hanging from his belt. Over time, more bits started coming forth just by observation. William reads the Financial Times; the distinctive peach-coloured newsprint would be in his bag peeking out, and a few times he was holding a section in plain view. William has varied taste in books: one week he came on the train reading “Anna Karenina”, while the next he blocked out the world to a David Baldacci novel of intrigue. One book surprised Ted: “Dress Your Family In Corduroy and Denim”; Ted was a huge fan of David Sedaris and smiled when he saw this book. The weeks passed and late winter was blossoming into mid spring. Ted’s week would become about his three-minute ride turning into a romp in Rock Creek Park with a naked William. Since Ted is a man of routine and observation, he started to notice an odd change in William before the weather started changing. Thursday was the day Ted would switch up his shirt colour. On week four, Ted wore a dark red shirt to work with monochrome-matching tie. On week five, William wore a tie in the same colour. On week six, Ted broke out his favourite chrysanthemum dress shirt; on week seven William was dressed in a suit, but his kerchief was the same colour. Ted’s mind started to race: was this a sign? Could William be enjoying his one-stop ride as much as Ted enjoyed it? Nah, Ted thought. Couldn’t be.

* * *

“I’ll take it!”, he exclaimed. It was everything William had wanted: two bedrooms, modern kitchen, stylish bath, a den to double as a study and office, and an easy ten-minute walk to the Bethesda Metro station. It was early February and William’s divorce had been finalised the month before. This would be his starting over. It helped that he and his ex-wife had managed to split amicably. It wasn’t her fault they fell out of love after twenty-four years of marriage. Maybe if they had dated more people when they were younger, he thought. Maybe if he had been attentive. But he knew she was happy and that at least she was staying in the area and he could see his son. He was happy that he could end his hour-long drive every day from Virginia to his office downtown. William took a new properties manager job and four days a week, he would have to be up early and travel to Metro Center and the main office. One day a week, Thursdays, he could sleep in a little; he would have meetings with staff at the office located at Friendship Heights and his commute would be only one stop away.

William spent the next month, after closing and last-minute touch-ups, moving in and making a place for himself and for his son, who he’d get to see at weekends and during the summer. He also had the slightly jarring experience of buying a new suit for his ex-wife’s wedding. It would finally be over, two years after she said it was. He knew that he wasn’t in love with her anymore, and this would be his moment to be there for someone he still considered a friend. He drove to Baltimore on 15 March, and in a small ceremony, he sat in the second row next between his teen son and his grown daughter, and applauded as his ex began her new life. He gave a toast to Jane and Robert, spoke about the woman he had known since he was fifteen, about what a decent man Robert was, and graciously smiled, genuinely, to the new couple. On 16 March, Monday, William officially began his new job. And then came Thursday.

“March 19 . . . What would have been my twenty-sixth anniversary”, he thought. He smiled though, knowing he was actually in a good place and so was she. He stood on the platform waiting for the next train in the direction of Glenmont. As it pulled in, he was glad he left his jacket at home. The station was already warm, its being underground not helping matters. The breeze as the train whizzed by felt good, odour aside. The train lurched to a stop and the doors opened. William boarded the train, and stood next to the pole in the aisle. He was dressed for the unusually warm weather of the day, and little did he realise at first that it afforded someone a good point in which to imagine . . . things. As William walked in, he set his blue-hazel eyes agaze at a younger man with sandy blond hair sitting and reading the Washington Post. There was the briefest of eye contact, but immediately William noticed his delicate nose and his warm chestnut eyes peering behind a set of wire-frame glasses. The hint of the man’s forest green shirt seemed to fit him. William also knew something else was at play, and shifted away from the younger man. “What the hell?”, William thought to himself. “This is not math class and he’s not my tenth-grade teacher!” William, for the first time in years, was rock hard at the sight of another man. He started to blush and hoped no one noticed. He held his copy of Financial Times against his crotch with both hands and was hoping the feeling would subside. After a fashion, he returned to normal, but could not bring himself to look at the blond again. He had only been riding the train for four days. William hoped that his Friday ride would be less “eventful”. “This is Friendship Heights, first stop in the District of Columbia. Doors open on the left”, spoke the engineer. William quickly scuttled off the train, headed for the Western Avenue exit.

The following Thursday, William boarded the train and noticed the same sandy blond man who had caused a stir in him the week before. This time, he took a breath and stood his ground, hard on or no hard on. This time, nature cooperated and he was able to stand facing the man. He looked straight ahead, only stealing surreptitious glances. This week, the “Youngin’” was in a rich royal purple shirt. William was softly trying to remain soft; all he could imagine was running his hands under that shirt. “Whew, at my stop”, he pondered, relieved. William would be thinking of Youngin’ all day and he knew it. At this point, William remembered that it had been a good two years without any sex at all; his resolve was starting to dissolve. No amount of work out five times a week was going to relieve this forever. It was just turning him into a horny muscle jock.

Wednesday night, William had stopped in Barnes and Noble near his downtown office. He hadn’t read a good book in ages and decided he would buy a new book or two. He went into the literature section. He came upon Leo Tolstoy books and for some reason was piqued. His teacher mother had exposed him to world authors at an early age, and even now sent him suggestions for authors to look up. Until now he had said his “Yes, mamma”s and put the names into a folder for later. Unconsciously, William had forgotten that the previous week he had seen Youngin’ with a copy of “Doctor Zhivago” on his lap. William had not read Anna Karenina in twenty years, but he decided it would be a nice revisit. Thursday morning, he had boarded the train, and there was Youngin’, in a pink blush shirt and white tie. William pretended not to notice, opened the book to chapter three and began reading.

The following Wednesday, his son was over for a quick stop. William’s son had picked up his grandmother’s habit of suggesting things. “Dad. “Anna Karenina? You can’t read something written this century?” William rolled his eyes. “Here!” In his hand was a book called “The Christmas Train” written by David Baldacci. “But, this looks kinda sappy!” William retorted. His son shrugged. Just then, the mobile rang; it was Jane, William’s ex come to collect their son. William promised his son he’d read the book. “And a book report, Dad”, his son joked. “Don’t push it, kid”, William smirked. That Thursday, William had his FT in his bag, and his book in his hand, dog-eared pages already present from where his son had placed markers. He boarded the train and felted a bit warm. “Ooh, the car is warm today”, he thought. There he was again, Youngin’. Today, William leaned against the breeze guard, almost posing for him. The Youngin’ averted his eyes, especially once he realised that William seemed to be gifted in one area. William noted how sartorial his observer always was; today he was wearing a dark red shirt with monochrome-matching tie. William had always loved the colour red, since childhood. It reminded him of his father and his father’s love of the Skins and their burgundy and gold. At midday, William concluded yet another morning of weekly meetings and headed to Metro Center. Just before he headed for home at the end of the day, William stopped at Macy’s and treated himself to a few new pieces of clothing. Of the clothing William liked to wear most, it was the tie. He bought four new ties, monochrome with patterns: one in forest green, one in royal purple, one in vermillion, one in gold. He cycled his new ties with the older ones he had. The following Thursday morning, William got up and showered, and then emerged from the bathroom. Lying on the bed, perfect for today, was a yellow-white gingham dress shirt with a deep red tie.

“Dad, have you been reading dusty Russian classics again?” William’s daughter was treating her father to a small pre-birthday dinner, a home-cooked meal the likes of which he hadn’t had in months. He could catch up on what his little girl was doing; she was done with classes at Maryland, and was doing the birthday thing early, on that Wednesday, since she would be on a plane to Paris Friday morning. In the corner were six books, the one Baldacci novel his son left plus three Tolstoy books and two Chekhov books. For some reason, his mind had turned to those two authors. “Baldacci. I see Jan’s influence all over that one!” William’s daughter chuckled. William grinned; Billie knew him too well. After dinner had finished, Billie pulled out a box, wrapped in shiny silver paper with a grey silk bow on top. William opened the box to reveal a beautiful orange silk kerchief with a small monogram, “WGM”. William smiled and hugged his daughter. “It’s beautiful, hun, thank you!” She then pulled out another gift, wrapped in the same silver paper and topped with a grey bow. It was a book, “Dress Your Family In Corduroy and Denim”. “David who?” William puzzled. “Ah, yes! He’s on NPR.” Billie nodded. “I never would have thought it”, he admitted. The next day, he boarded the train, with the book in hand. As the train started moving off, he lifted the book and started reading. For the first time since he noticed Youngin’, he broke the stone-serious expression he seemed to constantly sport and erupted into a smile. William’s face, partially hidden behind the book, matched the bright grin it saw, with only his eyes betraying any hint of pleasure. William was starting to look forward to his morning rides on Thursdays. In five weeks, Youngin’ had been in his same seat, sticking to his routine: smartly-dressed, reading his newspaper. Every so often, there might be hints of things that William would pick up on, such as the Tolstoy book early on, or the colours he wore. It was subliminal, at first. As time was wearing on, William started to think more of this man. He didn’t even know his name, but the thoughts in him were growing: Did he have a family? Who did he go home to at night? Did he even like men? William was just enjoying his brief encounters with this stranger on a train. The Thursday he boarded the Metro train with the Sedaris book, William saw something. On Youngin’s lap was a book, a green cover that looked like a chalkboard. He could make out a few words, “Me Talk Pretty”, but not the full title. When he got to the office that day, he looked up the book on Amazon.com, and was shocked. The book’s title was “Me Talk Pretty One Day” and its author was David Sedaris. “No wonder!”, he exclaimed. He leaned back and looked to the sky and beamed.

This Thursday was one he was dreading. William had to conduct the weekly meeting with his boss present. His boss was not a very tender man, and William knew he had to be at the top of his game. He also had to dress as nattily as possible. He broke out the Prussian blue silk suit, with a good, solid cream shirt and powder-blue tie. Nearly a week after his birthday, he finally found an occasion to wear the kerchief that his daughter had given him. He stood in the hallway, arranged his kerchief in a three point, and headed for the train. He entered the fare gate roughly ten minutes after he left his condo, and descended on the escalator. “Damn!” He just missed a train, usually *the* train Youngin’ was on. Then came an announcement over the loudspeakers: “Attention Metro customers transferring to or riding on the Red Line in the direction of Glenmont. We continue to experience delays due to a train at Van Ness experiencing mechanical difficulty. Trains should be running normally and will service your station soon”. The sign board signalled another train coming. William Makonidis stepped on that train and his heart lifted into his throat. There was Youngin’. He stood next to the pole he usually occupied, looked straight, but could not contain the twinkle in his eye. A flash came over him just before the train pulled into Friendship Heights: Youngin’ had been wearing a shirt the same colour last week as his kerchief this week. “It’s not on purpose, exactly . . . I think”, William pondered to himself. Nah. Couldn’t be.

* * *

Ted Dagliesh was having dreams, dreams of the type he hadn’t had in years. He would board the train, with no one else, and have the car to himself. It would pull into Bethesda and William would be there. William would lift his rugged hand and pull him in for a kiss; Ted would cup both sides of William’s face. As the separated, William would go from fully clothed to fully naked, and Ted would look down and notice he too was starkers. *gasp* Ted’s eyes popped open. He looked down and noticed that he had done a good job of messing his boxers and sweatpants. Next to him Peter, the man he’d loved for fifteen years and still loved, hadn’t stirred. Ted was finally thankful for Peter’s ability to sleep through hurricanes, earthquakes, and the occasional wet dream. Ted slipped out of bed, quietly took a pair of fresh boxers from the dresser and went into the bathroom to change. He stumbled back into bed. Eight weeks since the leering and the childlike giddiness had begun, Ted was worried if this meant a desire to do bad things was returning or if it was just a teen crush with adult overtones. He drifted back to sleep. For the first time in nine years, Ted woke up late, at 6:50. Peter was on his way out the door and looked at the frazzled Ted. “I will have to call the nuclear clock people. I think their timing is off: it says 7:45 a.m. but that could possibly be right!” Ted gave a half-hearted “heh”, gave Peter a kiss farewell for the day, and walked into the kitchen.

William could not stop tossing and turning. He would reach and remove Youngin’s glasses, undo his tie, unbutton his shirt. He would place a gentle kiss on his paramour’s chest, then kneel down and unbuckle his trousers. Just as he opened his mouth, William’s eyes popped open. He looked down and noticed he had done a good job of messing his cotton sheets. He shifted out of bed, and lumbered into the bathroom. He grabbed a washcloth, wiped himself up and grabbed a set of fresh sheets. He re-spread his bed and climbed in. After an hour of failing to go back to sleep, he gave up and decided to go into the Chevy Chase office early. He was up and dressed in a time record for him. He grabbed a book, “Brothers Karamazov”, and headed for the station. He got on the train, looked around with a crestfallen gaze, and rode one stop to work.

Ted was not pleased with himself. Now his fantasy was becoming a distraction, one he didn’t want to let consume his psyche any longer. Today was the first day he secretly hoped not to see his object of lust. He pulled into a space at the garage, walked into the station and got onto a different car. He was going to make sure his ride was uninterrupted today. The train pulled into Bethesda, and the doors opened. And then closed. The ride between Bethesda and Friendship Heights was a long one, an eternity today. Ted fixed steadfastly on the Business section today. He thought, at age thirty-seven, that he was too grown up to feel so infantile. It was a full internal temper tantrum: he wanted his William, but knew he couldn’t have him. “Fuck”, he thought angrily. The doors at Friendship Heights opened, and then closed. For the first Thursday in two months, there was no fantasy, no erotic thought. Nothing. Later in the day, Ted stood up at his desk and noticed that his jaw hurt. He realised that he had been clenching his teeth most of the day. “Not good”, he said in a whisper. He sank back into his chair and returned to the last bit of work before he needed to head home.

The days got warmer, and William’s attire became more casual. The longer shirts were replaced by lighter polos, the darker trousers replaced by lighter khakis. William was no longer dressing for an audience, he figured. Plus, maybe it was a good thing not to rest too much on a fantasy man. Hell, he had been married to a woman for two decades. Still, this stirred something in him that he hadn’t felt in a long time. It was now mid June. It had been over a month since William had seen his Youngin’. William was starting to miss him a little, but the dreams had eased and the rushing feelings had stopped. But William had noticed that his workout regimen got more difficult and involved. “Here we go again”, he sighed.

The first week of July, just before the holiday weekend, William’s routine changed a little. He would be heading to Chevy Chase on Wednesday instead of Thursday, and head downtown Thursday; all the employees would be getting Friday off. He was wearing a royal-blue polo shirt and olive khakis, and had only a book today: “Running With Scissors” by Augusten Burroughs, another of his daughter’s suggestions. The train pulled into the station, the soft whoosh doing nothing to ameliorate the stifling air. He boarded the train, which was a good five degrees cooler, chilly almost. William’s eyes widened and his arms dropped. It was him.

Ted was looking forward to Fourth of July weekend, not only because it was a holiday but because his birthday was that Saturday. He and Peter would go down to the Mall after a birthday dinner with his father, sister and brand-new baby nephew, and Peter’s parents, sister and brother-in-law. He got Friday off this year and planned to spend all day in bed with Peter, something they hadn’t done in months. Ted, dressed in his customary Wednesday royal-blue button shirt got on the train at Shady Grove. The doors closed, keeping the warm day out and the air-conditioned coolness in. Ted was used to the days in the area, and loved the heat. He was perfectly happy wearing long sleeves even in summer at a time when others longed for clothing relief. Since it was Wednesday, Ted was not thinking anything when the train pulled into Bethesda. He almost didn’t notice. Almost. Ted’s eyes lifted and his arms dropped. It was him.

Ted stood up and walked over to William. William reached out a hand, gingerly brushing Ted’s amber locks, then pulling him in for a kiss. Ted liked the scratchy feel of William’s beard. Their breathing became intertwined, as they had begun taking in air in a continuous cycle. William reached under Ted’s tie and ran his hand inside his shirt. Ted’s nipples, already solid because of the cold train car, responded to the warmth of William’s fingers. Ted’s hands encircled William’s head and could not get enough of his essence. It was his moment, finally. Years of control undone by wanton abandon. Ted had William pause; William’s shirt was lifted off to reveal his very tightly-defined chest covered with the same salt and pepper as in his mane and his beard. Ted pushed William into a seat and knelt down. Ted licked the tip of William’s left nipple, an island of bronze surrounded by a light olive-skinned sea. William tugged at Ted’s shirt tails, then at Ted’s belt buckle, then at Ted’s trousers. Ted pulled at William’s khakis, removing them, and William’s boxer briefs, in one go. William grabbed at Ted’s now-exposed hips and lifted him a bit. Ted responded by widening his legs. All that they could hear was the hollow din of the train in the tunnels. The lights rushed by unnoticed, the clacking of the wheels on the rails somehow disappeared. It was just Ted and William, on a ride of their own making. Ted rocked back and forth with William keeping a good hold on him. William’s head was resting against the map, eyes closed and mouth open. Ted was facing him, head tilted down, eyes closed and feeling how he hadn’t felt in ages. It was the drop of Glenfiddich long forgotten, the taste of rough long purged. It felt good; it felt right. He knew that it was a one-time thing, a one-stop thing. The train had encountered the crossover just before Friendship Heights, and they both had encountered the crossing over. William’s hips rose, as Ted’s body stiffened. It was the moment. Now.

When the train stopped at Friendship Heights, Ted, still sitting in his seat, his blue shirt undisturbed and his body untouched, nodded at William and gave a half smile. William, his blue polo shirt unruffled and his body untouched, nodded back at Ted and returned the half smile. The doors opened, and William backed out of the car, turned towards Western Avenue and exhaled.

* * *

Ted hated schmoozy parties, but his firm was throwing one anyway. They had just landed the account of Berton Brothers, a local properties management firm, so a mixer was scheduled for 31 July. Peter hated them even more than Ted, and was happy that he was to be in Philadelphia with his parents that Friday night. Ted had to dress even better than normal. He decided to take a cab to catch the train downtown and then a cab home to minimise on driving. He felt slightly out of place on the train dressed in a tuxedo and bow tie. They only wore that sort of thing at inaugurations. He got off the train at Farragut North and headed to the office. On the ninth floor, the large conference room had been turned into a hip lounge, complete with ice sculpture and buffet. Throughout the evening, Ted would be introduced to representatives of Berton Brothers. Ted’s boss then introduced him to a slightly older gentleman with dark hair with gentle brushes of silver and soft spikes, and that same light and dark in his low-trimmed goatee. “Ted, this is Bill Makonidis, director of regional management for Berton Brothers”. Ted extended his hand to William. “I’m Edward Dagliesh, nice to meet you.” Ted had to hide the urge to say the word “finally”. “Ted will be in charge of the Berton account, so if you have any issues or concerns he will be the one to contact”, Ted’s boss intoned. William nodded and gave a half smile. Ted returned the nod and half smile. “Ted, it’s good to meet you.”

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The end.

[This story contains a homoerotic scenario. If it's not your thing, skip it. If you wanna read, please feel to enjoy the following.

== == == ==

(by mdguy)

Derrick had been collecting every CD of his since the first. The “he” in question was blues-rock musician Baxter James, an earnest and talented guitar man and singer who broke out ten years ago with his major hit, “In The Rough, Diamond”. Ever since, Derrick Riley had been sopping up every recording he could. So much a fan was he that of all six full albums Baxter made, Derrick had them both in CD and in vinyl (no easy feat these days).

Often when Derrick would come home from his banking job, he would break out a bottle of Tanqueray and slice a lemon, and just sit. He found something in Baxter’s voice, and in his riffs, very multifaceted. On good days, when he approved loans for the barber shop that wanted to expand, he would play “Grey Mist”, and sing along with the lyric: “For the only grey in the world is the grey in your eyes / and the only sad in the world is the rain in the skies / But your love rides along the mist / waiting to be touched, waiting to be kissed”. On bad days, when he had to tell some man down on his luck that he would lose his home, he would drown out his melancholy with the instrumental “Someone Must Be Smiling Somewhere”. These days, the bad days outweighed the good, and he knew it. “I have to get out,” he’d drone. It didn’t help that he hadn’t had a proper date in almost a year, or a proper fuck in a few months. One thing he did have: a holiday, one where he might finally, after years of devoted fandom, meet his rockin’ musical saviour.

Derrick often showed up at work between three and five minutes early, arranged his desk in his office, and sifted through the piles of papers, checking data and meeting with his bosses or the tellers. Today was different. He came in ten minutes late, his normally clean-shaven face noticeably stubble-filled and his usually impeccable tie not quite right. The look on his face and the pallor from the events of the day before were still evident. His light brown eyes were framed in swaths of red, caused by a whole night’s lack of sleep. The police tape still blocked part of the front door and the vermillion stain had been faded by diligent workers over but was still there on the carpeting. He would wonder why they did what they did, even though Mr Rose had done all that was asked. He would wonder how he could pass his boss’s office now, knowing someone new would step in to fill the void. If Derrick had ever wanted Mr Rose’s job before, he resolutely didn’t now. For now, Derrick was “Mr Riley”, acting manager. As acting manager, he would arrange for flowers and condolences for Mr Rose’s widow and children. For the next two weeks, Mr Riley oversaw the tellers, met with regional managers, continued contact with the police, and... cancelled his holiday. Derrick would again miss the chance to hear Baxter James live. That couldn’t matter now.

It was three weeks since the incident; Derrick had finally started sleeping again but a backfiring car or a trash can falling over would make him jump. Now, more than ever, he fell into the Lorelei pull of Baxter’s infamous white Gibson. Derrick was happy (if you could call it happiness) that he only lost the cost of the venue tickets, but he was still bitter about missing yet another chance. “Why does the fucker have to be ENGLISH??” he thought, cursing the lack of tours in North America. There would be no trip to Montreal, only aftermath. The day after Mr Rose’s funeral, Derrick had begun looking for less “dangerous” employment in the finance field. One notice, sent to him by his friend Elden looked promising: “Financial Manager: to assist in the day-to-day finances of a creative-arts management agency.” He had the years of experience it would take, and he’d dealt with fairly high-profile clients in his seven years. It would mean a move to Nashville, back home. But Derrick remembered why he left Tennessee in the first place: how could he be a happy man if he had to look over his shoulder and wonder “Will this be the day?” He had come out to his parents and brothers years before. Moving home would at least make his father happy; his mother, not so much. He had his nieces who adored him and his brothers who stood by him. It was either go home and start anew, or stay put and live in an even greater fear that he would follow in Mr Rose’s footsteps. Derrick was thrilled when the Robert S. Nora Arts Alliance left a message on his machine: “Hi, Mr Riley, this is Colin Jakes the senior vice-president at Robert S. Nora... I talked to Elden Berry our VP of talent services last week and received your resumé. I would like to set up a meeting with you and our HR representative for next week...”

It was the 29th of June. Derrick Riley stood at his desk in a gleaming glass office four blocks from the Grand Ole Opry, in silence. Warren Rose wasn’t just his boss, but his friend, and it has been a year since two men in pursuit of a quick buck took him. Derrick Riley, normally dressed in bright colours and ties, and light trousers, was dressed in a simple white shirt with a charcoal tie and his darkest suit. It was a symbol for him; he needed to do it. After thirty seconds, he sat down and began to review the finances of some of the clients. Earlier in the day he had a teleconference meeting with the independent auditor to review the books for the end of quarter. It was going to be a quiet week for him... until his phone rang.

“Derr, you are going to shit your pants!” It was Elden, his best friend calling from two floors down. “What’s up, Berry? See another pair of “talents” spilling out of an unbuttoned blouse again?” Silence. “Um, no, dumb ass. Come downstairs now!”. Derrick had no clue what this was about, but if Elden called him “dumb ass”, he knew it was major. Derrick had gotten off the elevator and rounded the corner and almost as though someone cued a spotlight he was blinded by what, or whom, stood before him. “Derrick Riley, I believe you know who this is.” Elden’s words barely registered; Derrick was trying his hardest not to let his knees give way. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr James.” Derrick had wished he didn’t order that French Onion soup for lunch; he was aghast that he might be finally standing before his biggest musical crush with breath that required a gas mask. “Bax, this is my old friend and our finance manager Derrick Riley. He is in charge of your accounts and makes sure they keep paying you.” Derrick mulled the word... “Bax”. *HE* wanted to call him “Bax”. Baxter James, all five-foot seven of him, reached out a hand. Derrick shook, and then extended his own hand. It was then another sense kicked in. Not only had Baxter James been an aural salve, but Derrick had been awakened many a night wishing the blues man would play *his* instrument. Derrick, to his relief, had betrayed no hint of this in the handshake. “So, after tonight I will be in Montreal for two weeks. The Festival is on, and I’ll be playing,” Baxter said.
- - “This year, I managed to get a great suite near the venue, finally!” Elden screeched. “Turns out I’m taking Derrick for his birthday.” Derrick’s face froze; this was fresh news to him, as Elden had never mentioned it. “Oh, when’s your birthday?” Baxter enquired.
- - “Um, it’s July 3, sir.” Elden kicked Derrick once he realised that Derrick was grinning like a four-year-old with a new lollipop; Derrick stood firm and in a stronger voice repeated the date. “Hey, I’ve known Elden for a while now, and he’s been a great agent to me. If you both are going to be in Montreal, I am throwing a small late-night dinner thing after the performances on that Friday. I’ll make sure to give you both the address.” Elden could feel Derrick’s weight shift. “Thanks, Bax, we’ll make sure to be there!” Elden and Derrick both shook Baxter’s hand before heading towards the elevator; Baxter stood there for a second and something had caught his eye. Baxter himself had hoped 3 July would be a good night.

Derrick had never asked in detail before, but he knew that Elden handled Baxter James; he thought it would be too much to ask of a friend. Derrick never realised that Elden had been the one who made sure Baxter James’ finances had been handled personally by Derrick. Elden had called Derrick “Calculator” when they were in elementary school; his mastery of maths and numbers was almost a savant even from an early age. All through middle school and high school, Elden Berry and Derrick Riley had been inseparable. And, even in all that time, Derrick had never developed “those” feelings for Elden; Elden was as much his brother as his own two brothers were, only the same age instead of twins six years older. Elden, at 15, was the first to tell Derrick that Derrick was gay even before Derrick fully knew. Derrick, for his part, always had an innate ability to spot a girl from fifty paces who would be perfect for Elden. At Vanderbilt, it was Derrick who found Elden his first long-term college relationship. After school, it was Derrick who convinced Elden to talk to the woman who would become the love of Elden’s life, his late wife. Through it all, even when Derrick “ran away from home” (as Elden called it), they had remained extremely close. Now, they were on a plane, flying to Dorval, Quebec, part of a surprise birthday trip for Derrick to see his idol in concert.

“Must be nice...”, Derrick pondered to himself as they entered the suite. The main room overlooked the St. Lawrence River, and each bedroom featured a king-sized bed. “Fuck me!”, Derrick exclaimed out loud. “Um, no, but nice try,” Elden smirked. Derrick chuckled. Derrick had travelled before and had managed to stay in nice rooms, but this was grand even for him. They set their bags on their respective beds and decided to scope a few of the venues before tomorrow’s concert with Baxter James, *the* concert falling on Derrick’s birthday. They managed to catch one or two of the performers on that Thursday. All day Friday, Derrick was paraded around Montreal: treated to two brand-new custom suits, a bus tour around the city, and then going to the top of Mount Royal. This is the best birthday ever, he thought to himself, not thinking it could get better yet.

Derrick sang almost every note along with Baxter. Of course, he wasn’t on stage, but Elden couldn’t see a difference; they were front and centre while Baxter strummed, plucked, and intoned. Then came “Grey Mist”:

“For the only grey in the world is the grey in your eyes,
and the only sad in the world is the rain in the skies.
But your love rides along the mist,
waiting to be touched, waiting to be kissed”

Derrick had this almost eerie feeling when the refrain would be sung: Baxter seemed to be looking right at him as he sang the words. After about two hours, Baxter and his band mates took a bow to the applause of the crowd and departed the stage. As the fellow listeners began to thin, Elden’s phone began to vibrate: it was a text message from Baxter. It seems that Baxter was in the same hotel on the top floor.

Derrick was too nervous to knock on the door, so Elden did the honours. The doors opened and there was a small gathering, no more than about ten people total. Baxter, in his southeastern English accent, began introducing the band, including the percussionist, saxophonist, violinist, and pianist. Each band mate had their respective wives and girlfriends. Also there was Baxter’s road manager, Elaine. “Hi, I’m Elaine James”, she said. Elden was familiar with Elaine and he found it a pleasure to see her every time. “Hey, you both hungry? I’ve had the kitchen prepare something late, as a favour. I’ve been here before and they’ve always been very kind to me mates and meself.” Derrick and Elden were both feeling peckish. They sat down, and the gentry started to talk amongst themselves. Derrick, either by design or distraction, did not notice that Baxter was sitting next to him. There was a knock at the door, and Elaine got up to answer. Elden, almost like Linda Blair in “The Exorcist”, swivelled his head and focused squarely on her pear-shaped bum, wrapped in a clinging black mid-rise skirt.

In the centre of the room was a cake with the numbers “3" and “4" aflame, and the words “Happy Birthday, Derrick” scrawled on the surface. Derrick began to blush; it felt so dreamlike. Then a soft chorus of “Happy Birthday” began. Derrick leaned forward and blew the two candles out; he then was handed the cake wedge and began to cut slices for the guests. What took Derrick by surprise, again, was the cake: five chocolate layers with coffee icing in between and a white chocolate butter cream outside. “Elden!” He thought. Few people knew this was Derrick’s favourite, and Elden was one of them. It was beginning to be too much, but Derrick was determined to enjoy every moment.

After the cake had been served and eaten, the chatter continued. Derrick heard first hand how he and the percussionist had been at grade school together, and how they would act out in class. He heard how Baxter got his first guitar, a Spanish acoustic, from his father, who rescued it from a tip; how that same father spent days restoring it and finding strings so his son could stop playing with his mum’s curtain draws. He heard how the violinist met her girlfriend in a coffeehouse in Amsterdam. But it was the story of Elaine that Derrick wondered about. He noticed that Elden seemed “intent” when she was in the room. Elaine was sporting a very large ring. “Did Baxter buy that for you?” Derrick asked innocently. Elaine chuckled: “Yeah, he did, the daft sod!” “Oh,” Derrick replied, “I imagine you and Baxter must have a good relationship.”. The room then erupted with laughter. Derrick was never good at guessing ages, and Elaine did not look as though she could be anyone’s parent, much less the parent of a 35-year old. “You might say that, Derrick. I’ve known him all me life, innit?” Baxter blushed a bit. “Baxter bought me this ring when he got his first big cheque. A bribe to make up for all the curtain draws of mine he nearly ruined strumming on them.”
- - “Ah, so you are...”
- - “Yes, love, I’m his mum.” Derrick could not hide his embarrassment, but Baxter seemed to elbow him gently as to say it was ok. “So where’s Mr James, then?” “Oh, Martyn don’t like to fly. He’s probably busy getting his morning tea by now. He should be ringing shortly to make sure I get to sleep ok. He’s a bloody romantic, that one. Never fails to ring wherever we both are.” On cue, the band mates and their significant others seemed to rise and begin their farewells; they had another performance tomorrow night and wanted to turn in. At the end, it was just Derrick, Elden, Elaine, and Baxter. Soon, however, Elaine rose to her feet. “I think Martyn will be ringing soon. I should walk to my room.” Elden rose to his feet as well. “I think I’ll accompany Elaine to her room. Wouldn’t be polite to let a lady walk by her lonesome, now would it?” He had a smirk on his face and then turned away to walk with Elaine out the door.

“I should fire him for having a go at me mum, but she started it,” Baxter said matter-of-factly. Derrick wasn’t surprised, probably for the first time that night. “But, he’s good, and keeps me working. It’s horrid to want to do what you love and not be able to do at times.” Derrick was still sitting next to Baxter when Baxter turned. “I’ve not known Elden as long as you, only about six years, really, but he’s a good man, the literal mother fucking aside.” Derrick struggled not to giggle. “Knowing Elden, he likes to talk”. Derrick nodded. “So when he told me about his best friend in the world, and how when they were both ten and pulled down the pants of their mailman, it intrigued me.” “Derrick turned red. “I’ll kill him.” Baxter began again. “No, actually, I think you might thank him later.” Derrick was now confused. “You see, Derrick, in those six years, he would relate his life based on his best friend. It was how I found out how big a fan you were. I mean, you even have “Talking To Galatea” on vinyl... *I* don’t even have that recording anymore. It was my first album ever.” Derrick started to look down. “Then, he showed me a photo of you at university, and then the fishing trip with you and your brothers.”
- - “I had no idea,” Derrick whispered.
- - “Elden also told me about what happened last year, how you had issues to tend to and people to look after. I had planned to try to meet you then, Derrick.” Derrick started to look up. “Elden has basically been talking you up for a while now. If you wondered how he was able to get a CD of “Quiet Whispers” before anyone else to give you for your birthday two years ago, you know now.”

Derrick’s mind was awhirl of so many thoughts. He was sitting before this ginger-haired Englishman who for ten years had occupied an inordinate amount of time and comfort, and was hearing something that he couldn’t process fully. Baxter’s hand came to rest on Derrick’s and the fog started to melt. “Elden is as good a friend to you as he has been to me, Derrick. He’s basically been a counsel when I didn’t have many to turn to. In this business, it’s not advisable to admit ‘Hey world, I’m a flaming poof.’ Makes things a bit... solitary.” Derrick replied, “we are alone, just the night below.” Derrick’s light brown eyes met the dark blue orbs of Baxter’s. Baxter’s hand moved off Derrick’s, then slid inside Derrick’s shirt. Inside his chest, Derrick’s heart erupted; he had to remember to breathe. He did so just in time, just before Derrick leaned forward and kissed Baxter’s cheek... then his lips. Baxter leaned forward, pushing Derrick into the sofa. By now, Derrick’s shirt was off and revealing the tone of his chest muscles. Derrick had now begun to unbutton Baxter’s shirt. He was delighting in this: Baxter’s skin was light, almost ruddy; his nipples were engorged and stiff as Derrick’s hand passed over. Baxter, still in lip-lock with Derrick, moaned gently. Baxter drew his free hand and cupped it over Derrick’s hand, guiding it over his chest slowly. Baxter stopped and straightened his posture, making quick glances at Derrick’s olive-hued skin. Baxter’s hands unbuckled Derrick’s belt, and then made their way into the strained denim. Years of guitar had made Baxter’s hands nimble and in seconds all the buttons in Derrick’s fly had been undone. “Cheeky boy!” Baxter noted: Derrick had gone commando. Derrick’s hips arched up as Derrick’s jeans were tugged down. Derrick came to rest back into his seated position when Baxter began to slide down. Derrick’s eyes slowly closed and his neck tilted back.

After more than several minutes, Derrick breathed “I want a turn... It’s my turn.” Baxter stopped and stood up. “Now”, he said. Derrick reached for Baxter’s black trousers. Barely remembering to undo Baxter’s belt, Derrick pulled hard, revealing Baxter’s white boxer briefs. Derrick hooked his thumbs into the red waistband and slowly tugged. Before Baxter could be fully revealed, Derrick paused and inhaled. The moment was to be remembered, the lyric of him not sung but rather detected. The undies were gone in short dispatch. Derrick had uncut men before, and he loved the feel of them. Baxter was about the same length as Derrick but a bit thicker with one obvious difference. His foreskin was tight on him but as Derrick took Baxter, it loosened and retracted. Baxter began to shake a bit; he was responding very well to Derrick’s skill. “I don’t think I want this to stop”, Baxter admitted. Baxter placed both his hands on Derrick’s soft dark curls as Derrick’s hands rested on Baxter’s small, rounded and very firm arse. Derrick was groaning in glee... gone was *BAXTER JAMES* the musician. All he had before him was Bax, the man who was giving him one hell of a birthday candle. “We’re not done”, Bax said, looking down at Derrick. Derrick backed away from his prize and returned the gaze; then, he stood. Their lips met yet again, their bodies a dragonfly’s wing separated from each other. Bax took Derrick’s hand and pulled him towards the bedroom. Bax turned, sat on the bed and shifted back. His ankles came to rest in Derrick’s hands as Derrick began to lean in.

It was 8 am, and Derrick’s head was resting on Bax’s back. Bax lie snoring softly when the phone rang. Bax was loathe to disturb Derrick, and disliked the idea of Derrick’s warm hand leaving the surface of his body. But, reality set in and Baxter knew he had to tend to things. “Good morning, Mr James. This is the hotel desk. We were asked by Mr Berry to give you a wake-up call of 8 am, and he is listed by you as an authorised contact.”. “Yes, of course. Ta, miss”. Baxter sat on the bed, staring at his half-sleeping paramour and sighed. Baxter nudged at Derrick. “Wakey wakey, birthday boy. Time to shower.” Derrick roused a bit, and almost thought he was waking from a fantasy. The sight of Baxter James walking naked to the bathroom convinced him that it actually happened. “C’mon, lad... You get to wash me back!” Derrick found new energy, leapt from bed starkers and raced into the bathroom.

It was 3 July... A Saturday. Derrick heard a knock at the door of his Nashville home. “Hi, sir, a delivery for you.” Derrick was a bit shocked. Elden doesn’t do flowers, and neither does anyone in his family. Eleven white roses with one red rose inside, and a small box, awaited him. He reached for a tip, and took the flowers and the box and shut the door. Inside was a CD, and on its cover was a familiar face. Derrick smiled big. He looked at the title: “Une Nuit à Montréal”. “You’re kidding, right?” he thought. Inside the box of roses were two notes. The first read: “From your biggest fan Bax, to you Derrick on your birthday.” The second read: “This CD will be released in two weeks. I thought you’d like to have this.” Along with the second note was a flyer: “Baxter James and the Stuarts will be performing Saturday, 3 July at the House of Blues, Nashville”. Derrick reached for his mobile. “Hey Elden, how would you like to see Elaine again?” All Derrick could hear at the other end was a massive guffaw. After the yes from Elden, he hung up and put the CD in his player, broke out the Tanqueray and lemon, and let the new music take him. The lyrics of one song, “Candle”, caught his ear:

“When all was said, when all was done,
I crossed the world to find the one,
And in night up north the flesh was riled,
At your embrace my heart went wild.”

This would be Derrick’s eighth time seeing Bax perform in concert, and if the stars aligned... his eighth time seeing Bax perform after the show as well.

== == == ==

The end.

[Ed. note: this is the final part of this story. It was inspired by the photos of a member here on this site. This was posted with his approval, and I thank him deeply.]

==== (final part) ====

I pulled him by his cock to the bed. I explained what I wanted to do, and he agreed. He put one foot on the bed, and I clicked a few shots. Then had him sit at the edge, playing with himself, then snapped a few more. Next he was on his hands and knees facing me, still very hard, and I continued. I angled myself and took more... With every click, he seemed to get harder, which I didn't think possible. I had him change positions, so he was facing away from me. His legs were open and I could see his ass spread with them. I was near the point of delirium, and decided that the rest of the shoot would be to make him feel as good as he made me. "OK, now I'd like you on your back, and grabbing your cock." He turned over and grabbed his cock, and my hands started to shake a bit. I breathed and kept going. He seemed to look at me, as if he knew. "You know, you've been taking a lot of pics. You have enough?" he said. "I think... I do. But I'm not done with you yet," I quivered back as I set down the camera.

"I'm so hard just being here. Would be a shame to waste it," he teased. He started to smile a bit, and then angled himself with his legs open toward me. I pulled off my shirt and undid my khakis and undies and moved to him. He was bigger than I was physically, but I managed to drag his body closer to the edge of the bed. His thighs were like granite in my hands, and I knelt down and began to lick his balls. He kept stroking his cock and I sucks on each side of his tight sac, losing myself in it. I could only hear soft moans from him. My cock was poking the mattress and receiving my precum. It was all I could do not to cum right at that second. He was in a stride, keeping his cock throbbing. As I was licking and sucking, I kept wanting his cock in me, somewhere. Outright fucking was not an option, but I would have a taste, and let all his hard efforts come to fruition. "Stop stroking," I murmured, and he let go. I let his right leg down, and started to pull his cock to my lips. I was near passing out: this man I'd seen so many times before was on my bed, with his cock in my mouth. I started down, and let that nob of his fill my throat... back and forth.

He started rubbing his chest with one hand, and guiding my head with the other. "Mmmmmm," he groaned. I looked again and his head was leaning heavily into the bed. His back was arching and it made sucking him easier. I gently put his other leg down, but he lifted it again and grabbed it himself. "Finger..." was what I heard very softly, and finger is what I started to do. His ass was extremely tight, virginal. I slipped my pinky in, starting small and working my way up. He gasped and I was scared I was going too fast. I pulled out and started to slow on my sucking. "More..." he cried. "Finger, please..." I knew I could go a bit further with him, so I used my middle finger and started again. He gasped a bit more and then moaned softly. "I'm close... keep going," he murmured. I sucked harder and fingered him faster. His back arched more and he stopped rubbing his chest. "I'm gonna..." he tried to say, but it was too late. The build up of now three hours of being horny were too much to bear. I relaxed my throat and let him shoot... down it went. It was a feeling I hadn't had in quite a while, but the memory of the last allowed me to react to the present. His body went loose, limp, and he slacked a bit. His cock, though, stayed rigid for a good while, even after I cleaned every bit of moist from him. He looked so serene, and I had to grab my camera... I stood over the bed, and shot him from above... He opened his eyes, and I took one last pic.

"Glad you made it home ok," I said to him. "Yeah, just a little turbulence, but nothing serious." I asked him if he had received my mail. He got all 300 pics I took that day he was here. "I can't wait to see them," he chirped. They came out really well, even the one shot where my hands had been shaky. "Oh," I said, "I included one more photo in there." He put the CD in, and brought up the pics. "Haha!! That's too cool!" Not only did he leave me the memory of that day, and the photos as proof, but he left my house commando. "Glad you like it," I churled... "They fit pretty well." Gotta love left-behind jockstraps, eh?

(by: mdguy)

I unzipped the denim, and saw the ribs of a soft jockstrap underneath. The jock was no match for the very bulging bellend stirring below. "Huuuh..." was what I heard next, coming from his throat. The denim was clinging to his massive legs, but still managed to descend. The white pouch was straining a bit, but the waistband and legstraps were firmly in place. "I didn't expect this," I thought to myself. But I decided it was a good image. I went back to the camera and had him put his hand into his jock... with his jeans still at his feet before he stepped out of them. He started moving his hand, and I told him to stop; he listened and was still. Once I had what I needed, I had him step out of the jeans and kick them aside. I had him spin yet again. There they were: those bubbles with just a hint of wisps, fine and very soft. I stumbled back over to him, trying to keep my knees from buckling and succumbing. "May I?" in a slightly unsteady tone. "Yes, please... I hope you like," he whispered. They felt as full in my hands as they had been in my eyes. There was so much of it, them... and I was a bit lost in my own world. I cupped his ass in both hands, sweeping my fingers left and right, to and fro. He sighed and his head sank a bit, and as he did, his cheeks clenched a bit then relaxed. "Don't... move," I commanded. I took a photo of him in that position. I dimmed the light a bit and close the blinds, which cast a shadow on him, and took another shot.

"Are you ready for what's next?" I asked. He turned his head to the side and nodded. "Yes, I think. I'm feeling a bit heady." I took my camera and tripod in one hand and had him follow me upstairs to the master bedroom. I set the tripod down and turned on the bathroom light. He was still in his jock, which gave me an idea. I turned on the shower and made sure the bathroom was well-vented. "OK, hop in," I peeped. "In my jocks? Hmm," he questioned. I told him I wanted them wet, before they came off. He wasn't sure, but he was still aroused and did what I told him. The water hit him at the upper chest, and made his delicate fur glisten a bit... drops fell from the hairs and seemed to reflect and blind me. After a few more seconds his front was wet, and his jocks were soaked. I snapped more photos and then took the camera off the mount. I zoomed in and snapped again. I had him clasp his hands behind his back. The unveiling would be all for me.

I pulled the elastic forward and saw it: a very round, smooth, engorged cock head. I wondered how long he had been this hard. I pulled the jock down just a tad, and took a few photos, close then farther away. I rest the camera down nearby away from the water. I rested my fingers on his throbbing cap and started to play a bit; his head leaned to one side, then his eyes closed and his body seemed to slack a little. "Are you ok?" I worried. "Mmm-hmmm," was all he responded with. I wanted to see more, so I slipped his jocks down... must faster than his jeans had fallen; the best part was when his shaft was let free and stood straight out, supporting the weight of that spellbinding head. The more that was revealed the better: his balls were smooth and compact, forming a solid uniform sac. I stopped pulling down his jocks to jiggle them in my fingers. His lips parted and he exhaled, louder than previously. I finished pulling down his jocks and had him step out of them. I grabbed the camera after wiping off the water, and took a few more photos. He posed, and was posed, in various positions, as many as I wanted. I felt a bit guilty, turning him into my own toy, but he enjoyed it. And just as when he was clothed, I'd touch him inappropriately and he remained erect throughout. "OK, you can turn off the water now," I said; I had been taking shots for thirty minutes and needed to change camera batteries. I told him not to move as I did.

He stood there, naked, hard and wet, and very much desirable. I quickly had the camera ready for the next go-round. I told him to stay put, and I took more photos. "Grab it," I commanded. He move his hand onto his cock. "Stroke... slowly." I heard the shutter going, on and off, as he slid his hand up and down. "Ok, you can stop and dry off now." He had a mildly disappointed look on his face when I told him to stop. I handed him a towel and had him dry off, all the while taking more photos of him. When he was done, I had him throw the towel over his shoulder. I looked at the bathroom clock and saw almost two hours had passed since he arrived at my house. And for most of that time, he was rock hard. "The last set of shots I want to get are you in bed. I dressed the bed in royal blue." He looked at me and returned to the bedroom, dropping the towel at the foot of the door. I touched his shoulder and he stopped. He looked down as I grabbed his cock. It was pulsing wildly, hot to the touch as if ready to explode.

(by: mdguy)

I beckoned him in, and he was as sexy as his photos. "Thanks for inviting me," he said. He was taller than me, and as built as I expected. "Have a seat," I told him. We got to talking, about why he was in town, and what convinced him to visit. "I've always been a bit... curious," he admitted. I smiled and told him we could go as far he wanted, and could stop at any time, or do something different.

He was wearing jeans and a red polo shirt that fit him well. "Well, I'm ready if you are," he said. I had him stand up, and adjusted the tripod and fixed the focus. I took a picture of him, standing there: one with arms crossed, one with his thumbs hooked on his belt. Then he spun around and showed how tight his jeans were. (Damn, the Midwesterners liked their denim tight. I'm not complaining, btw.) I snapped a few more pics of him, then I approached him. "I have an idea," I chimed. I went closer and pulled his shirt out from his jeans and took it off him. He had on a white tee with a Bears logo on the front, and I couldn't resist putting my hands on his chest. The warmth and solidness of it was beyond words. I rubbed a bit and his head tilted back as my palms brushed his very hard nipples. "I, um... wow, sorry," he sheepishly whispered. I slowed my rubbing then removed my hands. "It's ok. As long as you feel good," I offered. "Yeah, actually I do. Just... didn't expect that so quickly," he returned.

I returned to the camera, and him sit down in my mahogany armchair. He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, and I clicked away. He leaned back and stretched his legs... Click. I continued for a bit, posing him a little. With each movement I wanted, I would place my hand in spots: his shoulder, his chin, his inside thigh. I noticed that each time I would touch his leg, his crotch would twitch a bit. I made sure to touch his leg as much as possible.

I had him stand up and turn again, then I removed his Bears t-shirt to reveal his broad back, with just a bit of fine hairs on the sides. It was warm and tantalising, and met my fingers with only the slightest of quivers. "Ooh, that's cold!" he jumped. I was a little nervous, I admit, and my hands get cold when I am. I used this to my advantage a bit and reached under, finding his nipples, still rock hard from before. He let out a soft murmur, almost a gasp. "Well, I think I will snap a few more shots of you like this, before showing you to the bathroom," I said. He couldn't speak; just nodded in agreement. I re-adjusted the camera and snapped a few more.

"Ok, here goes," I chirped. I walked back to him and unbuckled his belt, then had him sit. Slowly I removed his shoes, black boots with thin laces. His socks were also black, very delicate and almost silky. I rubbed the soles of his feet through his socks, then removed each one. I saw his toes oddly as perfect as the rest of him. I rubbed his feet again, and my hands while warmer than before were still chilly. He sighed and leaned back a bit. I gingerly rested his feet on the floor and started to trail my hands up his thighs. He looked at me and had such a relaxed look on his face, peering out at me through his dark, heavy-rimmed glasses. When I got to his crotch, his eyes rolled back a bit but didn't close. I stood up, took his hand, and had him stand. He knew what I would do next, almost. "I am going to wait till later, just in case you are worried," I told him. "If you wanted to now, I wouldn't stop you at all," he snapped, grinning a bit after he said it.

"This is my first time here." Todd rarely left Virginia before this; now he was Scotland, in a small shop. "Well, lad, I hope you enjoy your visit here. Will you be needing anything?"

"No, thanks," he said aloud. In his mind, however, he wanted the shopkeeper. He had a fascination for Scotsmen for a long time. His first was an exchange student named Seumas, who came from Scotland to study at UVA. He remember how fair and pale Seumas was. How soft and pale everything was. He eyes dipped, his lids drooped, his cock hardened.

"Aye, I have to ask what's on your mind? You seem distracted," the shopkeeper intoned. Most of the stock in his shop was for the tourists: tartans, fake castle towers, saltire-clad t-shirts and sweatshirts. He also mixed in some soft, cream-colored pullover sweaters. "Er, nothing. How much for this sweater?" he said, quickly changing his mind on buying anything.

"Twenty-five pounds. Is something wrong, lad?" "No, everything's ok. Say, what's your name?" Todd asked?

"Hamish. Hamish Deleone." "That's an unusual last name," Todd answered. "Well, my father was from Italy. Came here from Verona. I guess you could say I'm like that racing driver. What's his name?"

"Dario Franchitti. He married to that actress, Ashley Judd?" Hamish was like an older version of Franchitti, but fairer of skin. He had dark, curly hair with slight strands of silver, and chestnut eyes. He had a weathered face, but still looked youthful for fifty-one. Todd could only imagine Hamish's body which was hidden under one of his cream-colored pullovers. He was built, however, that much was clear.

"She's my favorite actress. I get a stiff one just thinking of her. What do you think?" Todd couldn't lie: "Well, Hamish, to be honest... I.. er... would rather have Dario."

"Really!? I'd have never guessed, a smart-looking boy such as yourself. You feeling well, er..?" "Todd. Todd MacLeish."

"And you're a Scot, too!"

"Well, my father's parents were. They were from Edinburgh. My mother's parents were Irish. But, yeah, I'm fine. I think I ate something last night that did not agree with me. I don't usually eat mutton."

"A pity. So, will you be buying anything, Todd?"

"I'll take the 'Lion Rampant' shirt in medium, and could I have that dark green pullover sweater up there?"

Hamish grabbed a step stool, and began to climb up. Todd's dark blue eyes were firmly affixed to the round, full ass of the half-Italian shopkeeper. Hamish's dark blue denims seem to strain under the force of his behind.

"Eyes in your head, lad," Hamish chimed. "I know what you're looking at!"

"Huh? Oh, no. I was just... looking at the tartan hanging nearby."

"Sure, lad, and I'm Sean Connery. Here's your pullover. And the tee makes thirty-five pounds."

"Here you..." Todd became as green as the pullover. Before he could finish his words, his calves softened, his knees gave way, and Todd was swiftly lying on the slate floor. "Aw, bollocks!" shouted Hamish. Hamish grabbed the young land, scooped him up and carried him to the back room, where he laid him on the long sofa. "Urrrrr..." Todd groaned. "What? Where? I'm.... urrrr...."

"Todd, lad! I'll ring the emergency services." "NO! I'll be fine, I think. I just got overcome. If I could get back to my lodging, I'll be ok."

"No such thing. Tell me where you're staying. I'll ring them and let them know where you are."

"Alright. Thanks, Hamish." "That's sw..." Todd once again fell into xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx. When he came to five hours later, Todd was feeling much better. Hamish handed him a glass of water. Todd noted that his forehead felt damp and heavy. "I put a cloth on you, as you were a bit warm. Todd was covered in blanket. As he shifted on the sofa he felt the rough textile on his...SKIN!

"What did you do, Hamish?" Todd asked sheepishly. Todd was a bit embarrassed. He turned his head a bit to the right, and noticed his clothes, all his clothes, folded on the leather armchair in the corner. "You had a tremendous fever. At one point, I had you in the tub in cool water. It's an old trick to break fever. You've been on the sofa, untouched for an hour."

"Thanks, I think? But why didn't you call an ambulance?" Todd looked puzzled and a little upset. "You told me not to, and I take a gentleman at his word. Beside, you're not the first person to be taken ill by poor mutton. You'll be up and about in no time"

"Would you mind if I put something on, please?" Todd begged softly. "Sure, I'll grab a nightshirt from my wardrobe."

Todd put on the wardrobe. At 5' 9", Todd was just slightly smaller than the nightshirt. He was rosy-skinned, his Virginia tan quickly fading from memory in only one short week in the UK. His medium, twenty-nine year old frame was in good shape. His toned chest had not a speck of hair. All of that drowned in a almost-sheer cotton nightshirt that, when normally worn by Hamish hit just below the knee, hit Todd almost at the ankles. "I was hoping I could put my clothes back on."

"It's late, dark, and wet. You shouldn't be roaming around the village at night, a stranger like you. You can bivouac here overnight." Todd was feeling a bit queasy. "Where's your bathroom?" "The loo is down the hall on the left," Hamish replied. "Good night." With that, Hamish walked down the hallway, turned to the right, closed his door and tucked in.

About 1 am, Todd had to make use of the 'loo', and stumbled down the hall to the left. He clicked on the light. "My god, these things still exist?" he wondered, staring at a true water closet, complete with overhead box and long pullchain. "How could a man with a modem and a satellite out back have one of these!?" Todd pulled the chain, and hear the roaring of the water overhead; he thought he would be drowned by the damn thing. By now, the damp outside cleared, letting the moon shine through. Todd turned off the light, and began to walk down the hall when something caught his eye. Hamish closed his door, but it didn't shut the whole way. Todd couldn't resist a peek. There he was, lying on his back, naked as the day he was born. "The man has a fairly new Rover, but can't buy another nightshirt?" Todd pondered. But, Todd was willing to ignore that incongruity in order to keep looking at the lightly-snoring Hamish. The moonlight entering his room almost seemed to flood in. The half-Italian Scotsman was on full display under his own spotlight. He was built, but people always look better lying on their backs anyways. Todd drank him in, starting at his face. His face, rugged and weathered was an image of serenity. Todd could only remember the chestnut eyes, now hidden underneath the smooth folds of skin. He had a proud Roman nose, straight and chiseled. Only the hint of a mustache lie above his lips, indeed his lower face. The salt-and-pepper stubble seemed to frame his supple, rosy lips.

On he went, as Todd made his way to his solid chin, down his thick neck to his chest. The same hair on Hamish's head was on his chest. This hair, though, was wispy, black and sliver, straight and short, from just short of his neck to his nipples. His stomach and belly were smooth, but full. He wasn't fat, or overweight, but sturdy. His eyes trailed down Hamish's belly to his... "Oh god lord." Todd was in shock. "Ashley Judd, indeed!"

Hamish had formed his own moondial. His six-incher was on high, straining against the light of the moon. His foreskin had pulled back, revealing a large, bulbous head. Todd looked down at his own eight-inch dick, which seemed to tell him to walk in Hamish's direction. Todd's heart was struggling to leave his chest, his ears overwhelmed with the rushing of blood. He could only do what his prick told him. Before he could step into the chamber, Hamish stirred. Todd backed away; Hamish turned over. Todd leaned in again, this time admiring the reverse angle. Hamish's dark hair with silver strands shone beneath the late spring moon. The broad, strapping back was hair-free; he looked like he could carry a brick shithouse on his back by himself. The ogling continued to that ass, that derrière that had those denims screaming in pain earlier this afternoon. Those orbs were themselves making the moon above jealous. They seemed to shimmer under the pallor.

Where Todd was distracted by Hamish's stiff cock, he could now continue the inspection, down Hamish's massive, polished legs. Those calves, as well as his elegant, perfectly shaped feet, rounded out the measure of this 6' 4" mountain of sheer delight. Todd wanted more, but by now his senses took over, and he turned to walk back to the sofa. Out of the darkness, Todd fell a weighted paw on his left shoulder. "Where are you going, lad?" was breathed in a hushed smoky tone. Todd spun around.

"I.. I w.ww... was going back to the sofa," Todd quivered. "Lad, you've been drooling at me for nearly an hour." Hamish pointed to the antique clock on his wall, which now read just past two. "You KNEW?"

"Of course! That bloody water closet works like a dream, sounds like a nightmare. I knew you were in there for your... illness. You feeling better?" "Yeah, Hamish, I'm better. It's subsiding."

"Really, lad? It looks fairly erect from here." Todd looked down only to notice that he was still sporting a major hard on. And he glanced forward to see this large, bearish looking man, still very much naked and surprisingly still very much hard. "But... Ashley Judd?"

"Listen, Todd. I've been here alone for four years, since my wife died. I use the Internet to satisfy urges, but it's not the same as having real contact. Most of the bitties here are either married, or eighty, or both. The few younger girls here would never look at me twice, even though I don't think I'm hideous. I'm straight, but also yearning for that type of contact that a computer can't give."

"I understand," Todd conceded. "Beside, Todd," Hamish sputtered, "if it is going to be a guy, at least it's a nice-looking one."

"And, you're far from hideous," replied Todd. Even if he wanted to, which he didn't, Todd was drawn by the shopkeeper's hand into his moonlight-soaked lair.

"I'm a bit nervous, lad," Hamish admitted. "I can't allow you to bugger me, but I'm willing to do most things." "That's ok, Hamish, you can, what did you say, bugger, me. I'm not really a bottom, though."

"A what? There's a word for it what you poofters...I'm sorry...guys do?"

"Yes, and don't worry about it," Todd assured. Todd knew that word, 'poofter', from being in London last week, nearly getting the shit beaten out of him by some rough thug. Less than twenty-fours after landing, and he nearly got shredded by a native skinhead who didn't know enough to stay away from a bar that a foreigner figured was a gay pub after fifteen seconds. But that was then. This is now. This is Scotland. This is Hamish, the broad, gentle widower who had just begun nibbling on his neck. "Oh, that's good, Hamish," he murmured.

Hamish took that as his queue to keep going lower, onto his chest, down to his navel. Todd had never felt that: a sweeping motion on his belly, into his navel. "That's an A. No, a B. Wait, a C? What's he doing?" Todd was puzzled; he had to think back to his older sister's diary to figure out what Hamish WAS doing! When he got to "J", Hamish began swirling the tip of his tongue into Todd's navel. It was weird, but Todd was feeling flush with the lashing of this burly elder's tongue; Todd was on the edge, and he was gratified. Just then, Todd felt this weight, the same weight on his shoulder earlier, only it was on his dick. Hamish began slowly, stroking up, then down, palms, then fingers, sweeping, brushing, hard, soft. Todd was nearly overcome. He place his hand on Hamish's hand, signaling him to stop. Todd then pressed into Hamish, which got him to roll onto his back. Todd then started. He was fearful about kissing Hamish on the lips: sexual play with a guy was one thing, but a simple kiss could cause the giant to recoil, then strike out. Todd settled for sucking and biting Hamish's stiff and strong man-tits. Hamish groaned in the darkness, whipping his head back, with only an "Oh, laddie!" in the wind. Todd spent a good amount of time on his chest, then wanted to sample a real Scottish delicacy. If he couldn't have haggis in January, he'd have Hamish in May. Todd moved southward, coming to stop at Hamish's crotch. He repositioned himself to straddle Hamish's body, with only his hard-on resting on the Scotsman's chest. Hamish again began stroking Todd, as Todd began to gently suck Hamish's engorged mushroom head. He could taste the sticky, slightly-salty precum as Hamish seemed to get even harder. Todd held firm grip with his left hand, but he tapped Hamish's legs apart with his right. Hamish appeared to know what was coming next. Todd halted his assault on Hamish's dick, stuck his index finger and middle finger in his mouth, then gently moved them down into Hamish's virgin sphincter. He resumed his sucking as he worked his way deeper into Hamish.

"EASY, lad! Easy," Hamish roared. Todd started as slowly as Hamish had done on Todd's dick. As Hamish relaxed, and continued to sigh and moan, Todd went faster and faster. This made Hamish's sounds a little louder, and louder still. Todd was feeling his own dick swell larger and larger. He could feel his own precum leaking out, into Hamish's hand. "I'm close," Todd whispered. "I'm so...I'm..."

The white grenade went off in Hamish's hand. His whole chest was covered in Todd's jizz. Hamish never thought in a million years that his chest would be covered with the cum of another guy, not in all the years he yanked himself, not in all the years he had been married. But there was no time for Hamish to think on it. "AAHHH.... urrrr..." went Hamish. He could still feel Todd's lips wrapped around his dick, but he could also feel the volleys, one after another. "This kid's amazing," he thought: not a drop was spilt. Didn't Todd realize that Hamish had not had this kind of relief in a long while? Did Todd even care? The up-and-down sucking motion slowed, the fingering slowed, then ceased. Todd began rubbing Hamish's hole gently, teasing the last bit of cum out of Hamish by teasing Hamish's ass. Todd straightened up. He could feel his own juices on his right thigh, where they had run down off Hamish's chest. Todd dismounted his Scots bear, fell backwards and began laughing. "Who thought bad meat and an out-of-the-way souvenir shop would lead to this? Not me."

Todd awoke in Hamish's bed. It wasn't a dream. He hadn't been killed by a mad Scot after a night of unimagined closeness. He smelt blood! No, sausage? He emerged from bed, wrapped the sheet around himself and followed the scent. "Breakfast for two?" Todd asked.

"Aye. Got to keep your strength up. How long are you staying in the village?" Hamish asked. "For another day. I leave for Glasgow tomorrow, then a plane to Ireland, four days there, then a return to the States."

"Bangers and mash, ok?" Hamish placed a plate of sausages and hash before the young American. "Argh." Todd was still queasy at the sight of meat. "Not to worry, lad. It's ok. I cooked the dickens out of it." Todd picked up his fork and took a bite.

"So, tell me about Virginia, lad" Hamish inquired. "It's pretty cool, I guess. Lots of charming people. Sometimes a little backward, but it's my home."

Hamish and Todd talked for five hours before Todd got up to wash up. He put his clothes on. As he headed for the side door, Todd wrote down his e-mail address, '[email protected]'. "I'm on the website. Assistant Professor of History. My specialty is British and Celtic history."

"Mine is 'madscotham @ lycos.co.uk'. Would love to hear from you when you get back."

Todd looks out his window, onto the lawn, past the rows of buildings toward the library. He ran his hand through his low-cut sandy blond hair. It's been a year since his trip to the British isles. His mom got the dark green pullover for Christmas. He is feeling casual today, so he has his sports jacket over his 'Lion Rampart' tee. Both items Hamish had given him for free. "I have mail," he notes. It's from 'madscotham'. It reads: "Have enjoyed our correspondence over the past year. I've decided to take some time off from the shop. Haven't travelled since my wife died five years ago. Am thinking of some places. Will let you know soon. Ham." "That's odd," Todd wondered; "It was sent yesterday, and it took this long to get here. Damn server again." It's late, about five-thirty. He gets ready to shut down his computer, when he hears a knock at the door. He hears someone ask, "Hey lad, where can a Scotsman get a decent whisky in this town?". Todd turns his head, and a sharp smile comes to his lips...