Dan was sitting on the toilet in the communal guesthouse bathroom. The room was small, with two toilets--without stalls or any privacy--and two sinks, plus two showers with plastic curtains printed with dumb-looking moose grazing across them. The gay guesthouse was in the Vermont mountains, and, with chill up-country air in mind, Dan had packed and worn cotton pajamas, even though it was mid-summer. He was 23, an ex- college-lacrosse star, muscular, with curly, honey-brown hair. He was a looker, a bit arrogant, with “a world-class ass,” according to an attendant at the Regency Baths in Boston.

Dan settled on the seat, his pajamas lowered to his ankles, clasping his hands so that they covered his privates. He hadn't been bare three minutes before the door creaked open and in strode Mike, his neighbor down the hall--a tall burly hunk with a mustache, glacier-blue eyes, and a tangle of hair padding his chest; Mike was naked except for a pair of very thin jockey briefs. He carried a black leather shaving kit bag and a red towel. "Hey," he said, as Dan squirmed a bit in embarrassment. Dan could just manage to nod. There were few guests in the place, and Dan had thought he was early enough to evade any "competition" for the facilities.

Mike plunked his things on the edge of the windowsill and squeezed a handful of shaving cream onto his palm and rubbed it over his face. The room was silent as each man avoided looking at the other. Dan could feel his bowels activating, and he shifted on the toilet seat so that his crack would open a bit wider. He knew Mike lived in a city near his, having met him last night in the guesthouse lobby. Dan strained.

Stretching one side of his face taut to efficiently shave it, Mike asked, "How's it goin'?"

His own face hot, Dan looked up at him. "I'm doing my grunts," he said.

"So I see," Mike told him. "That's great."

"You don't mind?"

"No, I'm sitting as soon as I'm done shaving." Mike accelerated the process, cutting through the cream with quick, confident strokes, rinsing his face, drinking some cold water and then spitting it out and toweling his skin dry. He peeled off his sweaty briefs and flung them to the floor, revealing a huge cut cock swinging between muscular thighs, and, when he turned, a square, solid, hairy bare bottom with a deep crack. (Some pimples sprinkled along the base of one cheek somehow made it even sexier.)

Then Mike sat astride the toilet directly opposite Dan, his cock half-hard and his legs positioned far apart. Dan's heart was throbbing like the bass guitar in a disco, and his own cock was stiffening as he grunted.

Mike cut a quack-like fart, and Dan cut a softer one: the men were silent but their bums were "talking."

"I think it's, um, about to happen," Dan told Mike.

"Oh, yeah? You gonna do a big one, brother?" Suddenly, Mike rose from the pot and stepped toward Dan. He knelt smack in front of Dan's toilet. Gently, he pulled Dan's legs apart and peered between the toilet seat and Dan's bare bottom as Dan pushed and a big BM exited his rectum and went plopping into the shallow water.

"Do your grunties," Mike said, his broad hands resting on Dan's knees. "Be a good boy."

Dan farted and three more movements came out. (Dan, a vegetarian, had eaten okra curry with broccoli for dinner.) Mike stood and drew a packet of Winston cigarettes from his shaving kit bag. He lit a cigarette with a disposable lighter and exhaled a cloud of smoke. "You're makin' a big stink, little guy." He jammed his cigarette into his mouth, and, with strong arms, lifted Dan forward on the pot, so that Dan's bare bottom was now accessible.

"What...are you doing?"

"I’m doin’ the paperwork, buddy." Mike yanked off some sheets of toilet paper and began wiping deep into Dan's mortified rectum. He all but rubbed the crack raw.

"My bum is bare" was all Dan could say.

"And how." Mike finished and sat Dan back on the pot. "You sit right there, understand?" Turning around and baring his own behind, Mike again sat on the opposite toilet. He spread his legs so that Dan could see between them. "Gassies and grunties," he said, and he pushed out an enormous log of a movement, straining so that his whole face contorted as he gripped his thighs with the effort.

Next, without even wiping his bottom, he hauled Dan off the pot and pulled a straight-backed wooden chair from a corner of the bathroom into the center of the floor. “I...” He bent Dan, bare, over his knee, so that Dan could see Mike's long, bony feet with their blunt toes. "For playin' hard to get. You're gettin' a spanking. A bare-bottom spanking. I just happen to have my hairbrush." The blows rained down harder and harder. Dan kicked and jostled and begged. "Ow, ow, ow!" The smacking racket would travel throughout the building; everyone--the French-Canadian guys who owned the guesthouse, the guests, the sneery, curt houseboy, Gilbert--would “know.” There was no mistaking the sound of a bare-bottom spanking.

Mike and Dan were positioned cock-to-cock; Mike’s huge member was pressing against Dan’s flesh and felt as solid as the shaft of a steering wheel. Then, finally, Dan felt his cock erupt and squirt hot cum in sticky streams down Mike's rigid legs. Seconds later, he felt Mike's cock squirt, flooding his own privates with puddles of jizz. Still, Mike kept spanking, and, having tinkled, grunted, and cum, Dan now completed the cycle and began to cry.

"Please, please! My bum hurts!" Dan whimpered.

“I’ll stop when I’m damn good and ready and not one minute before.”

At last, as Dan’s bottom was going numb, Mike stood him up and lit a cigarette. He stuck his finger up his boy's anus. It was only then that the two men noticed the bathroom door was pushed slightly ajar and a handsome ocular surgeon from Chicago, Eli--he'd checked in yesterday too--was watching their every move.

"Nice show, guys," the doctor said.

It was the barest Dan’s bottom had ever been.





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