A visit to puerto rico
by F.E. Cooper
2 Apr 2023 1479 readers Score 9.6 (54 votes) PDF Mobi ePub Txt
PREFACE: Some, if not most (or maybe most), of this happened to me years ago. So, it is my story to relate as I see fit. My thought: Embroidery enhances the mundane whether flagrantly in excelsis or wishful thinking on my part. If, in knowing my perspective, it challenges your ability to suspend disbelief, then so be it. To aid you, though, I’ve characterized its weekend-long content as fiction. Fiction – where anything is possible. Gladly do I acknowledge advice from two friends – initials-only WSJ and James Rozo of GD renown – which enabled the best parts of this.
My phone rang rather too early that Labor Day morning. Grappled for it from beneath my bed covers. Mumbled, “Hello.”
“Wake up. I’ve got news.”
Sydney – a pain in the ass, often excited about very little.
“What on earth?” Trying to put another pillow under my head, I half sat up. “This had better be good.”
“Jerry and I got back from San Juan last night.”
“I thought you were to returning today. Did something happen?” Hoped he would get to the point.
“Yes, boys. Boys, Ed. All over a place called the Condado. Ten bucks will get you as many dicks as you can afford. Kids go there to get sucked and make money. But they aren’t real hustlers like those awful boys in New Orleans. Remember our trip there? Anyway, we had a blast. I mean, Jerry and I got glorious sore throats from blowing so many.”
I was sarcastic. “They just came up to you and asked?”
“No, there’s an open-air bar-grill combo on the beach run by a guy named Gene. Buy a few beers and sandwiches from him and, once he’s sure that you don’t have teeth like a vampire, he nods over your shoulder and some cutie shows up with a big smile. Names like Juan, Jovino, José, Jaime, Jorge, and so on. Clean, too – well, mostly. A few, new to the game, are shy – Jerry likes that. They all cum buckets and bounce back pretty fast.”
“Slow down. Why are you telling me this at this hour? You know oral exploits, yours or anyone else’s, don’t kindle my interest. Nor does beer. I do like deli sandwiches. Chopped chicken liver’s my favorite.”
“No need to get huffy. A number of chickens say they need money for tuition and offer their, you know, back ends. Cute, ohmigawd Ed! – the cutest, sweetest butts you can imagine. Just waiting for priapic you and your educator’s money.”
“Sidney, you have just stoked interest. Maybe I should visit the island. But when and with whom? How would I know where to stay or how to proceed? I don’t know any Spanish.” As I asked, warmth stirred my loins.
“Thanksgiving weekend, of course. Better book your flight now, though. Wednesday evening, so you have the most time for sun, surf, and scrumptious boys. And book a double at the el-cheapo-est hotel right there, The Ritz, if you can believe it. As long as you don’t try to take in little boys, they don’t care who visits you. And don’t worry about Spanish. Most everybody speaks English. PR is our territory.”
“What about you and Jerry?”
“We’re going to Bobby’s in New Jersey. You go solo, you hear? Jerry’ll alert Gene to expect you – and all you’ll need to do is to slip him a fifty to get you started.”
*
Imagine my surprise in the airline’s departure lounge when I spotted a big-boned, redheaded man sitting next to a huge frozen turkey in a plastic bag. “You two traveling together?” I smirked.
“They wouldn’t take it in the baggage compartment.”
“Thanksgiving dinner in San Juan?” I sat across and stared at the turkey.
“Yes, my friend’s going to cook a big meal for us and some friends.”
“You’ve been to San Juan before?”
“Oh yes. This your first time?”
When I nodded, he asked, “What takes you there? R&R?”
Cornered, palms sweaty, I blurted, “Just wanted to look around.”
Eyes narrowing, he shifted position to lean forward on his elbows. “By yourself?” He had sensed something.
“Well, yes, but I have a local contact, a friend of friends of mine. He has a bar on the beach.”
“Gene Noble?” – raised eyebrows accompanied the question.
I sputtered, “Yes, do you know of him?”
With a laugh and a hand extended for me to shake, he introduced himself as “Rick, for Richard, Kerman. And you are?”
“Ed, for Edward, Rodman.”
“Gene’s cooking this turkey, man. For me and a few fellows and a bunch of his boys. You’re really going for sex, aren’t you? Come on, fess up.”
He must have noticed me turning red for he filled the silence, “Bet you’re staying at that flea-bag, The Ritz. Food’s awful. You can eat with us.”
*
Turned out, Rick was a cocksucker like Jerry and Sydney. Caution thrown to the wind, I confessed to being an ass man. And bragged that I was good at fucking but sadly in need of practice. Academia’s tenure imposes restraints.
* * *
A day for thanksgiving indeed, it proved to be. Gene, a Falstaff-sized balding guy, was gregarious hospitality personified. Redhead Rick, and the others – in their thirties and forties – were companionable and grew high-spirited from the asti spumante; and the boys – in their upper teens – were a mixture of straight butches and unprofessed gays.
When Rick introduced me to them, he stood behind each trick, facial expressions, winks, and vocal stresses conveying likely prospects: “Ramón and Jorge are into futbol, real sports guys; Omar works at a gym as you can see; Carlos and his buddy Alberto guide people around the El Morro citadel afternoons and weekends; Brigido hasn’t quite made up his mind about how he wants to spend his spare time, so he helps his tia – his aunt – at home.”
Appetites sated by Gene’s roast turkey, dressing, candied yams, green beans with sliced almonds, and store bought pumpkin pie with spray-can whipped cream, the gathering broke up. Ramón, who appeared dangerously tough, remained with Gene. Redhead Rick, who was staying at Gene’s place, invited rangy Jorge to help him with the pots, pans, dishes, and glassware. Omar, thick-built with squat facial features, sidled up to William. George’s smile at perky Carlos and Michael’s toothier one at Alberto, of serious mien and rising tool, settled who’d be with whom. Brigido looked my way, I believe, uncertainly.
He responded to my beckoning. Shorter than Jorge or Ramón, Brigido had lush brown hair and chocolate eyes, paler skin than the other chicos, an open face, and a slender body I was keen to explore. “Want to see my room at The Ritz?”
My fiver found its way into his pocket. He could see that I had plenty of others, some of larger denominations. We walked from Gene’s to the hotel. Our talk progressed from standard trivialities to his admission, “I’m not as big as my friends but I can wet your whistle plenty if you don’t scrape me with your teeth.”
Passers-by turned heads to see who was laughing so loud. Me. I was. “Have you been sucked by Gene’s gentleman friends?”
“Sure. Y otros hombres. It’s great. I’m getting hard already.”
“Did any of them give you a massage?”
“Huh? No.”
Ensconced in my room, Brigido ogled the jars, bottles, and tubes I had taken from my luggage and laid out on the nightstand but did not ask what they were. He stood for me to undress him. Erect and obviously expecting my drool, he let me place him on his back on a beach towel I had spread for the purpose. “Are you gonna to suck me like this?”
“No, I’m going to massage you before we have sex. Relax. Close your eyes.”
Hands coated with oil, I worked his upturned palms until they were soft as a baby’s, on his arms until every muscle had been stroked into ease. Mindfully making an air bridge over the five-or-so inches swaying urgently from their light pubic nest, I moved down to feet and ankles. When toes, pads, and arches and ligaments were free of tension, my hands worked upward. I kneaded his shins, knees, quads, and upper thighs before, with more oil added for my treatment of his hairless chest, I shifted attention to his stomach – never touching the erection and testicles so proximal.
“Time for your back now, Brigido. Turn over so that you’re face down. There’s a good lad.”
Rather than starting with his extremities as before, I began coaxing the larger muscles and tendons of the backs of his thighs. In time, they capitulated. His shoulders and upper back succumbed to my ministrations before I slipped to his waist. Beautiful bottom. Using my thumbs on the dimpled areas lower, I heard no protest so used the fingers of both hands in opposition to separate and manipulate his glutes.
A whisper – “Awesome” – was the message I wanted to hear. A hand towel received as much oil from my hands as let me strip, without getting any on my clothes, for the action I believed might be possible.
Academically voluble, I used simple language to start. “Brigido, I’m now going to treat you to what my Thai friends call body-to-body massage. You will love it. Stay just as you are. I must first loosen the only tight spot left on your fine body. One finger goes in here, smooth as silk. You are so with me, with this. Easy now. Back and forth. This opens your ass to receive two fingers, doesn’t it? You are so relaxed. So perfect. Three will ready you for me to introduce the best means of connecting us for the greatest sex men can experience. Yes, Brigido, yes. You’re moving into manhood. Feel the sensation to your anal nerves as my finger rotates your sphincter for me, for you, for us.”
Scarcely audible, another “Awesome.”
Like a coil of clay on a potter’s wheel, his rounded opening was ready for a cock to shape. Mine. I swung over him and lowered my seven hard inches until their cap’s flange thought it was being kissed. The only way to go was in – slowly. So slowly, I settled deep before relaxing my arms for my body to cover his. By contracting and relaxing my stomach muscles against the small of Brigido’s back, I began the motions simultaneously of fucking and body-massaging that rocked boy and bed. I reckon he came twice in twenty minutes and might have been good for more but for Nature’s call.
“I’ve got to go to the bathroom. Let me up.”
His business done (including a quick shower), I concluded our transaction with a ten and a twenty.
“See you around.”
* * *
Out of sight, out of my mind.
* * *
Sunlight was waning. Thirst for something with alcohol in it tempted me to head for genial Gene’s beach bar and grill. I almost made it. Someone pulled at my untucked shirt.
“Ed, it’s me, Alberto. Business was terrible this afternoon at El Morro, but I saw Brigido and he told me you didn’t hurt him none and you paid him good money. How about me – and Carlos? He’s my friend and he didn’t make any money either.”
Earnestness was written on his serious face and tinged his out-of-breath plea. Alberto, at nearly six feet, was a sight, nervously shifting weight from foot to foot. I found that attractive.
“Where’s Carlos?”
“Um, he’s talking to another guy he just met. They’re over there,” he pointed vaguely.
I stood close to speak, “You been fucked before?”
“A little bit.”
“Tell me, and don’t lie.”
He found his nerve. “I was quince y medio – that’s fifteen – when Señor Sanchez – he sells tickets at El Morro – took me up in the tower, I thought to blow me.” Aside, “I been getting blow jobs from hombres since I had catorce años – was fourteen.” He took in some air, “Only he was mean and twisted my arm, like, hard. ‘I’m getting me a piece of your ass, boy,’ he said in Spanish, and he did. He made me take down my pants and lean on the skinny window ledge of a sentry box so he could spit down there and stick me real hard. He’s like that – mean, like I said. When he grabbed me the second time a day later and forced me, it was awful bad. I told him I’d tell if he did it again.”
“You blackmailed him?”
“Yeah, enough that me and Carlos – I forgot to tell you that Señor Sanchez got him, too – nailed him a few times.” Another aside, “Said I was better.” Then, “Anyway, that’s how we get access to guide people in the castle and stuff.”
“Alberto, turn around. Show me what I’m going to be nice to.”
He did, and I was…in my hotel room.
Alberto cottoned to my request to bend over the back of the room’s only armchair the way he had been bent in the citadel’s sentry box. “See,” I told him, “it’s a nice way to get fucked by a nice man.”
He agreed, also to doggy style on the carpet. But what he wanted, he said, was a massage like Brigido’s, doubtless because of the cash. I obliged dutifully. Indulged myself. He took to it right off after having been probed so thoroughly. Loved the oil, the face-down position, the weight of my body and the energy behind my slams – even told me I could do him harder. Kept saying, “Mas duro” – harder.
That music played on – through a whale of a coda.
* * *
“Everything’s all right,” he said, turning down my offer to use the facilities. “I kind of like having your coconut milk in me.”
* * *
I enjoyed a coconut cocktail at Gene’s where we waved bye to Alberto and Carlos, who had been waiting and wondering.
Later, the restful sleep I had counted on was interrupted by the insistent ring of my room’s phone.
“Hello,” I groused. “Who is this and what do you want?”
“Carlos. I want a massage like you gave Alberto.”
“Now?”
“Ain’t you up to it? Mi culo es carne de primero – what you would call ‘prime meat.’ I been had before. Please, I need what you got.”
“My dick and cash? They come in that order.”
“I’m in the lobby.”
* * *
Naked before I could think twice, perky Carlos flopped on the bed totally prone.
The rear view – so round, so firm, so ready to be fully packed – gave me the idea for a surprise. I oiled my erection and his little hole, wrested him over, hiked his legs, and shafted him from the front.
“Hey!”
“Shut up and take it. This way, Carlos. ‘Specially for you, so you can brag about how well you earned my financial support.” Wanting no reply, I lowered my lips to an inch above his. Told him, “You want to be good in business on the Condado, learn to kiss.”
Screwed and kissed until cross-eyed, Carlos humped like a waterfront whore – dick-mad, tongue-hungry. Cash-greedy, as well, it turned out. I was wiping his ejacs with a trusty towel when he said, “For the lip-work, I should get more than Alberto, don’t you think? Wouldn’t that be fair?”
I fucked him again for good measure, retracted my overworked personal part, toweled it dry, put into his warm clutch two Jacksons and a Hamilton, and patted him on the butt before locking my door behind him.
So, to bed.
* * *
There was a knocking at the same door. Bleary after eight hours of sleep, I got up, stumbled clumsily in the noise’s direction, and squinted through the peephole. Who it was I couldn’t make out. So, I demanded, “Who is it?”
“Jorge, Rick’s friend. You remember, the redhead guy you rode with on the plane? Look man, I heard…”
Unlocking the door, I glared at him, “You heard what?”
He glared down at me, “Man, you are hung.”
Forgot I was bare-ass naked and half-hard. “Come in. What’s that in your hand?”
“Black coffee with two creamers and some sugar packets from Gene. Said you’d be needing it.”
Bamboozled by the circumstance of being nude while a rangy boy I did not know handed me hot morning brew, I sat on the bed, opened the Styrofoam cup, blew away rising steam, and burned my tongue. “Damn, that’s hot.”
He – Jorge, I managed to recall – sat in the armchair. “Dude, what’s your rush? Am I making you nervous?
“I just need to wake up. Had quite a yesterday and a night last night.”
“I heard. Everybody heard. Us guys on the Condado spread news. Brigido’s been carrying on about you. Alberto, too. Carlos – man, was he ever impressed by the way you fucked him! Gene said you were recommended to come here by two guys who sucked us dry again and again – Jerry and Sydney. Do you know them?”
“Old friends. Known ’em for years,” I said, sipping with care. “This is a help. How can I thank you?”
He took me literally. Brightened. “Give me one of your body massages. Man, from what I hear, they’re top-notch experiences.”
“Well,” I could swallow my coffee, “I am on top for those – and as deep in my partner’s notch as I can get.”
“Oh here. You haven’t had breakfast. I carry nut bars for energy. Eat one with your coffee so you can massage me proper-like.”
“Proper? Where’d you pick up that word?”
“Some British guy used it a lot. He was a turista. Always spoke of ‘proper blow jobs’ and the dough he’d pay for virgin dicks. Gene lined us up for him, one virgin boy after another – yeah. Gene told us how to act kind of afraid and, like, shy but willing. Vírgenes! Worked at the time, then the guy came back – so Gene had to come up with a new cast!”
My eyes went to the ceiling. He snickered.
By concentrating on the nourishment, I soon was ready to tackle his body. He recognized that I was and removed his sandals and outer pants, his undershirt and outer one. Before me, he stood, turned around, and, in what passed for a British accent, said, “This is for you to reveal.”
I did. A pair of clean skivvies hid handsome territory. “Part your legs, please.” From where I sat, the view was of healthy, young man’s butt. Unmarked and not too hairy. A certain flatness guaranteed forthcoming maximum penetration.
“A tad of grease to your interior will facilitate congress,” I spoke with academic ostentation as my vaselined finger slicked there. A hesitant murmur told me to add more – with my adjoining finger. Judged finally to be sufficiently prepared to receive my bulge, he seemed to be waiting and wanting. “Jorge, because I like you, I will give you the best massage of all.”
He did not see me oil my front liberally, so could not expect that I would transfer the oil to his entire back from my own body. I readied myself over him. “Reach back with both hands, take what you admired before, direct shaft and flange to your entrance, clear your mind of strain, think of a pink dawn on a new horizon, and I will show you the light of a new day in your life.”
Fingers fumbled before finding and encircling my bloated organ. “Es tan grande…grueso y duro…y mojado,” he said under his breath – big, thick and hard, and wet. “But I can take it. Los otros lo hicieron – the others did. They said it was maravilloso.”
Jorge’s touches moved from those of innocence and ignorance to others more certain of their new-found knowledge in obedience to desire’s demand.
Centered exactly and cushioned there for a moment, my cock opened the supple teen ass with ease. I was sure his face contorted, for he writhed when my rigid flesh surged into his depth – but complicitly kept silent. Manly weight and gliding surfaces persistently pursued unknown sensitivities of skin minute upon minute in advance of my determination to mount most memorably for him a peak-scaling occasion. He rocked and groaned to my pushes, glides, drives, shoves, plunges, and shifts of angle.
So vigorously did I jolt into climax that he let out his breath as an orgasmic wheeze, and gasped open-mouthed like a fish. His anal hysterics did something to the boy’s bladder. It voided cum and urine. Soaked the hotel bed. Brought us back to earth.
I got up, pulled him to his feet, tugged off the smelly bedlinens and mattress cover, pressed towels into the wetness, and hoped the housekeeper could be bribed not to tell the manager. Jorge stood dumbly until I turned to him and asked, “Well?”
He threw his arms about me and burst into tears. Fearing a bigger, less wanted scene, I steered him into the shower and let its warm streams wash our embracing forms of all effluvia.
Fondled a bit, sure. But only to promote cleanliness all over. Quick as I could, I dried him, urged him into his clothes (“So you won’t catch a cold.”), offered him three twenties which he wanted to turn down, if I let him stay with me. Offered four at the door with apologies that I needed my rest. Took the original three and ran off sniveling about it not even being lunchtime. Fair of him.
Eleven-forty-five. What was I thinking? I phoned the front desk to arrange a bowl of chili and some saltines to be sent to my room at noon. Dared not go to the beach. Definitely did not want to risk another encounter with clingy-if-fetching Jorge.
One o’clock came along with the idea to sneak out one of the hotel’s back doors and to hail a cab, a plan which succeeded. The cabby agreed to a wide-flung tour further inland. Happy to be of service, he gabbled about this and that landmark, including the Columbus monument. He wanted to drive me forty-fives miles (“for an especial price”) to see the Birth of the New World statue in Arecibo. I demurred, claiming I wanted to be dropped at any movie house that had a matinee showing of, well, anything. The Lost City showed me a good deal of Channing Tatum. Popcorn and an orange soda went well with that.
Another taxi returned me to The Ritz’s front door, alas, where several familiars of teen persuasion accosted me.
Worried faces clamored for answers: “What have you done with Jorge?” and “Did you tear him up?” and “Is he hurt or something – in the free clinic?” and “Where is he, Ed?”
“Nothing,” “No,” “I don’t know,” and “I don’t know” were my replies in order. “Why are you asking?”
Brigido spoke volubly for the group, his ease in speaking English to me improving. “He didn’t come to the beach to tell us about visiting you. You know, to compare notes like we all did.” Carlos commented, “Jorge always brags.” Alberto chimed, “Gene hasn’t seen him.” Collectively, they shrugged.
“Amigos, has one of you called his home, where he lives?”
No.
To be open, I used the hotel’s lobby phone and called the number Brigido knew by heart. Held the receiver so the boys could hear the woman’s voice that answered. Carlos took it from me and chattered in Spanish. Respectful tone. Before he handed the receiver back to me, he whistled with resignation.
Turns out that Jorge was packing a bag to go on a trip. Where, Carlos did not know. Of no concern to me since my weekend was coming to its own close. One more night at The Ritz. I eyed the boys.
“Seems I’m free to have company. Anybody want to provide a little booty for a little bounty?” I touched the wallet in my back pocket.
They huddled, heads together like a small sports team. Pert butts stretched pants.
Un-huddled, Brigido said, “Let’s make a deal.”
With my trademark best smile, I waited.
“Me and Carlos go with you now. You feed us supper and we stay with you all night.”
I held up a finger.
“I ain’t finished yet. Alberto’s gotta be home for supper. But, he’ll come here after that and you get all three of us all night for an all-for-one special rate – as many times as you want. Only a hundred dollars apiece – cash. We don’t take credit cards. Now that’s a deal.”
Seemly feelings crept over my crotch. “There’s a problem,” I drew them together so the front desk clerk would not hear. “One of the beds is out of commission. Jorge had an accident upon it.”
“That don’t matter, we can do it on the other bed or on the floor. Or borrow another chair from the hall.”
Carlos turned his back to the front desk and encouraged my ballooning cock with a knowing hand.
I grinned. “Where would you like to eat that’s nearby?”
Gene’s, it turned out – in plastic chairs under a beach table’s shady umbrella – “Como una familia,” Alberto said, guzzling his Medalla Light with gestures to Carlos, Brigido, and me. They returned his salute with their beers and hungrily noshed juice-dripping tripletas.
Gene wisely provided yours truly with a health shake, actually a whizz-up of canned beets, frozen berries, and chia seeds in yogurt diluted with almond milk. “It’ll put lead in your pencil,” he had quipped.
Mmm!
* * *
“Me first, okay?” Alberto asked. To his friends seated on the floor, he said so all could hear, “You guys know how I told you Ed got me the way Mr. Sanchez did, only it didn’t hurt? Well watch this. Do me like that, Ed.”
A lot of English for him.
Before I knew it, his clothes were off and he had bent tantalizingly over the armchair’s back.
Brigido covered his mouth to tell Carlos, “He’s got an erección already.”
Carlos whispered back, “I do, too. Don’t you?”
Their colloquy allowed me to disrobe and oil my rampant protuberance.
“Es ese tu pulgar? – your thumb?” Alberto twisted his neck about.
“Priming you for the pump.”
“I’m your bucket. Fill me up.” He showed teeth to his compadres.
That overwrought smile turned into a grimace as my skewer fixed him against the chair. He bore it well enough while being brought into sync with this grown man’s member and its depths-seeking heaves and pulls. Once re-accustomed to what it meant to be well and truly fucked, his grimace metamorphosed into a smile that reached roof level.
Several times he dubbed me a deity, calling out, “Dios mio!”
Boosts of his bottom put a spring in my stride. I strove to bring on the euphoria of orgasm for him through inspired doggedness, stud to bitch in lockstep, as it were. Elaborately mixing metaphors, I said as I plunged, “I do not want to over-graze the luxuriant bounty of your butt but the emotion in your voice compels me.”
In reedy, needy voice, he replied in idiomatic English, “Mow me down, man, like a field. Harrow my hole!”
Harrow? Picked up from the British guy?
Spermatozoa swarmed, their destiny determined by a single path. Out they gushed in jackhammer spurts. He hyperventilated as my vigor forced him euphorically to fertilize the armchair’s upholstery.
“Grandes dioses!” – as if there were more than one of me.
A mix of adrenaline and anticlimax caused fatigue to rise through my body. I needed oxygen. Breathed as a randy man must in such a situation. From Alberto, I retrieved my shiny member to a wet suction sound. Said, “You were a very good demonstrator for the others, dear boy. Go home to your mother and come again when you’ve had your supper.” I looked to the gawkers on the floor, “Next?”
“Brigido came when Alberto did. He rubbed my hole with his cum, so I’m ready if you are,” Carlos’ tone was smug.
“Armchair like Alberto, on the carpet doggy-style, or on the bed – flat out?”
“Ed, usted es tan romántico,” he flashed a mock kiss my way.
“Romantic your ass. Get over here,” I showed him to my cock.
Jaw open, pink tongue a-drool, Brigido sat in the armchair to observe Carlos on his face, being cock-keyed into, driven by me like a racehorse under its jockey, and pummeled vociferously. My rut of Carlos was so exciting that it banished all thought of personal fatigue.
The boy’s verbal tack was the opposite of his pal Alberto’s heaven-directed salutations. “Demonio! Fuck my ass. Make it flame! Set it on fire! Incinerame! Quema mi trasero! Llévame al infierno! Take me to Hell!”
Whipping his ass toward the finish line, I accidentally over-responded to his breviloquent urgency and triggered my own quenching orgasm while he spasmed up and down in climactic hysteria. We shuddered through descent’s confusion.
Immediate recovery was impossible, as the Devil himself would admit.
“Get off me,” Carlos breathlessly directed, giggling, “and let Brigido’s ass gobble tu plátano – your banana.”
“Yeah, and no massage foreplay, okay?”
I had obligations to the laws of loins. I took the reins of responsibility to the first butt I had fucked in these sunny, salt-air environs. “Flatten yourself for me, dear boy. I’ve plenty for you – what you see and what its reservoirs hold in reserve.”
Carlos made way by collapsing to the floor.
Into what lay fresh before me, I performed the duty of caring penetrator and descended with indescribable emotion. Brigido’s internal region offered pleasures that began with tender swaddles as of a baby, nursing-style suctionings, occasional burps of digestion, then lapsed all action of its own in favor of mine. At renewed expansion, my cock and its nerves celebrated a holiday voyage through tranquil depths and over shallow rapids, eventually to plunge off the cliff of orgasm and to splatter joyous droplets in profusion.
“Super, man,” Brigido congratulated, enjoying his play with words.
“Awesome,” Carlos had the last word.
* * *
No one of the three put his hand out for the promised money until the morning after our night together.
The evening’s chronology was that, after Brigido, Carlos, and I had gorged on spaghetti, meatballs, and garlic bread at the Condado’s Serafino Bistro, we retired for some TV in my room until Alberto made his promised return.
First to shed his clothes, that boy was ready for intercourse. Said so, if it was not obvious from the springiness of his erection.
“We are, too,” Brigido spoke for himself and Carlos. Keystone Kops did not move faster in silent films than the duo did stripping off society’s conventional coverings. Close in age, three Puerto Rican teens naked and hard made a fine sight. They made a show of preening before one another and my room’s mirror.
A thought hit me. “I’m an equal-opportunity employer, boys. Let me have your bottoms in-line all at the same height over the side of the bed. You know, chests on the bed, knees on the carpet and slightly apart. That way, yes, but with enough space for me to get to each of you.”
Newly slicked, my dick’s single eye focused first on Alberto’s rosette. With a lean its way, I said, “Open for me so I can go straight in.”
“Pero no demasiado rápido, Ed. You know how I will like it.”
Not too fast, I sank my torpedo into the tube intended. “Tell me when you want me to launch this thing, Alberto.”
“Not yet.” His head turned to Brigido on his right. In English, for my sake, “Ed’s the best I ever had. I didn’t know getting fucked could be so good, did you?”
“Guess not, so shut up and take it, so I can get my share, too.”
“Ed, I’m ready.”
Four minutes’ bliss by the clock later, I inserted my weapon admiringly into Brigido’s unknotted anus and awaited an instruction.
“Do me, man.”
Simple, direct, to the point – what a good attribute!
I timed four minutes, looking at the clock only when butt-bliss threatened to send my cock into shooting mode – and deprive Carlos of his fair share. Thirty-seconds to go, I slowed to gentle mode, breathed relief, and moved without haste behind Carlos.
Damn him! Just as I parted his still-half-open ringlet, he said, “Rasca mi picazón, Ed.” Instantly, he found the English: “Scratch my itch, Ed,” and went on, “You know how. Don’t be shy. Gimme that dick.”
I didn’t. I smacked him hard. “Take that, you greedy person.” Self-preservation? No, seed-preservation. My mind was set on providing cock several times to each in rotation, four minutes apiece without cumming. Thus was staved off what I will term prematurity of climax. Distraction does that for me, although I had to simmer down prior to re-engaging with Carlos.
He purred, though. Four minutes of good behavior.
For my next round, three minutes seemed less likely to cause eruption. To be sure, I watched the clock as I worked those butts with steadfast thoroughness but no great speed. Pace yourself, I told myself.
I heeded my advice. Behaved like a robot. Conceived the idea of motorized pelvic cyclings in and out. Detached personal feelings. Gave them dick then and a third time before making this professorial declaration: “When in the course of anal events it becomes incumbent on the provider to seek respite from hungrily-yawning young chicks. I therefore declare these festivities closed until the morrow. So, to sleep, my dears, perchance to dream of ways to conclude our business arrangement when the cock crows.”
“Addendum: if in need of affection’s embraces during the dark hours, slip into my bed by turns. Wake me not; just cozy your bottom into my lap for whatever while. My arms will find you.”
You know, they did. Each boy wriggled onto my implant-rigid dick and caught some winks while I slept through the night. No cock crowed to rouse us. A church bell did, clangorously.
I screwed somnolent Alberto into consciousness because he was in the bed with me up his ass anyway. Carlos caught wind of a contented fart, woke and got up from the carpet and bent over the armchair, saying quietly, “You won’t squash me this way.” Sighed nicely at his prodding, and tickled Carlos with a toe in his ribs, “Ay bendito! – don’t miss this dick.”
Carlos wouldn’t. Didn’t. Got it, along with the conclusion of our commerce-of-a-kind with hundred-dollar bills, one apiece, but no juice of any type until we imbibed that of freshly squeezed oranges at Gene’s during our Saturday morning meal.
Back in my room and after we unblocked our guts, I proposed a bus trip to the Museo de Arte in Ponce. Acting on my own behalf and wishing to postpone further carnal entanglement, I observed, “The collection includes rare oils by Gustav Doré which you guys should know and be proud of.”
Game for the adventure, they lacked enthusiasm for the Frenchman’s somber canvases but professed interest in Joachín Sorolla’s female nude’s glabrous, callipygian backside. “I’d like to fuck that,” Alberto puffed. Frederic Leighton’s glowing orange-clad personification of the month of June drew from Brigido, “Fuck her and her big thighs would crush the life outta you.” Carlos said, “Sí, but what a way to go.” Their locutions may have been base, yet indicated their interest in butts – brought to the fore by me? We lunched in Ponce, took a bus back, and were in my hotel room in the late afternoon. “I’m horny,” Carlos initiated the boy’s strip show. Two ‘me-twos’ followed. And there I was with nude, penis-hard teens again. And became priapic again – to my pride – anew. Hard to believe, but true. My idea this time: I’d recline on my back and direct the boys, holes oiled, to stand over me and open their thighs to squat on my stout cock. “I want to see, from that perspective, the expressions you make.”
Shivers of bliss marked their inner structure’s frictive rubbing of my girth and extent. Once on it to my pubes and having essayed a rebound or two, or three, or four, they practically fought for their time riding me. A spiritual dimension opened with a fiery blur when Alberto called out, “Baptize my butt!” – and I lost both composure and control. He sat for the longest time, flexing innately around me.
Seepage ended our pseudo-sacred union.
He reluctantly surrendered his post. Bolted for the restroom. My cock flopped. Brigido tended to me with a washcloth, a kiss, and, “You are the best man we have ever met.”
“Yet,” Carlos qualified with mirth. “Ain’t I right, you in there pooping your baptism?” he trumpeted toward the room’s nearby small facility.
“Can’t decide yet,” Alberto said loud enough for us to hear over other sounds he was making. “I want another chance at…at…”
“Pole vaulting?” Carlos completed with a cackle.
“All of us should have another wild ride, like, before bedtime.”
“Yeah, Ed. Man, you’re flying away tomorrow,” Brigido said. “I saw your ticket.”
* * *
Our post-supper romp of squat-rodding proceeded in high spirits. Brigido wanted and got pole position. What a lad! “A dab’ll do me,” he boasted, applying a fingertip of oil to himself. Elaborately in imitation of me, it seemed, he broadcast, “I want to feel Mr. Well-Hung’s thing forcing me open as I begin and inch down till I’m stuck like the sweet cock-pig I am.” To me, he said, “You got me into this, now I’m after the prize of your man-cum. Give it up!”
He went at me, bobbing like a kid on a carrousel. Down he slid and up he leveraged in mad glee. Seventy-eight times (I counted, for distraction) before his knees quaked. “I can’t get up,” he confessed. “Somebody help me.”
Alberto did. “You didn’t get his cum. It’s my turn.” Without hesitation, he handed worn-out Brigido over to Carlos and spat on my cock. “Enough for me.” His bravado was to take a breath, hold his nose comically as if jumping butt-first into a pool – only it was onto my tool – and to give gravity its chance to pull his ass toward the center of the earth. Irrevocably, it did.
“CARAJO!”
“GODDAM!” – Brigido translated.
You know who mocked his predicament – his pals. Not I. I winced at the abrupt stretch of my cock’s skin by an improperly-angled rectum. Felt like I was being flayed. Blasted a “DAMN!” of my own. Chagrined, Alberto shifted until satisfied by the look on my face that he might proceed.
His way consisted of shaking his fundament while holding his arms over his head, something he had probably seen a dancer do. Amusing, it became a provocation. A titillation. My load was in peril. Had to do something, but what? Nipples! – his. I would tweak them. Reaching up – he thought to tickle – my fingers found the bouncing nubs and delivered double pinches.
One massive squirm elicited a visceral cataclysm so sudden his cum almost atomized into the atmosphere. His eyes rolled to white, his voice rasped, his body went into rictus. My eyes bugged and went dry, so astonishing was the drama. I had to blink and squint several times – while his orgasm abated. Alberto’s teen chest hove for air. It was over.
“What happened?” he asked as if he did not know. Absentmindedly, he touched his nipples and tried to clasp his ass on what it held. Priceless! I had won.
While he sorted himself and responded to a push from my hands, I importuned Carlos, “Want the last turn?”
He of the insatiable butt sprang to the bed, jockeyed accurately onto my cock as if settling into a saddle, and – after determining that he was properly situated – bucked on me as if in a rodeo. His enthusiastic whoops and yells, his rectum’s tensile elasticity, his radiant face catalyzed our components of body and spirit. Gushes and flushes from my genital strongroom lavished his seething tunnel.
Carlos had captured what had been denied his buddies – my final load. Smug was his statement, “I’m keeping this for my souvenir.”
Brigido’s washcloth tended again to my run-ragged cock.
Multiple hugs and kisses.
Not much was said.
We sagged to sleep.
* * *
Soberly after breakfast and a hearty good-bye to Gene, we packed my things. To avoid morosity, I reiterated my promise to return at Christmas and to bring presents for all.
Asked, “Guess what presents I want from you three?”
From Brigido, “Our butts?”
Quickly from Alberto, “Wrapped or unwrapped?”
“I’ll put a red satin bow on mine,” Carlos pledged, crossing his heart.
Deep breaths and strong hugs preceded my taxi’s departure for the airport.
On the way, I mused most fondly about the boys.
What would I do for sex in the weeks separating me from them?
At the check-in counter, a vision appeared with a carry-on and a handful of money: Jorge! Tall, sportsman Jorge who had helped Redhead Rick with Gene Noble’s Thanksgiving dishes, had been the recipient of my ‘best’ body-on-body massage, had wet The Ritz’s bed, and had been said to be packing for a trip
I was speechless.
“Ed, I’m going with you. It’s okay. Look, I can even pay my own ticket. My mama gave me the money. She said to give you all the nooky you want. She heard from the families of Carlos, Alberto, and Brigido what a nice man you were, you know, with those hundred-dollar bills and everything. And…” – he was excitedly almost out of breath – “…how we could all be together at Christmas. She needs a new washing machine.”
Love spoke. Then and there.
Our flight was smooth.
* * *
I phoned friend Sydney with sincere appreciation for his insistence that I visit San Juan.
“Aha, I take it you had some boys?”
“Get Jerry on the extension and I’ll tell.”
If there is a next installment, Ramón and Omar will assert themselves. A dire circumstance will force Gene to abscond to Costa Rico where he will set up a different kind of business and attract Edward Rodman, Richard Kerman and other similarly-interested men to patronize him there. And you will meet hairy, horny Henry who only wanted a new pair of shoes to wear at church.
* * *
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