Chapter One: What A Pair We Make.
I was very much an Englishman abroad as I walked through the woods. I had decided to buy a property way outside Grandy, Colorado, to pick up the pieces of my life. The selling point was the area, defined by wide valleys, towering peaks, and privacy, which allowed me to write.
The house nestled in a wooded valley, surrounded by mountains, with a whitewater river flowing through the middle. The lot also included extensive forestry interests, with approximately a hundred acres hosting a fantastic carpet of wild Bluebells in bloom, which was in early May.
I had bought it on an impulse, or maybe desperation, after the divorce papers landed in my mailbox with all the grace of a cinderblock.
The agent had called it "rustic," which was just another way of saying "the previous owner gave up halfway through renovating." But the way the morning light filtered through the leaves onto the porch, painting the warped floorboards gold, made the peeling paint and crooked shutters feel like part of the charm.
I had moved in two months ago and started renovating the house, returning it to its former glory, or rather, rustic charm, with wooden beams in every room. Large fireplaces in the lounge and bedrooms, and the kitchen had one of those old-fashioned aga's that kept the whole place warm as toast.
I was finally happy after the last two years of arguments over money and then, eventually, divorce. I was free now, and my mind had settled on resuming my writing and finding the old me that had been suppressed for too long during what became a loveless marriage towards the end and of course, I reminded myself of the single act that had instigated change for the good, for both of us.
One aspect of my suppressed life was my need for privacy when writing and minimisation. Some might call me eccentric, but when at home writing, my clothing was always minimal. I would often be naked, padding around the house, which my ex-wife always hated, or dressed like I am today on my walk, having started the new approach in response to my wife’s prudish comments.
I liked clothing minimisation, and I had got into the habit of wearing nightshirts to bed. The advantage of such an act is not having to get dressed in the morning. My nightshirts became dayshirts, which to strangers would look like a dress, but were definitely, for men, enjoying the freedom of slow mornings that extended to the whole day.
I didn’t have to wear anything else unless I went to Grandy, spending days just changing dirty nightshirts or dayshirts for clean ones when required. The freedom offered by my attire was fabulous and comfortable, and as I padded through the Bluebells, my dayshirt served its purpose, feeling the air circulate my body with the occasional gust, lifting the cotton fabric in a risky manner. The sandals I wear only added to the eccentric image of a thirty-nine-year-old English writer, relatively fit and slim at 182lbs, ‘living the dream’, finding his soul again in a very new setting.
As for neighbours, my closest was a couple of miles away, and I enjoyed not living on top of anyone anymore, which my previous life in the city had dictated, and the remoteness supported my eccentric approach to life with no one to complain to.
I continued my walk to the smell of wild garlic sprouting between the blooming Bluebells, mulling over what to do next with the house, considering the renovations had been completed by very able builders, within time and on budget, when a young man popped out in front of me from behind a gnarled oak. He looked as startled as I felt, his mud-streaked face freezing mid-step. One of his hands clutched a rusted trowel, the other gripped a bundle of uprooted Bluebells by their limp stems. Our silence stretched, me in my eccentric attire and him in extremely baggy shorts and a t-shirt with almost matching sandals.
As the young man dropped the stolen flowers into the leaf litter, I broke the ice. "Hi," I said, hoping he might just run off like most young men would if caught doing something they shouldn't.
To my surprise, he didn't run. He just introduced himself with a frightening normality. "Hi, I'm Jason. You must be the new guy....um.... something Davis."
"Steve Davis," I corrected.
Jason wiped his nose with the back of his wrist, smearing dirt across his cheek. His fingers twitched toward the discarded Bluebells, then froze again under my gaze. "Why are you wearing a dress?" he asked.
"It's not a dress," I said, feeling very irritated by his accusation, tugging at the material. “It’s a nightshirt at night and a dayshirt by day. I just can’t be bothered to wear normal clothes when at home. More importantly, why are you digging up my Bluebells? This is my property."
Jason shrugged, kicking at the leaf litter with a scuffed boot. "Looks like a dress to me," he said, grinning like this was all some hilarious misunderstanding. The kid couldn't have been more than nineteen or maybe twenty, with something about him that intrigued me. "As for the flowers,” he continued, “My mum likes 'em."
"Will you stop with the dress thing. It's fucking irritating the tits off me,” I strongly advised.
Pausing for a moment, I composed myself and continued my impromptu lecture. “A nightshirt is a deceptively simple garment that quietly provides comfort, practicality, and a bit of old-fashioned charm. A nightshirt hangs loosely, with no waistband, buttons, or tight seams. During the day, young man, it doubles as a comfortable garment around the house, perfect for reading, relaxing, or pottering around the home, garden or, like now, the woods, admiring the Bluebells. It also offers modesty without sacrificing ease and offending anyone.
“Okay, okay, I get it, it's not a dress,” Jason replied.
“As for the Bluebells, they will never look good in a vase. They die too quickly," I told him.
Jason scratched at his collarbone through a hole in his threadbare t-shirt, looking unimpressed with my lecture. "Whilst we're discussing clothing, my clothing, why are you wearing such baggy shorts. Must they be three times bigger than you need? And they make you look ridiculous."
"Because they're comfortable," Jason shot back, rolling his eyes. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, "And I like oversized shorts."
“It appears we make a right pair when it comes to what we like to wear,” I suggested as my curiosity piqued when I asked, "Why?"
His posture shifted, shoulders tightening, fingers twisting the fabric of his shirt, before he muttered, "You wouldn’t understand," and "never knowing when you might need extra pockets."
It was a flimsy answer, delivered too fast. His gaze flickered to a dense thicket of hawthorn bushes behind me, where something, or someone, might be waiting. The kid was either terrible at lying or deliberately baiting me into asking more.
"Fair enough," I said, shrugging. "It's nice to meet you, Jason, and perhaps, you would like to walk with me? Unless you have more pressing engagements. I don’t often meet local folks, tending to prefer my privacy," as I gestured vaguely toward the trail winding deeper into the woods.
His shoulders twitched, half a shrug, half a flinch, he declared, "That would be nice. I don't often meet people either, since I finished school and decided to hang out in the woods, working the land and helping my mum, but more so, I enjoy my own company. It's easier."
Thinking the young man a little weird but strangely mature for his age, we fell into step, the crunch of dry leaves underfoot mingling with the distant rush of the river. Jason moved like a fox, light on his feet, head tilted to catch every sound. "So, you're a writer, I hear, huh?" he asked, kicking a pinecone into the underbrush. "What kind?"
"I am indeed, and I specialise in History," I said, watching how his fingers kept worrying at a loose thread on his t-shirt hem. "To be specific, I specialise in Celtic and Druid history and legends, occasionally spilling over into English history during the Dark Ages."
Jason thought about my response, and then he changed the conversation, obviously not interested in the subject. "That shirt of yours looks strangely good on you, by the way. Makes you look like you don’t care what people think. Do you wear anything underneath?"
I was a little shocked by his directness. The question hung between us like an unexpected slap, intimate in a way that felt both invasive and weirdly casual. My fingers instinctively brushed the hem, confirming its modest length. "That's none of your business, young man," I said, sharper than intended.
“Bet you don’t. Bet you go commando,” he teased, his grin widening, unrepentant, and I realised he was testing me for some reason, poking to see how far he could push before I snapped.
"Why do you want to know anyway?" I asked, keeping my voice flat as the wind picked up, rustling the Bluebells at our feet. Jason's gaze darted to my exposed calves, then flicked away; his grin faltered just for a second.
"I was just wondering, that's all," Jason responded. If you were to wear a pullover, it would look more like a man's skirt. I read somewhere that Scotsmen wear skirts and they don't wear underpants."
"Kilts," I corrected. "And you’re correct, proper Scotsmen don't wear anything underneath."
Jason snorted, kicking at a root that snaked across the path. "Bet you'd freeze your balls off in Scotland. I watched a programme once, and it gets quite cold in the mountains, and they still wear them," he said.
His voice was light, but his fingers kept tugging at his oversized shorts, like they were trying to slide right off his narrow hips. The kid was either painfully awkward or deliberately trying to unsettle me, or maybe both.
“They do, Jason, some Scotsmen wear them all year round. After all, it’s their national costume and wearing a kilt signifies you’re a proud Scotsman.”
“I get that,” Jason replied as we continued our walk.
I was starting to like the lad, and my curiosity became even more elevated. I wanted to know more about him and his interests. "Tell me more about yourself and what you like and don’t like."
Jason slowed his pace, continuing the conversation about kilts, much to my surprise. "I suppose I just...like how they look and in fairness, how you look," he muttered. His ears flushed pink under the dirt. "Free, y'know? To hang and not all cinched up like in normal trousers with a belt," gesturing vaguely at his own baggy shorts with something like disgust.
The confession hung between us, raw and unexpected. I studied him, the way his Adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed, how his bitten-down nails kept plucking at his t-shirt seams, suggesting there was a deep-seated nervousness under the confident facade.
"Can I ask you something, Steve?"
The sudden vulnerability in Jason's voice caught me off guard. He'd stopped walking, staring at the ground where a beetle trundled across the path. The late afternoon sun caught the dust motes swirling around his scuffed boots. "Jason, if we are to be friends, honesty is key. Ask me anything, and I shall be honest with you," I declared, hoping he would feel reassured, knowing there was something I had ignited.
Jason's blush deepened, spreading down his neck like spilt ink. He kicked at a clump of moss, sending it tumbling into a patch of bluebells. "The reason I wear baggy shorts is that I have a medical issue, a large...you know…., and I find it uncomfortable to wear underpants and pants, so I don't. I wear these and go commando."
The confession tumbled out in a rush, his voice cracking on the last word. He looked like he might bolt into the undergrowth any second, shoulders hunched defensively. A crow cawed overhead, the sound absurdly loud in the sudden silence.
Realising this was important for him, I held back the desire to laugh. "Just how large is it, and why don't you wear sensible underpants like Hanes or Fruit of the Loom instead of designer brands?"
Jason's shoulders hunched further, his fingers twisting the fabric of his t-shirt like he wanted to tear it. "Big enough that it gets rubbed raw in tight jeans," he mumbled, “if I go commando,” scuffing his boot against a tree root. "Tried boxers once, bloody nightmare when I...you know."
The late afternoon light caught the sweat beading along his hairline. "So I just...stopped wearing any underpants. I didn't think about Hanes or Fruit of the Loom, though. Not what guys my age wear them, although I used to wear them as a kid."
"That suggests to me, Jason, that you should try Hanes or Fruit of the Loom briefs again. Call it an experiment."
“Maybe, but now you know the truth,” as he went bright red from embarrassment.
"I’m not huge like you, but marginally above average in length when…. You know, get hard,” trying to reassure this young man that size doesn’t really matter.
Jason thought for a moment before he continued with his confession. “I hate getting hard,” Jason declared. “It’s sometimes uncomfortable and…. well, difficult to hide.”
“Really? Just how big is it, Jason?" I asked, while thinking to myself, he's young, it can't be that big.
Jason looked me in the face. "My mum took me to the doctor to discuss it when I was seventeen. She was worried about my mental health, and even as a nurse, she thought it was unusually large for my age, so she wondered if there might be a medical issue to explain things.”
Taking a breath, Jason paused, “So I lay on the examination table, and the doctor measured me at almost eight and a half inches, having measured me hard. The thickness or girth, as he called it, was fairly average for the length, but it was the length that had left me fucked. It was like a fucking torpedo, as he said, the doctor. He told my mum I was well above average for any man, let alone at my age, and I should be happy. Most men would die for such an appendage, he declared, and there was no medical issue to worry about. That was a year ago. I haven’t been back since. What's the point? Nothing he can do."
I couldn't contain myself to my dying shame. "Wow. That's fucking enormous," I blurted, immediately regretting my lack of filter. Jason's face crumpled like paper in a fist, his shoulders hunching inward. "Women must worship you?" I said.
Jason's fingers dug into his thighs through the worn fabric of his shorts. "Yeah, well. It's not exactly fun when you're trying to play football, and it keeps slapping against your thigh," he muttered. "For obvious reasons, I became a laughingstock when I wanted to join the wrestling team at school. The body suit hid nothing, and the outline of my cock was... well, you can imagine. Likewise, I couldn’t participate in swimming activities at school because we had to wear approved Speedos, and the teachers couldn’t get the girls or boys to stop taking the piss. It was too distracting. I had to find other sports that didn’t involve visibility."
I remained silent, suspecting Jason hadn't finished as a gust of wind sent Bluebell petals swirling around our ankles, the delicate scent at odds with the rawness of his confession. "As for women, I don't like them.... sexually. Initially, the girls wanted to get to know me more, but I wasn’t interested, knowing that since thirteen, I have liked boys.”
“Nothing wrong there,” I said, “In my previous life, I enjoyed both, swinging as I did both ways.”
“Well, Steve, when it got out I was gay, and it did get out, I had boys who just wanted to suck it and then fuck me. They wouldn’t let me fuck them because they couldn’t take it. They just wanted to use and abuse me."
I exhaled through my nose, watching a spider descend from a low-hanging branch between us. "Geez," I finally said, not knowing what to say next. "I'm just under six inches long when flaccid, if knowing helps," the admission slipped out before I could stop it. “But I don’t grow that much when hard. Perhaps another half an inch. It’s the girth that swells for me.
Trying hard to remain serious about the lad’s misfortune, I continued. "Jason, I have to be honest. I wasn't expecting that type of confession, but... thank you for trusting me enough and now I understand why you asked about what I'm wearing. For the record, I'm not wearing anything under this dayshirt, and perhaps, just perhaps, a kilt is what you need, although it will be a little bit unorthodox, here in the mountains.
"You think so?" Jason asked. “I don’t really care. Sometimes, it gets me down, and I hate my body most of the time because everyone wants a piece of it without any love or tenderness.
"The kilt will hang loose but will provide more comfort than baggy shorts or pants. You should try one."
Jason nodded, chewing his lip as the late afternoon sun cast dappled shadows across his flushed face. "A kilt's expensive," he muttered. "And Mum would freak. We are not exactly flush with money if you get my meaning," as his fingers twitched toward his waistband again, adjusting fabric that already sagged dangerously low on his hips.
I could see the outline of his anatomy was unmistakable even through the baggy shorts, a fact he seemed both painfully aware of and unable to ignore. The thought of the young man with such a huge appendage sparked within me deep desires, but I reminded myself, no. Definitely, no.
"Jason, I love that you had the confidence to confide in me. Thanks for telling me the truth... about everything. It must have been hard. Let's sit down for five minutes and chat a bit more. We can chat about anything you like or continue where you left off."
Finding a convenient log, I sat down, inviting the lad to join me.
As Jason sat down alongside me, I suggested, "I've got an old army kilt I used for a fancy dress party, years ago," I said, snapping a twig I had picked up between my fingers. "It's genuine but black and not normal tartan."
Jason was staring at the sliver of my thigh as I stretched my legs out. He jerked his gaze away as if his ears were burning when I asked, "Would you like to try it and find out if it meets your needs?"
Jason's head snapped up, his eyes widening. The suggestion hung between us, weighted with implications neither of us voiced. "You'd...let me?"
"Of course I would," I replied, "but tell me more about your experiences at school because it sounds to me that you've had a hard time and since leaving school, no one to talk to."
Jason's fingers twitched against the rough bark of the log. He exhaled sharply through his nose, a sound halfway between a laugh and a scoff. "Everyone thinks it's a fucking blessing," he muttered.
The bitterness in his voice was sharper than the pine needles digging into my thigh as he continued. "Girls giggle behind their hands. Lads make bets about who can 'get me hard fastest," as his fingers curled into fists, his knuckles whitening. "My last boyfriend took photos when I was in the shower and shared them with his mates, who just wanted to fuck me after he finished with me. I fucking hate it. I hate my body, and I hate my life. There you go. The truth."
The raw pain in his voice hit me square in the chest. Without thinking, I pulled him into a rough hug. His body went rigid at first, all sharp angles and startled breaths, but then he slumped against me, his forehead pressing into my shoulder as he started to cry.
I held him for quite a while until he started to recover. "Jason, I get your frustration, but please don’t hate your body. It's beautiful, and God obviously gave you a big one for a reason," I said, thinking I sounded pathetic about mentioning God.
The words felt clumsy, but Jason didn't pull away as he said, “What would you know? You haven’t even seen it,” as his fingers still clutched the fabric of my dayshirt like it was the only thing keeping him from floating away.
I was feeling his pain, his hurt, his frustration. What could I do to support this young man in a practical, no-nonsense manner? I then had an epiphany. "Would it help you if you show me, you, as you are. Maybe my opinion will reassure you that your mates are not mates at all and that you do have a beautiful body."
Jason lifted his tear-streaked face, eyes widening with a mix of horror and something else, relief, maybe. "You...want to see it?" he whispered, fingers instinctively clutching at his baggy shorts. The forest sounds seemed to hush around us, even the Bluebells stopped trembling in the breeze as I debated if I was wrong with my suggestion, and Jason’s delayed response.
"I don't need to see it, Jason. I want to see you, all of you, in the flesh, and to be proud of your body. You don't have to show anything, though, and the offer of the kilt remains."
Jason hesitated, his fingers working the frayed edge of his pocket. The wind shifted, carrying the scent of damp earth and crushed bluebells between us. "No one's ever... just seen me without wanting something," he said finally, voice cracking on the last word.
I leaned back against the log, careful not to break the fragile moment. "I'm not most people," I said, watching a ladybird traverse the wrinkled fabric of my dayshirt.
"Steve, can I ask you something?"
"Again? Of course you can," I responded, trying to lighten the mood.
Jason shifted on the log, trying to settle his discomfort. "I get the vibe.... that you understand more than you say and I get the vibe.... that you're..... like me."
I raised an eyebrow, letting the silence stretch as a woodpecker drilled into a distant pine. The kid's knee bounced nervously, his muddy boots scuffing grooves in the moss. "I'm divorced, Jason. I had a wife, and as I said earlier, before getting married, I swung both ways."
"Yeah, well," he started, wiping his nose with his sleeve again, leaving a fresh streak of dirt. "My uncle's got one of those, too. Still caught him sucking off the mechanic behind the garage. Are you gay?"
The confession landed between us like a live grenade. Jason's gaze flicked to my face, searching for what? I then remembered I had said I would be honest with him. "I'm Bi, Jason, and my wife found out and didn't take it well."
"Shit," Jason breathed, his fingers tightening around a handful of moss he'd torn from the log. "So she...?"
"Yep, she divorced me and tried to take most of my money, but she failed and accepted an offer that her lawyer said was reasonable, and I moved here from London in England, having purchased this place."
Jason nodded slowly, plucking at the moss with restless fingers. "Bet that stung," he muttered.
"It did, but perhaps it's all part of destiny in play," I responded.
Jason surprised me by laughing as he stood. “I’ve decided I like you and therefore, I want you to undress me. I want to show you me, in the flesh, as you say. One condition, though, I want you to stand behind me as you take my clothes off. I want it to be a surprise.”
“I will be honoured, Jason,” as I positioned myself behind him as my fingers fumbling with his t-shirt, pulling it over his head, letting it fall to his feet. His shoulders and back were strong and soft-skinned without spots or freckles. I felt his arms, equally strong, with fair hair visible under closer examination.
I then hesitated at his shorts, “You sure, Jason, last chance to say no.”
Jason nodded as my hands slipped under the waistband, pushing the shorts easily, too easily, over his bottom until they pooled at his feet. Jason then stepped out of them, kicking the shorts away.
I was in awe as my hands explored his naked body, his buttocks firm and well-shaped. My hand slid down his thighs, revealing strong muscles of someone who keeps himself fit. I could also see his legs were pale as birch bark, as his fair hair became more evident. “Can I see now?”
For a heartbeat, he didn’t say anything, and then a very soft “yes” could be heard. I moved around his body, trailing my hand along his waist, touching the soft skin as he stood there, arms slightly raised as if awaiting inspection, or condemnation.
His body was lean, the sharp angles of his hips and ribs speaking of skipped meals, but his anatomy was undeniably, almost absurdly, prominent even in its resting state. He swallowed hard, throat working around nothing, and I saw the exact moment his bravado faltered.
"You weren’t lying," I said, keeping my tone neutral. His answering laugh was shaky, fingers twitching at his sides like he didn’t know whether to cover himself or not.
"I wish I were," he muttered, then gestured vaguely downward. "It’s fucking ridiculous, isn’t it?"
The raw vulnerability in his voice killed any humour I might’ve found in the situation. I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. "Jason, listen....you’re beautiful. Big and magnificent. Nothing to be ashamed of. Your nipples are perfect. I love the way your fair hair extends to your groin and the fact that your pubic hair is fair just like the rest of you. As for your legs, they are muscular and powerful and then, your…circumcised cock, hanging there. I love circumcised men by the way."
I had to take a break, sweat building up as I explored his body with my fingers, providing a continued description of what I was seeing and feeling. “I love the fact I can see your helmet and slide my fingers along your flaccid length and….yep, it's stirring as we speak and there's nothing you can do to prevent it.”
A twig snapped in the underbrush behind us as Jason’s cock started to rise. Jason flinched so violently he nearly lost his balance, his head whipping toward the sound. His sudden panic was palpable, sweat gleaming along his collarbones.
"Easy," I said, standing slowly. "Probably just a deer, as I continued to massage his growing member."
But Jason was already scrambling for his clothes, his movements frantic. "Fuck, fuck...." as he yanked his t-shirt over his head, inside out, the fabric catching on his elbows.
I caught his wrist before he could bolt. "Breathe. No one’s there," I assured him as I pulled him onto my lap, having resumed my seat on the log, for a reassuring hug I knew he needed.
His pulse hammered under my fingers. "You don’t know that," he hissed, eyes darting to the thickening shadows between the trees. "They always...." and then, he cut himself off, jaw clamping shut as my ministrations started to distract him.
The unspoken words hung between us, heavy as the dusk settling over the Bluebells as he sat on my knees, his back nestled against my chest.
"Your shirt's inside out," I said, holding him tight, reassuring him as much as I could. He was safe with me, even though he was naked below the waist with a growing cock.
Jason huffed a shaky laugh against my shoulder. "Wouldn't be the first time," he muttered, but his fingers still trembled as they clutched at my arms wrapped around him, his heart still hammering against his ribs.
Slowly, deliberately, I lifted his t-shirt over his head again, throwing it down onto the flowers by my feet while I let my right hand drift lower from his stomach until my fingers brushed the wiry curls at the base of his shaft. He sucked in a sharp breath, his entire body tensing like a bowstring. "Easy," I murmured against the shell of his ear, feeling his pulse jump under my lips. "Just exploring you again, if that's okay."
His cock was warm and heavy in my palm, the skin unexpectedly soft where it draped over thick veins. Jason made a punched-out sound when my thumb swiped over the slick slit already beading with moisture. "Christ," he choked out, hips jerking involuntarily as I felt his cock harden even more.
"You're magnificent, Jason," I declared as I tightened my left arm around his ribs, anchoring him as I began a slow, deliberate stroke from root to tip. His thighs trembled against mine, muscles twitching under golden skin dotted with old scars and fresh mosquito bites. The scent of him, musky, earthy, with a tang of salt, filled the space between us as his breath came faster.
"Fuck," Jason whimpered when I twisted my wrist on the upstroke, his nails digging half-moons into my forearm. His cock swelled further, the weight of it dragging my palm downward as precum slicked my fingers. A bead of sweat rolled down his spine, disappearing into the cleft of his arse, pressed against my thigh. The woods around us had gone preternaturally quiet; even the birds appeared to be holding their breath as I continued to edge him ever closer.
His head lolled back against my shoulder, exposing the vulnerable line of his throat as he panted. "Steve, I...." The words dissolved into a moan when I thumbed the frenulum, his hips stuttering upward.
“Not yet, Jason, I’m not ready for you to cum.”
His cock twitched in my grip, the first pearly drops spilling over my knuckles. The late sun caught the sheen of sweat on his chest, the frantic flutter of his pulse at his throat, the way his lips parted around silent pleas.
Somewhere beyond the clearing, a branch cracked underfoot. Jason went rigid in my arms, as I decided, a climax would be a better distraction than the forest sounds, bringing him to orgasm under my control.
He erupted in an explosion of semen as his head snapped toward the sound. But it was just a fox, watching us with indifferent amber eyes before melting back into the underbrush as Jason continued to pump an impressive amount of seed from his cock as I continued to rub him through his climax.
There was cum all over his chest and stomach. One spurt had landed on my knee, and it was then that I realised my dayshirt had been pulled up, uncovering my groin and my own erection that was pointing upwards between Jason’s legs, as if searching for a target.
"Wow, you needed that," I said, as Jason exhaled sharply, his body collapsing bonelessly against mine, his spent cock still pulsing weakly in my hand. "Shit," he breathed, laughing unevenly. "That was..." as he trailed off, his fingers twitching where they lay limp on my knee.
I wiped my hand absently on the hem of my dayshirt, the linen sticking to my damp skin. Jason watched the motion with dazed fascination, his eyelashes fluttering when I pressed a kiss to his temple. "Beautiful," I finished for him, and felt the way his heartbeat stuttered again under my palm.
"Feeling better? I asked.
Jason's breathing steadied, though his fingers still trembled, thinking he was grabbing my knee. He swallowed hard, “Sorry Steve, I didn’t realise it was your……”
“No need to apologise, but are you feeling better?”
His Adam's apple bobbed against my shoulder. "Yeah," he rasped, then cleared his throat. "Yeah, I... Christ, Steve. That was the best release anyone has given me," as his cock lay spent against his thigh, still impressively thick even in its softened state.
“You want to hear another confession, Steve?”
“If you want, as long as it's not about you being a famous axe murderer or something.”
Jason laughed at my comment. “I used to enjoy my boyfriend’s golden showers. His warm water always felt personal, intimate, making me feel so alive as it ran down my body as he marked me. For some reason, it just felt…. Lovely and so…. Arousing.”
His confession struck me, wondering if he wanted me to shower him, and with an impulsive reaction, maybe the way his body slumped against mine, trusting and exhausted, or the way his skin still burned under my palms, whatever my reason, I decided, “fuck it, why not.”
Even though I had a stonking erection, I relaxed, feeling the sensation of my bladder release as I let go, feeling sure Jason would enjoy the memory as an arc of warm piss splashed against the underside of his cock first, hitting his balls, making him jerk. "What the fuck…"
His protest choked off as the stream climbed higher, painting his groin gold. Jason froze, hands hovering awkwardly, watching the liquid spread across his lower chest and stomach in a powerful flow. His breath hitched when droplets caught the sunlight, glistening on his fair hair that trailed lower. The flow was a fountain of warmth as the scent rose between us, musky, oddly intimate. Instead of recoiling, Jason exhaled sharply through his nose. His thighs tensed around mine, but he didn't pull away; he allowed it to continue, playing with the flow as I watched him.
A shudder ran through him as the warmth soaked him higher and then lower, trickling down his inner thighs. Jason just tilted his head back, exposing his throat. His pulse jumped visibly beneath flushed skin. "Didn't peg you for this," he muttered, voice rough, fingers curling into my shoulders. His cock twitched against my forearm, half-hard again already, smearing leftover spend through the wetness.
The stream tapered off, leaving him glistening and my own groin and dayshirt soaked. He shifted slightly, not to escape, but to press my hand on his damp stomach, smearing us both. His breath came faster now, lips parted. One hand slid down his torso, fingers spreading the liquid in slow circles. "Fuck," he whispered, more to himself than me, watching his fingers glide through liquid and then using his fingers, he painted my face with my release.
“I guess I’ve marked you now, like you just marked me,” he suggested.
“I guess you have, Jason. Perhaps I’m yours now, and if that's the case, let's go and try the kilt and one of my dayshirts and spend some time together in my house," I suggested.
Jason blinked up at me, his pupils still blown wide with lingering arousal. "You mean...now?" His voice cracked on the word, fingers twitching where they rested on my thigh.
I stood, offering my hand. "Unless you'd rather wait until tomorrow," I said, nodding toward the lengthening shadows creeping across the Bluebell-strewn carpet between the trees. Jason's palm was clammy against mine as I pulled him upright, his knees buckling for just a second before he caught himself. His cock swung heavily between his thighs, still flushed dark at the tip where the last drops of cum clung.
“You’re all wet, you know, Steve, from….”
“I know,” feeling uncomfortable for the first time as the remains of the golden shower started to cool rapidly in the early evening air.
I pulled my dayshirt over my head, tossing it onto the Bluebell-covered ground, allowing Jason to view my naked body. “Not bad, not bad at all, for an old man,” Jason declared with jest.
“Enough of the old man bit,” I countered him, chuckling loudly. “You’re not so bad yourself for a young man,” I responded.
Jason laughed as we embraced and kissed each other. Both naked, both on the fringes of something we had only just discovered, Jason broke the kiss, saying, “I'm all wet thanks to you,” as he wiped his hands on his already ruined t-shirt before reaching for his shorts.
"I should go," he continued, not meeting my eyes as he yanked the fabric over his hips. The waistband sagged obscenely low again, barely clinging to the sharp jut of his pelvic bones. "But I'll come over tomorrow if that's okay with you. Mum will start to worry if it gets too dark and I’m not home."
"Of course," I responded, kissing him again.
With that, naked and my cock, flaccid, I watched him leave, his bare feet kicking through the Bluebells as he disappeared between the trees. The quiet that settled over the woods felt different now, not empty, but expectant, like the forest itself was holding its breath. In a funny sense, I felt a weight had been lifted from his young shoulders from events that afternoon. The way his footsteps had been lighter as he walked away, the way his shoulders didn’t hunch forward anymore, suggested a change, a change for the better after providing him with hope and renewed desire.
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