The morning sun flashed off the white hull as I stepped aboard, the boat rocking just enough to make me hold the rail. It wasn’t quite a cruise ship, but big enough to have decks, lounges, and the sense of leaving something behind. Students were still coming in from the pier, waving rainbow flags and taking photos under the Coming Out Day on the Water banner. I hadn’t really planned to go — I’d been paired randomly through some online form — and only joined because I’d been teaching all week and thought the sea air might do me good, plus meeting a mysterious someone was an added bonus—what if?
When they announced that we should find our assigned partners, I met Leo. His text with clues on how to find him was “The quietest one in a red shirt, higher yet thinner than most.” I found him on the top deck. He was a tall clumsy teenager, a classical nerd with glasses, awkward but friendly, all smiles and nervous sweaty palms. He was wearing a pale linen shirt and his thin elegant glasses kept slipping down his nose. We shook hands almost too formally, then both laughed. His shyness didn’t feel like a wall, more like an invitation to come and discover him. I liked that right away. “This is me,” I said, somewhat sheepishly, “A grayhaired professor of anthropology, an old boring soul. Take it or leave it.” “Take it,” he replied seriously, and—was it a smile?—shook my hand again: “You aren’t old… or boring.” “Thank you, Leo.”
The first activity was a scavenger hunt around the decks — a “get-to-know-you” game that had us taking photos of each other with the captain’s hat on, telling jokes to the DJ, and sketching each other on a whiteboard wall. Leo turned out to be sharper and funnier than I expected. We found an easy rhythm between us, and the way he touched my shoulder thanking me for the sketch, was electric.
By noon, we sat down for lunch on the upper deck: a very elegant server brought plates of grilled salmon with lemon butter and roasted vegetables, and big bowls of watermelon-mint salad. The wind kept flipping the napkins, and the sea smelled clean and cool. I found myself chattering away about my hobbies, my work, my friends… as I had always done when I was too excited. Leo didn’t talk much, but every time our eyes met, he smiled — a quick, shy smile that said more than conversation would have.
After lunch came a trivia contest on queer history and pop culture. He answered every scientific question before I even understood the wording; I handled the poets and playwrights. We won second place and were given bright wristbands that said Be Seen. He slipped his on right away; I pocketed mine. Somewhere around that time I finally heard him speak—excitedly, curiously, with an attractive southern drawl. It was still not a talk directed at me; it was rather directed at the show host, but okay, I was ready to wait.
The afternoon drifted along with a watercolor workshop on the deck. Everyone had tumblers of seawater to dip their brushes. My horizon came out blurry and uneven, his was precise and geometric. He looked at mine and said it was calm. I told him his looked certain. I must say our drawings stood out from the rest on the wall, and I dared to tell him that and give them a brief hug, and he… reciprocated, laughing gently at my eagerness.
Later we joined a storytelling circle in the lounge. One by one, people told small truths — about coming out, or not yet doing it. Leo spoke quietly about the town he’d grown up in, where the word gay was never said out loud. He looked down at his hands while speaking, and I realized I hadn’t moved for minutes, just listening. I was a bit jealous when after the story circle Leo got hugs from handsome guys, all of whom were twenty times as cool as me, but then I felt a surge of pride when after talking to them politely he returned to me and invited me for a walk around the almost empty deck. The way his fingers brushed against mine on that walk, oh guys, I knew more was coming…
Before dinner, there was a guided meditation near the prow. The instructor’s voice almost vanished under the sound of the engine and wind. For a while, it all blended — the sea, the breath, the pulse of the boat — and I could feel him sitting next to me, still and calm. When the instructor guided us to feel the auras of those sitting next to us, I swear I could see the light yellows and blues wrapping Leo in a gentle haze.
Dinner came under strings of lights: herb-stuffed chicken, couscous with pomegranate, and chocolate mousse in small glass cups. The conversation had loosened by then. He told me about his chemistry lab, about explosions that weren’t supposed to happen but did, making everyone laugh. I told him about grading papers that never seemed to end, my travels that took me all over the world, and about having student friends in 76 countries. The conversation felt unhurried, almost domestic.
When the music started later, the decks turned into a sea of foam and laughter. The final party was ridiculous and joyful. People stripped to their swimming trunks (some speedos, some g-strings, some naked butts) and then slipped and danced and shouted in numerous swirls of foam. Leo and I shouted at each other to stay together, hugged and danced chest to chest, screaming something onto each other’s ear, until we were exhausted, panting, wet and soapy all over.
By the time the ship docked again, the city lights trembled on the water.
“I need a bath,” Leo laughed as we were getting off the boat.
“My shower is at your service,” I said readily. “I live just three blocks away.”
He couldn’t have agreed faster.
***
… I love guys with large bodies and tiny grower dicks. I love guys who kiss the more passionately and wildly the less they are sure of their penises. I love the rub of the tiny erection, usually rock hard, against my thigh as the guy’s hungry lips search the pulse points on my neck. I love moaning guys whose bodies tremble and shake, move, move, and move again with every flick of the tongue, with every nudge of the dick, with every second we are together—restless, searching and finding the best spots on my body that make me beg tearfully for more.
I love guys with kind faces and curly hair who speak shyly and then act boldly, and whose hanger balls I can pull with my hand as my other hand holds him close, and my leg trembles to help massage his weeping cockhead…
I love guys who make me throw my legs over my shoulders so that their tiny dicks could make it inside me. I love the easiness with which their cocks slide inside me, and one hundred times more I love the hungry thrashing of a small venous cock when he doesn’t know which corner to turn in the abyss of my ass which had known one too many fat cocks.
I like it when they are so happy that their confused mind makes them laugh crazily or shed tears when they spill on my back or inside me—nothing is hotter than this crazy laughter or whimpers and sobs.
And Leo was all of that. ALL of that. And more.
As soon as the door behind us was shut, he closed the distance between us and his lips found mine. As much as I love virgins kissing, his kisses were by far the best in the long line of virgin men I had kissed.
He started polite—initially it was just a soft hello of his lips pressed to mine, warm breath counting one-two-three before parting. The taste of him was clean and hot, like sun-drenched open deck air still clinging to his tongue, and the glide was so careful I felt each ridge of his lips memorize mine. It was as gentle as someone turning the first page of a book they’ve waited years to open. Ah, what bliss, guys! It was quiet around us, just the sound of soft kisses he landed on me, one after another; it was a hush in which I could hear my own heartbeat echoing back from his, fast yet steady, curious, almost reverent.
Then something unlocked—like when he realized I welcomed it and wanted it to last—and the kiss widened, deepened, turned hungry. Leo’s hand slid to the back of my neck, his fingers tightened, and suddenly we were breathing through each other, tongues slicking in confident strokes that tasted like hot ice-cream. It sure was the first time kiss of someone who had never kissed before but had a natural talent for it, or the memory of generations led him confidently down that road of exploration. He tilted my head, took more, gave more, and every draw felt like he was pulling velvet ribbons straight out of my spine; my knees answered first, shoulders next, until I was half weightless, held together only by the hot press of his lips insisting yes, yes, stay right here.
I could have come just from staying like this, our tongues tangled together, mine teaching his things about wrestling, overpowering, touching, probing, pushing; but he was a fast learner so I could dissolve in him, so hard now my dick felt almost nothing, like it was numb with tension, and my balls ached so sweetly I couldn’t stand still, and was doing silly little jumps in one place.
Acting almost on instinct, I yanked the drawstring of his shorts loose, shoved it down together with the bikinis, still wet from the foam party, and my fingers met trembling softness instead of the steel I’d braced for—enough to hold with two fingers, soft as new skin, its head half-cased and shy, its little sac drawn tight like a shy purse. Shock flickered in me for half a heartbeat, then melted into something warmer; the kid was shaking all over, and I realized that his desire was running so hot it short-circuited his cock. I closed my palm around him anyway, cradled that quivering inch and a half against my palm, and felt him gasp straight into my mouth—embarrassment, hunger, relief all braided in one shuddering exhale. I gentled my thumb, stroked the silky surface without tugging, letting him know that being big or small had no ticket value here—just the trust of a hand willing to hold him until the inside panic ebbed.
“Sorry, sorry, I want you,” he panted in my neck. “I want you, I’ll get hard, give me a minute, oh, God, I am ruining it, aren’t I?”
“Don’t worry,” I whispered back between kisses. “I love it, love it, don’t worry, relax, it is okay, oooh…” and I dived back into his mouth.
We tumbled into the hotel room itself and I fell to my knees before this gorgeous young guy, shaking in desire and shame, embarrassment and passion, and took in the beautiful view of his trembling baby cock, twitching and shivering, trying to raise its half-hooded head and failing in excitement.
I eased back just enough to look—really look—at what I was holding in my hands. The shaft of that tiny man couldn’t have been longer than my thumb, pale and slender, almost translucent where the still damp skin stretched. A delicate collar of foreskin half-hooded the tip, and the hood was so soft it fluttered with each pulse, revealing a tiny slit glossy with anxious dew. The head itself was a shy rose, smaller than a raspberry, smooth except for the faint ridge that peeked when I brushed the skin upward. Higher, the shaft narrowed into a thin root, then flared to a downy mound of dark-blond thick hairs—wild and springy, his was an untrimmed thicket that made his proportions look even more boyish. His sac was a tight walnut purse, the skin thin enough to show blue veins threading the surface; each testicle felt like a tiny egg under the fragile pouch, twitching whenever my breath grazed them. I rolled the loose foreskin between careful fingers, and watched it pucker and relax, the inner membrane shining pink for a heartbeat before the hood slipped back. A faint throb answered—no swelling yet, just a shy jump—Leo whimpered and his hips trembled in tiny aborted jerks, as if asking for more and begging for mercy at once.
I answered that call and took the tiny cock into my mouth. I started with just the tip—with my lips pursed like sipping hot tea, barely grazing that shy raspberry of a cockhead. I tongued the tiny slit, tasting salt and nerves, then let the foreskin slide forward so I could suck it gently, rolling the thin sleeve between lip and tongue. Leo’s knees wobbled and I felt the first shy throb, a heartbeat answering mine, but he still stayed small, twitching and moaning softly as I nursed him like candy.
Next I took him deeper—my mouth opened wide around the whole length, forming a warm wet cradle. I sucked him slow and steady, hollowing my cheeks, while my tongue pressed the underside from root to crown. With each pull I held him a second longer, released, then pulled again—like coaxing a candle flame. Leo relaxed and began responding: the shaft gradually thickened and stretched, growing against my palate until I had to widen my jaw; the hood slid back on its own, revealing more of that blushing dome that had been a tiny raspberry just minutes ago.
Finally I shifted to full-throat rhythm—one hand cupping his now-loosened balls, the other steadying the base while I bobbed up and down in long strokes. I let him hit the soft entrance of my throat each time, swallowed around him, then pulled off to tongue the flared ridge before diving back. Under the wet pulse he surged: your average but proud six firm inches suddenly filling my mouth, veins ridging the shaft, crown flared tight and slick, angled sharp toward his navel. I pulled off with a pop, looked up—his cock stood proud, the stretched foreskin invisible now, its skin glossy, with veins snaking up and down the hard curve I’d coaxed from trembling innocence.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Leo whispered suddenly and jerked away from me. I looked up and saw a string of precum hanging from the tip of his cock all the way down to the floor.
“Don’t be afraid,” I whispered. “It’s okay, you can come in my mouth… Or… would you take me?”
His eyes widened, and his voice shook with emotion: “Do I dare ask?...”
I kicked the covers of the bed aside and patted the sheet, climbing fully onto the bed. Leo crawled over me, knees bracketing my hips, and lowered himself until our cocks and our chests clung together. Both of us still humming from the rush, we settled—his weight a warm blanket, my thighs parting just enough to cradle him. Our cocks rested side-by-side, pulsing against each other, while his forearms framed my shoulders and our breaths synced in the small space between mouths.
“I’ll put my legs up,” I whispered, “And I’ll let you enter me…”
“Dare I?” he repeated.
“Yes, yes, yes,” I whispered back hotly, wondering why the hell I was whispering. “Do this to me, I want you inside me, Leo!”
I reached into the night stand and broke a condom package in half with a loud crack, peeling the soft lubed film over his steel-hard cock, and then lying back fully and raising my legs up, holding my legs with both hands, my hole wide open for his dick.
The first move was a timid nudge—Leo rocked his hips as if asking permission, the fire-hot crown kissing my ring, slipping just past the barrier before pausing. I felt his pulse throb inside that shallow breach, and his breath catching against my ear, thighs trembling against the backs of mine.
“Come on, Leo,” I moaned in what I was afraid was a professorial voice, not the voice of a lover waiting. “You dare, come on!” and a long sad moan escaped my throat, and my asshole trembled.
He drew back an inch, eased forward again, barely deeper, each mini-stroke a cautious knock on a door he wasn’t sure he should open. I was open so wide at that point that he virtually fell into me, and the first glide seemed long welcome.
After a few careful glides his confidence sparked; he lengthened the strokes. On the next few rolls he sank halfway, paused to let my heat mold around him, then pulled back until only the flared head stretched the rim—and then slid home again in another slow, steady glide. Rhythm found him: out-two-three, in-two-three, a gentle pendulum that rubbed his veined topside across my prostate. Sweat started gathering slowly, his hips began to smack softly against my ass, and each thrust ended with a deliberate grind, pubic bone pressing sparks into my sac while his cock throbbed a bass beat inside me.
I’ve never moaned louder in my entire life. I was moaning, whimpering, growling, howling, wailing, clutching at his sides inviting him deeper, and he was at first startled by these screams of pleasure, but then it started encouraging him. With his hands bracing my calves, he folded me tighter and snapped his pelvis in sharp, precise pistons—deep, fast, almost pulling out completely before drilling back to the hilt. My prostate rang like a bell every time the ridged underside slammed across it; skin slapped skin, the mattress squealed, our shared moans ricocheted off the room walls, and I swear I heard the neighbors knocking, but fuck the neighbors, I was having the best fuck of my life.
Between the strokes he now rolled his hips in slow, deliberate circles—cock sweeping a full arc inside me, his cock head painting every hidden ridge of my walls like a compass needle searching north. Each grind dragged his ridge across my prostate in a lazy, burning swirl that made me utter truly animal noises; then, without warning, he snapped back to straight, perfect thrusts—his shaft drilling a hot line so deep my breath stopped on every entry. The shift from languid spiral to savage ram was seamless: animal instinct taking the helm, hips slapping skin, sweat flying, mattress groaning, both of us racing the same rising squall.
And then he slooooooooowed down. The virgin boy was edging me, edging himself as an experienced pro. He caught the rhythm by the throat and let it dangle. He slid in to the hilt, held, circled once—slow, taunting—then withdrew so gradually I felt every vein drag. Again there came a glacial push, a pause, a breath-stealing retreat, until my pulse hammered loud through my entire body. “Please,” cracked out of me, raw, foreign—I'd never begged in my life, but everything inside quivered and ached, a sweet hurt gathering like a storm behind my balls. “Ram me—just... ram me, take me, fast, please, go, go, go!” And again I was reduced to whimpers, moans and shivers, shaking, trembling, sounding the alarm of the hottest pleasure in my life. To this my teenage torturer answered with a wicked half-smile, and kept the slow glide continue, letting the need boil until words dissolved into shaking whimpers and pleas and the abyss opened wide beneath us, waiting.
I have never been edged to the point of despair by someone so young, so angelic looking, so recently out of the closet, a virgin just 15 minutes ago, someone who had said “Do I dare?” Now he dared, he did.
“Leo… pleeeeeeeeeease…. Ah, ah, ah, I beg you, pleeeeeeease…”
Another wicked smile, another glide into the abyss, and… Leo snapped the leash. He folded me tighter, slammed home in one brutal thrust, and set a fiery pace—hips blurring, skin clapping, sweat raining onto my chest. Each stroke nailed my gland dead-on, and a bright white flash behind my eyes stacked higher, hotter, until the flash became a roar I didn’t know I could make. My back arched off the sheet, legs clamped around his ribs, and I came undone—first jet shot so hard it striped my collarbone, the next painted my sternum, pulses pounding in time with his thrusts while my channel fluttered wild around his driving shaft. The remaining spurts came in a series of murky splats over my navel, over the sheets, dripping off my sides…
He felt me clamp down on him and growled, smile flashing sharp. Two more savage drives and he buried to the root—body locking, cords standing in his neck, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. The condom inside me filled with thick, silent spurts I felt as a hot swell against my walls; his cock jerked again, again, again, each pulse rippling through his thighs into mine. A tremor ran up his torso, but he held the pose—king on a conquest—until the last shudder passed. Then he exhaled one triumphant laugh, slow and low, drew out carefully, knotted the rubber, and dropped it aside before collapsing chest-to-chest, still smirking with just a corner of his mouth like a man who’d just discovered the exact size of his power.
When I gave him a packet of tissues, Leo tore the wipe packet with his teeth, the plastic snapping loudly off the walls. He didn’t ask—just yanked my knee aside and swiped the cloth hard across my stomach, streaking away come like he was erasing evidence of his own mercy. His jaw now set square, a faint white line appeared at each corner of his mouth, and the boyish shyness from an hour ago was gone; in its place there sat something colder, steel-eyed, almost bored with how easily he’d broken me open. Each rough pass down my thighs felt like a claim stamp, the wipe cold, his knuckles colder, and I caught myself holding breath, waiting for the next word that might cut more than touch, but it never came.
Then he flipped me—no warning—pushed my chest to the mattress and dragged the cloth between my cheeks in one slow, possessive stroke. A smirk tugged at that hard mouth, not warm, not tender: it was a grin of the man who’d just realized punishment could feel like praise. My skin prickled, half from fear, half from electric curiosity; the sting in my backside sang yes even while my brain stuttered. I’d never been handled like property before, yet the rawness lit a fresh fuse low in my gut—because that ruthless glint promised nights where mercy would be rationed, and I suddenly wanted to see how far he’d push the debt I’d already begged to owe…
He felt so embarrassed afterwards… it was a sweet sight. I guess he had never expected to do what he had done that evening—not like this, not almost dominating a guy more than twice older, but the joy of discovery of that part of him overcame the shame.
The shower--that excuse to come to my apartment--was completely forgotten. He almost growled at me getting ready to leave; I guess he was just afraid of the new reality he discovered that evening. I’d lie to you if I told you we met again, but I know he posts on gay sites looking for dates in the BDSM section, so I guess I unleashed a monster. Ah, Augie, a tender loving heart… but the edge, the edge, guys. And the screams I never knew I could make, and my first ever tearful begging for more, more, more… that I will never forget.
Leo, the real lion, you come to me in my dreams. In every sense of the word “come.” Uh-huh.
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