I raced to get the back seat of the school bus, so nobody could look over our shoulders, and then prayed that he'd take the cue and come sit beside me.

He strolled down the long aisle of the bus like God incarnate, and about as cocky as anybody I'd ever seen in my life. In my mind, Phil deserved to be cocky, and I wouldn't fault him for that. He was a center in the basketball team: of course this was junior varsity, but later he'd star in both the football and basketball teams, and be elected as class president, a post he'd hold utterly without distinction.

"Saving a seat for me, chump?" he said as he sat down. I wasted no time in scrunching down slightly and shifting around in my seat so that my thigh would come up against his. He appeared not to notice, but didn't move , his legs as always thrown out to the sides as though he owned the seat like he owned everything else, including my undivided attention.

"Gotta get home tonight, and feed the calves..." he started, with the tone which said there was a story in this somewhere. I knew it'd touch on sex in some fashion, mostly because everything for Phil usually did.

"Bummer," I opined. "Chores stink."

"Not THESE chores," Phil said. He winked at me. "You ever screw a calf or a cow?" I shook my head, no. In those days the idea of getting away with screwing anything was too cool (or too hot) for comfort; only since have I thought that Phil was giving away more than any rationale kid today would admit to. Anyway, I never knew whether much of what he told me was true.

"Well, you haven't lived until you feel the inside of a cow with your prick. It's so SMOOTH, so warm, it's like you died and went to heaven..."

"A cow'd let you fuck her, just stand there?" I tried to suspend my incredulity. After all, Phil, my idol was talking about sex, my favorite subject, too. So long as he stuck to the topic, my chances soared.

"You feed her, dummy, and she'll stand there as long as there's food. Then you bring you a milking stool, and stand up real close and if you're lucky, she'll let you stick it in."

"And if not, she'll kick you in the nuts?"

"Could happen," Phil said, practicing his worldly-wise, I-know-everything-better-than-you attitude on me, Never mind, he was so gorgeous, and so strong, and he had on my favorite pair of jeans (I knew all of his jeans like they were my own.) These were perfect, no tears, no stains, and yet very faded, so that the crotch was more white than blue anymore, and you could definitely see the real Phil under them. When he got a hard-on, it'd creep northward and I could see the ridge all the way up to nearly his belt buckle. Come on Phil, get it up, my mind railed at him. Of course, I could only glance at him when I thought he wasn't looking. When he was acting nonchalant and looking around the bus, THEN my eyes were riveted to his crotch.

"I wish I owned a cow..." I said, trying to feed the conversation. "So's I could feel what it's like to fuck a real live animal."

"It's better than you could ever imagine," Phil said, rolling his eyes around. Then he did what I'd been praying all along he'd do. He reached over and dropped his arm across my thigh, the length and weight of his muscles pressed against my crotch, as though it were the greatest accident in the world. Now I HAD to look up and around as though nothing were happening, because we BOTH knew a lot WAS happening. I got firm in about 2 seconds, so firm that my cock jerked and pulsed right along with my heartbeat.

"You fixin' to get wet again, aren't you?" Phil said softly out of the corner of his mouth.

"What are you talkin' about?" I cursed myself as a coward. Why couldn't I just SAY what I meant: why don't you TOUCH ME, Phil, like you did that once. THEN I'll be wet, for sure. But the young male code of honor dictated otherwise.

"Oh, just the big prick you got between your legs, that one that's gonna cum here any minute. You gonna have a big wet spot in your pants, for sure, this time..." Phil punctuated his words by rubbing his arm back and forth, driving me frantic, and I even think I involuntarily thrust my hips a little bit.

"You jack off?" He asked me suddenly. "If you did it as often as I did, you could control yourself a little better. You should jack off at least 3 times a day, I ALWAYS do."

"Uh, sure, I do," which had to be the first time in my life that I'd ever admitted it to another human soul. I think I must have blushed furiously, but Phil never let on. I think he kinda enjoyed making me squirm. It only added to his superior airs.

"I don't think you do," he said, "'cause this prong says it can't wait. If you jacked off like you were supposed to, it wouldn't be givin' you so much problem right now..."

I squirmed against his arm, my prick feeling his heat, my vision filled, now, as I dared to look down, with the REAL object of my daily dreams: the bulge in HIS jeans, which now looked like at least the double of mine. And then there was Phil himself, with his tall big black engineer type boots slung up against the back of the seat in front of us. I think my pulse was already doing a hundred and sixty, and I was feeling a bit faint.

We chit-chatted then, about other things, Phil looking around, me looking at him. I could see his cock as clearly as I ever had seen it. I tried to calculate: it had to be 6 or 7 inches long, maybe longer, the biggest cock I'd ever seen in my life, the first time I'd seen him this clearly erect.

But there were too many people yet on the bus. We couldn't risk anything.

"You should wear a jockstrap all the time," he said softly out of the corner of his mouth. "I do a lot of the time. It keeps your cock all lined up so if you have to stand up in a condition like you are right now, at least it doesn't show as much."

"You got a jockstrap on right now?" I breathed back. It was more than I could ever have hoped, my hottest fantasy, Phil wearing a tight strap, sitting next to me. Of course, in my nightly imaginings, Phil would pull his jeans down and let me SEE it!

"Yeah. I wore it tonight on purpose."

"I don't believe you," I didn't know whether I did or not, but I had to challenge him to prove it to me.

"If you think I'm gonna pull my jeans down for you on this stupid bus, you've got lima beans for brains..." He laughed. but I thought I detected a tone which said something more: perhaps a thing a little like Brer Rabbit when he told the wolf not to throw him into the briar patch.

"I ain't gonna believe you just 'cause you TELL me you got a jockstrap on."

"You're gonna have to, aren't you?" He said, his arm pressed very firmly now against my cock, which was pulsing like crazy.

"Come on, Phil, let me SEE it!"

"No way." He wiggled his elbow, driving me into a new wave of heavy breathing. A couple of times I thought I was going to squirt in my pants, AGAIN, and not even get the benefit of his hand touching me through my undershorts.

But then I could tell that he changed his mind in some way. He looked around, grinning, and reached down with his left hand and un-popped the two middle buttons of his 501's. I wanted button-fly jeans, too, but my mother thought they were stupid, so I never got them, either. But Phil had everything I wanted, boots, incredible jeans---or did I want them because HE had them?

"You act like anything is going on here, and I'm going to kill you dead.

Just reach in there and you can TELL I have my jock on...."

Oh, God, never in my furthest-out dreams did I think that I'd EVER be reaching into the fly of Phil's jeans! But I reached past his arm with my right hand, the only one which could conveniently fit into the tight opening, and Phil rebuked me.

"Not THAT hand, dunce! Everybody'll see what you're doing. Use the OTHER hand..."

This was a kind of torture, for now offered, I had to satisfy myself with the worst kind of little touch. My left wrist would not bend sharply enough to insert itself into his fly. All I could do was to rub two fingers through the opening. But, that at least was sufficient to feel the ribbing of a jockstrap! Phil WAS wearing his jockstrap!

"See there?" He said, rolling his eyes as he said it and giving a tiny thrust of his hips, just enough that it was unmistakable. It may have been involuntary. He made no attempt, however, to make me remove my fingers, which very definitely could feel the hard rod of him.

I think I must have been frozen, 'cause I knew that if I moved my fingers up and down inside his jeans, then I was admitting something to myself and very clearly to him: this was what I WANTED to do. No longer the macho male game anymore, this was IT. Either I continued to play like this stupid challenge was the ONLY reason I'd deign to touch him there, or I didn't. Never mind that he'd already touched ME in that way. Phil didn't have to worry, in my mind, 'cause ANYTHING he did was masculinity personified. But if I MOVED my fingers, I'd be giving away that I was a fag.

But Phil, mercifully, took away that last emotional gauntlet. Without so much as a flicker of emotion showing on his face, he reached down. My heart stood still: I just knew he was going to remove my fingers, my

'proof' completed. But what he did was very different. He reached under my fingers, fiddled, and unbuttoned two other buttons, so now the hole was twice as large. He left the top button fastened, otherwise we both knew his jeans would gape open, and it wouldn't be easy to reach down in a panic to re-button them without everybody knowing exactly what was happening.

Oh, oh, oh, my mind was reeling over and over again. I could FEEL him, most of him in there. The definite softness of two big testicles, pulled up tight against the base of his cock, which was trying to push the fabric of his jockstrap straight out.

"It's nice, ain't it?" Phil said immodestly.

"It's incredible!" I whispered back. "You're HUGE!"

"Nobody ever complained..." Phil grinned but his eyes remained straight forward.

I was rubbing his shaft up and down, and delving to touch his balls, too, but I could not bend my fingers sharply enough to touch the top of his cock, where I knew I could rub him until he got excited.

I pulled my hand away. It was the last thing in the world Phil expected:

he started, and for once looked sharply and directly at me as though to say, 'what are you DOING?' One thing Phil never counted on was for me to turn my back on any, however meager, offerings! Well, for good reason, for I did something brave next: I put my hand flat against his tummy and ran it down until the finger tips were lodged against the waistband of his jeans.

He knew immediately what I intended: I was "going in from the top," and he approved! He sucked in his already flat stomach and allowed my hand to slip down....to gold. There he was: I could feel the whole length of him.

There was no disappointment, only wonderment. His cock was even bigger than my imaginations: maybe an inch and a half across and two fistfulls long, and the top of it which I could clearly feel up under the waistband was deeply grooved and had a very prominent lip around it. Phil's body started a tiny shiver, which grew momentarily to one which he could scarcely contain. He thrust his legs even further apart, the one against me as solid as my own flesh. I rubbed up and down, my hand occasionally dipping to hold his balls.

Phil's breath was coming in ragged little bursts and then he reached down and freed up the top button of his jeans. It was a kind of commitment. My hand was free to roam up and down easily! Not a word was uttered as he let me feel him in the most intimate way (I thought then) any man could let another man touch him.

After a bit, something else happened. I'd never seen another man have an orgasm, just myself. But Phil's leg pushed harder against me yet, his whole body shuddered hard, and again, and his knees against the seat in front pushed the rigid seat forward a couple of inches. I think his teeth even showed a tiny bit in the extended grimace he made whilst trying to avoid showing the world anything. I could feel large pulses and jerks in the column of his flesh. Any moment I fully expected to feel a huge wet spot in his pouch. This went on for maybe 10 seconds, and then he gripped my hand and pulled it out of his jeans. Not unfriendly, just decisive.

"Did you cum?" I asked him in a fevered delight. I know he must have, but the mystery was the lack of any wetness "down there."

"Oh, I shot a load alright, a HUGE one!" He grinned at me, turning his head just a second or two, the largest concession he'd make to whatever was going on between us.

"I don't believe you!" I said, a bit hurt, that he might be lying to me.

If I'd made him cum, then we two shared a real brotherhood of sorts: he'd made me do it, now I''d made HIM... But if he'd just faked it, then it was a counterfeit, a dud. Suddenly it was the most important thing in my life to be assured that he had.

"I DID!" He reiterated.

"Let me just check you once, please?"

"Check me, what do you mean?" He started giggling at me.

"I didn't feel anything down there. When I came, I made a huge wet spot. don't you remember?"

"Oh, I remember," he said as he rolled his eyes upward in a gesture which could only mean, you silly kid, you made a mess...

"Well, if you came, where's YOUR stuff?" I demanded.

Phil, to give him a tiny bit of credit, maybe, must have heard the frustration and imminent hurt in my voice. He looked at me another time, and raised a finger across his lips. "I'm gonna tell you a secret..." he whispered. Then, laughing again, he was suddenly at ease and well with the world, a feeling I'd known occasionally after I'd beat off (though usually I felt guilty). He considered one more time, and then said, "No, I'm gonna SHOW you! After this you'll know I don't lie to you!"

He pulled the fly of his jeans apart a little further, and pulled the waistband of his jockstrap out from his stomach so that I could look down on the "wonder of the world," (well, it's the way I thought about it, what can I say?) And there, impossibly, was both the obvious answer and the most erotic thing I'd ever seen (and it still ranks right up there!). It was right out of my fantasy a few weeks earlier.

Phil had been wearing a rubber! In those days it wasn't one of the fancy technicolored things. It was a plain translucent white, and there, on the top of Phil's still swollen cock, was a sea of white spunk filling the end and making a cloud of white down around his cock at least a third of the way down. (I had no way, then, of judging such things, but later I learned just what a huge load he HAD shot!)

"You cad!" I jabbed him on the shoulder as though to say you're brilliant!

He preened for me, basking in my oh-so-obvious adoration. He pulled the waistband of his jock down even further, so that I could see all of his equipment, couched in a nest of light brown hair. (I can tell you, reader, that I must have been "imprinted" again, for at the time I was still furiously aroused, and the sight of him in a condom must have set the stage for a penchant of mine persistent to this day).

"I wish I had one of those things..." I said, trying to keep the raw lust out of my voice.

"Why don't you just go BUY a dozen?" Phil said, as nonchalantly as though he did it every Saturday night or something. I think he wanted me to believe that he did. But in those days you had to ask your pharmacist, who had them hidden away in the back room in some drawer marked "Hot sexual items" or something: I had no idea. In our tiny town there were only two drug stores, and I just couldn't believe that Phil could have stared either one of their pharmacists in the eye and asked for one, let alone a dozen!

"I couldn't..." I said, the mental image too powerfully embarrassing to even contemplate. It made my own cock defervesce a degree or two just to THINK it!

"Too bad, 'cause they're great! You can cum in your pants and nobody can see it! But afterwards you gotta do something or they'll leak if you get soft."

My interest was immediately piqued and peaked, too. Was Phil gonna take his rubber off? What would he DO with it.

"You wanna feel something great, it's jackin' off into a rubber you've already cum in. It's so-o-o slippery." Phil rolled his eyes again, and reached down then and stroked his STILL hard cock a couple of times, the fluid around it obviously sloshing around his member.

"Would you loan me one? I GOTTA try it."

"I only had this one today. I guess I could bring you one sometime."

(Here Phil adopted the tone of a condescending father: if you're too big a baby to get your own, big me could BRING you one!) I didn't care: the thought of Phil giving me a rubber was way too hot to contain. I reached down and stroked myself through my jeans, the first time I'd ever done it in front of ANY other human; before that I would have been way too ashamed to do it in front of Phil, even despite what had happened. But I could contain myself no longer.

Phil reached down and gripped the bottom of the rubber (where his cock went into it) and slipped it upward. He was going to take it off! Holy shit!

He did it deftly, and I knew, then, that he was a frequenter of them.

Without spilling a drop, he'd skinned it off himself. I had my first view of Phil's unadorned erect penis! But only for a second before he let his jockstrap snap back into place again. He held the rubber up, tip downward of course, just below the top of the seat in front. By now, the bus had nearly emptied out. We had another 5 to 7 minutes before he had to get out.

"This one has got all MY gunk in it," Phil said, "or you could use IT." I think he wanted me to say it would be okay.

Actually, I had only a moment's hesitation before I whispered forcibly back to him, "I don't care! Please, let me use it!"

Phil delivered the prize to me, and grinned "be careful! There's a LOT in there. You could make a huge mess. Nobody'd be able to explain the wet spot THAT would make..."

I suddenly was faced with the reality that I'd have to reveal myself to Phil in order to get the slimy rubber on. And I knew that compared to his well-developed studliness, my cock would register a very faint second. (I was 13, fellas!)

There was no avoiding it, DO it, or not. And now, I knew, that if I didn't, Phil would think it was because I was too squeamish to use HIS gunk in it. It was the last thing I wanted to convey to my hero that I had any qualms AT ALL of doing anything he wanted me to! I unzipped my fly, and reached inside and pushed my undershorts down and away from my penis, already painful from being more erect for the last 20 minutes than it'd ever been before.

But I'd never put a condom on before, and anyway, this one was already rolled out. How? My cock was standing bolt upright, and this sheath was hangin' low in the opposite direction!

Phil giggled at me, and then reached over and touched me, SKIN TO SKIN!

Oh, Lord, this was worth ten thousand hand jobs and I know I probably used it to accompany that many over the years. He just pushed my cock down, roughly, until it was aimed more-or-less toward the deck and I fitted the ringed opening of the rubber over myself. Then, slickened inside as it was, it slipped right on home, until the tip of my cock was literally afloat in a minor sea of Phil's spendings.

Oh, shit! It as more than my fevered body could encompass. The sheer feeling! The wet warmth. It was better than anybody could ever write about. I was IN Phil's condom, touching his spunk! I accomplished only two short strokes on my rod, before my own gism was joining his. I could see it, a stream joining the ocean, and so could Phil, for he was looking directly down at what was happening.

I shot 6 strong shots, until the rubber was bulging at the end like a small water balloon. I felt so weak that I knew I wouldn't have been able to stand. Phil giggled again, nervously, and then taunted me. "You're gonna have quite a time getting THAT thing off the bus without Old Man White seeing it!"

The bus was stopping and it was Phil's well-groomed lane beckoning. He'd buttoned himself deftly, and stood up, not looking back, and said over his shoulder to me and the empty bus: "have fun!" (Of course, he meant dealing with the mess, but 'have fun' was EXACTLY what I did with that treasure).

Continued, in John's Trilogy, Part 3


John Wood

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