Peppertree Crossing Welcoming Committee

Thinking about it, it was the Realtor, Roger, who put me back to doing what I had been escaping, but I can’t say that I objected to that. He, a flash and a bit swishy guy of about twenty-two, was the one who showed me the house on Larkspur Lane, on the circle at the end of that street, in the 55-plus community of Peppertree Crossing on the edge of Brunswick, Georgia. That was about as far away from Providence, Rhode Island, as I could get, and a seniors’ community was about as much into hiding for someone like me as I could get too. Nobody on God’s green earth who knew me would look for me in an old-people’s community. But Roger brought it all the way back.

I’d gotten into trouble in the first place by fucking little honey’s like him. They—and he—were legal, but not by much. And I had been in a position where I shouldn’t have been doing anything like that. And, second, it was Roger who sold me the house on the cul-de-sac at the end of Larkspur Lane.

Roger was the type of pretty boy who could sell a chipmunk hole to any of the simpering widows who were moving into Peppertree Crossing as a transition from the big house and a living husband in the suburbs to the nursing home paid for by the husband’s settled life insurance policy. He had just the little boy, cute, “oh gosh” charm that the gray-haired widows gravitated to. Roger, though, gravitated to mature, but good-looking and still hard-bodied men like me—men who liked to get young, pretty-boy guys, like Roger, under them.

I fucked him in the empty master bedroom of the house he was showing me on the Larkspur Lane cul-de-sac. He sexed me up while selling me the house and delivered after I’d signed on the line. Most men can get laid for a couple of hundred bucks. This Roger was so good that his tail cost me a couple of hundred thousand bucks. I bought a house just to let him know how much I enjoyed fucking him.

I put him on the wall next to a floor-to-ceiling window on the adjacent wall from where I watched another honey of a young guy exercising in a Speedo beside a pool in the backyard of the neighboring house. I remember being surprised and heartened that a young guy was over there. That this was a seniors-only community was both the answer to my situation and the great disappointment that I had to live here among all of these old people. I wasn’t really old enough to qualify to live here—not quite.

I put Roger the Realtor against the wall, his arms raised, his hands palming the wall, his cheek pressed to the plaster, and his butt jutting out into the room. His trousers and briefs were puddled on the carpet around his feet. I was grasping his hips to hold them steady and jutted out to me, and I was crouching a bit behind him and pounding his ass with my shaft. All the time, though, I was watching the sweet young piece—a couple of years younger than Roger—next door, working out only in a Speedo. He was well-tanned. I wondered if there would be a great contrast in his coloring—if his naked loins would be white when the Speedo came off. I hoped so. The tan-line contrast was a fetish of mine.

As I fucked Roger, a mature guy, somewhat older than I was but still in pretty good condition, came out of the back of the house next door. He and the younger guy who had been working out dove into the pool and played around in there. I fantasized that they were playing around with each other’s dicks under the water. They certainly got in positions where they could have been doing that. You never can tell what can go on under water in a swimming pool. Thinking about it made me harder—and it made Roger moan deeper as I went on spiking him.

I bought the house. Roger told me I’d fit right into the close little neighborhood at the end of Larkspur Lane. He’s also the one who told me about the roadhouse just off Highway 17, nearly all the way to the Brunswick I-95, that was a gathering place for gays from the Brunswick area. That was the second thing Roger did to pull me back from the full effect of my escape from Providence to the Georgia coast. I should send him a thank-you note for that, I guess.

* * * *

Not only did I have a headache and no patience for figuring out how to put together this bedframe I was working on, but I also could kick myself for maybe getting drunk the previous night in the roadhouse up Highway 17 toward the I-95 interchange that Roger had told me about—drunk enough to have let more slip than I intended to and letting it slip too close to home. I—and others—had gone to such extremes to cover it all up and, because I couldn’t hold my liquor, I might have blown it.

I went into the back master bedroom of the 55-plus community house I’d bought on the cul-de-sac at the end of Larkspur Lane in Peppertree Crossing and looked down at the steel frame pieces and lugs that were scattered around on the floor. I wasn’t old enough to be there by a couple of years, but the new identification and documentation I had—that the board at Brown University in Rhode Island, the exclusive Ivy League school, where I had been the dean of a special section of the university where the sons of the ultrawealthy who wouldn’t otherwise be admitted to the university were coddled had arranged for me to get in New York—made me legal here. Pretending I was older than I really was was meant to help me relocate and hide. The university’s board was only too eager not to have its hidden program dean messing around with eighteen or nineteen-year-old willing but not-the-brightest special students spilling over into the public news. That the guys were good with it and had wanted it to just continue only added to the scandal potential. The university board had been very helpful in quietly moving me on.

I wasn’t that helpful last night when, already half looped from loneliness and the bleak prospect of how my new life hiding out in an old-folks community in Georgia was going, my next-door neighbor on Larkspur Lane, Gordon Montgomery, saddled up to me in a gay roadhouse and formally introduced himself—and wanted to stand me a drink.

I hadn’t recognized him when I’d first entered the roadhouse Roger had recommended to me. I only went to check the place out because I was lonely and horny. I saw Montgomery holding down the far end of the bar, but he was clothed now and, although he looked familiar, I didn’t connect him with the new neighbor I’d seen cavorting in a backyard pool with a young and tender-looking guy. I hadn’t been at the bar for long, though, when a young guy—maybe eighteen or nineteen, my danger zone—saddled up next to me and got friendly. We talked. I found he was interested in making a couple of bucks, and he found that I was there because I was lonely and horny—and that I liked them young. Young and slender and blond and good-looking like he was.

This and that transpired and we were going through a doorway covered with a beaded curtain into the back of the roadhouse. We entered a dusty and dimly lit corridor going back to a windowed door at the back that led to the outside and let some light into the far in the hall. There the young and good-looking guy needing a bit of money sucked me off as I leaned my shoulder blades back into the hallway wall, jutted my pelvis out and ran my fingers into his curly blond hair while he palmed my buttocks and gave me head.

I noticed in my periphery vision the clattering and swaying of the beaded curtain covering the doorway into the bar area and I could see that someone was standing there—at least for a bit after realizing the hallway was being used—before he drifted back into the bar area. When I came out from the back, I realized who that had been and that I indeed had seen the man before. Roger had told me my neighbor’s name and I had remembered it. Gordon Montgomery.

After I’d bellied up to the bar, he slid down to beside me and smiled. He probably wanted me to know he’d seen me getting a blow job in the back. After the young blond guy had finished sucking me off, he’d taken my money and disappeared out of the door at the back of the roadhouse. That’s where the parking lot was—hidden behind the roadhouse so those driving by on the road couldn’t pick out cars they could connect with owners frequenting a gay bar.

“I’ve seen you before,” he said. “Haven’t you just moved into Peppertree Crossing—onto Larkspur Lane? I think you are my new neighbor. I’m Gordon Montgomery.”

“That would be me,” I said. “Jarvis Connelly here. Down from the New England area. Just arrived in Georgia.”

“Well, Jarvis Connelly. I’m from the Peppertree Crossing Welcome Committee. Let me stand you a welcoming drink.” Not a word then or later that I was gay and he was gay—that we both were gay. It obviously just was assumed from the two of us being here. It also was understood in some unspoken way that we were both tops, so there wasn’t going to be anything going on between us.

Fool that I was, I took Montgomery up on the drink and then, I think—well, I’m pretty sure—that I unloaded more of my circumstance on him than I intended to reveal to anyone ever again. Maybe it was meeting him in a gay bar—one pretty far away from the town of Brunswick, I might add in defense of my activity in hiding—but more likely it was because of the similarity in our vocations and because of the very, very cute eighteen or nineteen-year-old guy who I’d noticed was living with Gordon. We weren’t supposed to be having cute eighteen or nineteen-year-old guys living with us in the Peppertree Crossing senior community.

Davey Jones. That was the guy’s name, I was informed.

“So, you were a college dean?” he asked. That was close enough, and I couldn’t remember how I’d revealed that to him. “I do something similar. I run a transitional prison program for young guys who got into trouble again after aging out of juvenile detention but who we’re trying to slowly work back into the public population.”

After a few more drinks: “Oh, you mean Davey. No, he’s not my son—or my ward or anything and he’s just here temporarily, so, no, I don’t have to report someone living with me who isn’t a senior. At least I don’t have to if no one reports me. The neighbors are good about that. Clarence, who lived in your house before, was good about that. I hope you will be too. Davey’s just here for a week or two. We have a program of measured reintroduction into the public for guys, based on good behavior. I bring them home for a couple of weeks.”

“And this guy living with you now, this Davey? He’s been good?”

“He’s good to me—if you know what I mean.” Gordon laughed.

“He does good behavior on his knees?” I asked.

“And on his back,” came back the answer along with a laugh.

Yeah, I’d gotten an inkling of that. I’d had a good line of sight on the small pool Gordon had in his backyard—I could see it from the floor to ceiling windows I had in this bedroom, windows that would flank the sides of this bed when I got the frame together and dragged the box springs and mattress from over there to over here. I had seen Gordon and Davey in the pool. I’d only been here three days, but I’d seen them using the pool. They’d been quite playful and chummy in the pool. You can’t see what’s going on under the water, but you can use your imagination.

And speaking of that, I could see them out there now. Gordon was sitting under an awning on the back patio of his house and Davey was in the pool. I wasn’t getting anywhere with the bedframe, so I went to the window—not right up to it because I didn’t want them to see me, but back aways in the darkness of my room, where I could watch them and they couldn’t watch back. I was just wearing athletic shorts—not even any underwear. When I got comfortable here, I wouldn’t be wearing that much in the house. I liked to feel sexy and I still had the body for it.

I let one of my hands rub across my chest and the other one rest on my belly at the waistband of the shorts. I still had a flat belly, with a six pack, I was proud to be able to say. In fact, I was hard-bodied still and in tip-top shape. The young guys I spiked certainly didn’t complain. Of course, what they liked best was swinging between my legs. But I’d never had a complaint from them about that either. It had been more than a month than I’d had any sex beyond using my own hands, and I was horny as hell. That Davey was a real sweet piece.

I almost fell against the window and my hand dipped under my waistband and found an engorging cock when I saw Davey coming up out of the water of the pool. He was naked. His small, slender body, just starting to muscle out, was gorgeous. His cock and balls were nothing to make fun of. He was in erection and was cupping his jewels with one hand. Fulfilling a particular fetish of mine, he had glorious tan lines. Most of his body was berry brown tanned. There was a distinctive contrast at his pelvis, though, where wearing a Speedo had left a triangle of whiteness at the most arousing points—highlighting the cock and balls in front and the pert orbs of his buttocks behind.

He was looking at Gordon, who was sitting in a plastic patio chair, looking back at the guy. As Davey came out of the pool and slowly walked to Gordon, water beaded on his beautiful guy’s body and running down onto his thighs from his torso in rivulets, Gordon raised his hips and pulled his swimsuit off. He then was as naked as Davey was. He too was in erection and was cupping his balls and the root of his cock with a hand.

When Davey reached Gordon, he grabbed a towel, spread it at Gordon’s feet, went down on his knees between the man’s spread thighs, and took the man’s cock in his mouth, starting to make love to it. It looked like he was a pro at sucking a man off. Gordon certainly wasn’t complaining.

I nearly lost my shit. Gordon had a really nice rehabilitation program going here. I did lose my shorts, handed my cock, and came closer to the window. As I did, though, I noticed that another neighbor on the Larkspur Lane cul-de-sac, a guy named Harry, who was in his early sixties, tall but meaty, and bald, was walking his dog down the street.

Now they are in for it, I thought. He’ll see them at it and both Davey and Gordon will get kicked out of the community. Anything like this must definitely be way out of bounds. Seniors surely aren’t permitted to have this much fun. That was why I was here—hiding in what should be a safe place from anything I’d been caught doing before.

But, holy shit, this guy giving Gordon a suck off was sex on a stick. And Gordon was just leaning back in his chair and guiding the young man in the blow job with fingers sunk in the guy’s blond curls. Yes, indeedy, this was some nice rehabilitation program.

And there was Harry, having heard something and coming around to the side of my house to see what was what. What was what was that Gordon was being sucked off by a beautiful eighteen or nineteen-year-old guy. Harry would go bananas when he discovered what was going on behind Gordon’s house.

Harry did go bananas in a way. He pulled behind some bushes where he couldn’t be seen from the street. But I could see him from my window. And he reacted the same way I was reacting. He was watching them. And his shorts were unzipped and his dong was out and he was stroking himself off. His dog wasn’t concerned about this. It just settled down in the mulch under a bush and lowered his—or her—muff on its paws and closed its eyes. Clearly Harry was a good neighbor for Gordon. No way he was going to report Gordon if Gordon gave him entertainment value like this. He took out a cell phone and talked into it and it wasn’t long until a black guy, Trevor, a big, muscle-bound widower from across the cul-de-sac at the end of Larkspur Lane was creeping into the bushes and positioning himself beside Harry. In no time, he had his monster of a dick out and he was jerking his meat and watching Gordon fuck Davey too.

So, this was it. I should have guessed. Roger the Realtor had told me I’d like this isolated end-of-the-road section of the neighborhood when he was trying to sell me this house—this house in which I’d put Roger against the bedroom wall and fucked him while watching the divine Davey doing stretch exercises by Gordon’s pool. All of the residents on the cul-de-sac were men—most single men, but there were two men living together in one of the houses. Roger had arranged to get all of the houses here occupied by old gay men. I should have noticed how unusual that was; retirement communities like this were usually dominated by widows, not widowers and single men. I guess that’s why I still saw Roger making visits to the houses around the cul-de-sac. It wouldn’t be long before he was at my front door—and up against my bedroom wall—again, I wagered.

I couldn’t help give a snort and a laugh.

Davey pulled away from the cock he was sucking and rose up from his knees. He did so only to move on to a fuck. As the furloughed delinquent stood before him, Gordon reached around the young guy’s hips, cupped and spread his butt cheeks, and pulled Davey into him, rubbing his cheek on the guy’s belly and then taking Davey’s cock in his mouth. As he sucked Davey’s dick, his fingers worried the guy’s hole, eventually working the fingers in and spreading the hole, stretching it to take Gordon’s thick cock. Davey leaned back within Gordon’s grasp, letting his arms dangle at his side in a sacrificial position. He was going to give Gordon anything the man wanted.

Gordon had a power position over the young man—he essentially was Davey’s jailor and controlled when Davey could go free on his own. But Davey either was all in on being fucked by a much older man or he was a consummate actor. He clearly was enjoying this. He made my cock throb.

I was humming as I watched them and stroking myself off. I had a ringside seat for this young guy taking.

Gordon took his time, and in time he coaxed Davey up onto his lap, the young man moving there voluntarily, and positioned Davey’s hole on the bulb of his erection. Davey dug his knees into the wide arms of the plastic chair, descended on the man’s cock, encircled Gordon’s neck in his arms, brought his lips down to Gordon’s, and they fucked. Up, down; up, down Davey fucked himself on the man’s cock, while Gordon spread and squeezed the sexy white orbs to the rhythm of the fuck, the darker tone of the root of his thick shaft appearing and disappearing into the stretched hole.

My eyes were glued to Davey’s gleaming white buttocks, contrasted with his darkly tanned back and legs. I panted and stroked as I watched Gordon kneading, separating, and squeezing those luscious white orbs, splitting the difference between them with the root of his darker cock, penetrating deep and exposing the great length of it only to be buried to the quick again.

I was close enough to the window then that my jism splattered all over the glass as I shot a load that was long needing to be released. Even as it released, though, I knew there was more. I hadn’t had a sexual workout since I had Roger against the wall next to where I now was standing.

Harry and Trevor were having a go at each other in the bushes. Harry was bent over at the waist, his knuckles pressed into the mulch. One end of the leash was attached to his wrist and the dog, content to lie under a bush and snooze, was at the other end. Trevor was mounted on Harry’s ass, his hands grasping Harry’s wide hips, and was fucking him. Both of them were still watching the action on Gordon’s covered patio. They came out of the crouch suddenly, though. They must have seen movement at the window when I jacked off into it—I’d let myself come to close to it—because they stuffed their dicks in their shorts and beat a fast retreat. They’d gotten a show, though, as well as a bit of personal pleasure. They were so familiar with each other that I assumed this was a regular coupling.

Gordon and Davey were still fucking. Gordon turned Davey on the cock to where the guy was facing away from Gordon, his torso folded down on his thighs, his head hanging down toward the patio tiles, and his fingers tracing the edges between the tiles. Gordon, grasping the guy’s narrow waist between his hands, pulled the young man on and off the cock, with me being able to see the root of the shaft and several inches of it appearing and disappearing in the thrusting.

I was past controlling myself now. I leaned into the window, one hand palming the glass, my forehead pressed into the coolness of the window, and my other hand jerking myself off once more. I’d gone immediately hard again. I still had it, even into my fifties, the ability to recharge fast and to fire off again and again. Gordon tensed and jerked, tensed and jerked, and then the two just sort of collapsed. I came again in another splattering against the window. The dick came out of the hole, bringing cum with it. Then it pushed in again to drive the jism home.

Gordon had barebacked the guy. That’s what I liked to see. That’s what I liked to do. A creampie.

Jerking back into awareness, I pushed myself off from the window and marched off to the bathroom attached to the master bedroom. When I came back, they were gone. I told myself they’d been so taken up with the fuck that I’m sure they hadn’t seen me at the window, watching them and jerking off. I was going hard again. I hadn’t had it for so long, and this had been such a sexy surprise. I lay down on my back on the mattress, across the room from the unfinished frame, took myself in hand, and slow-stroked myself off a third time in that hour to the imagining of what the two of them—Gordon and his guy, Davey—were doing in the house now. Fucking in the bedroom just eight feet beyond the floor-to-ceiling window of my bedroom, where my jism was still dribbling down the glass. Maybe Gordon on his back and the guy riding him languidly in a cowboy, the white orbs of his buttocks shimmering as he rose and fell on the shaft.

Davey giving Gordon everything he wanted. Gordon barebacking the guy. Creampie time. Breeding the guy.

* * * *

“OK, OK, I’m coming,” I called out. The knock on the door hadn’t registered the first time and it had been repeated, louder. There was a bell. Why weren’t they ringing that? Oh, yeah, that didn’t work. Well, the one at the dean’s house at Brown had worked.

We aren’t in Rhode Island anymore, Jarvis.

I was in a foul mood. I’d worked at the bedframe for the last couple of hours with very little to show for it. I just wasn’t mechanical. This wasn’t college dean’s work. Good thing I was sexy as hell—even at fifty-two.

I open the door and almost hyperventilated. Davey Jones was standing there, just in athletic shorts and sandals. He was deep-tanned and gorgeous.

“Yes?” I said, working hard to manage even that.

“I’m Davey Jones . . . from next door.”

“Yes, yes, you are,” I said, definitively this time. I’d seen him next door. I’d seen him get the shit fucked out of him next door. I’d watched him getting breeded. I’d seen the cream dribbling out of his asshole. I’d watched him show he enjoyed it. I wanted to fuck him too. “Yes, of course you are,” I managed again. “What can I do for you?”

I knew exactly what I could do for him. He smiled at me like he knew what I could do for him too, and I melted on the spot. “What’s that?” I asked. I’d jerked my gaze away from him, not being able to look at his beautiful young guy’s body any longer without reaching out and touching him—and only now seeing that he was holding a pie pan with something fluffy white in it.

“It’s a cream pie, a coconut cream pie. Mr. Montgomery sent it over for you. A house-warming gift. To welcome you to the neighborhood. Cream pie is his favorite. He said he thought it might be your favorite too. ‘Go over and see if our new neighbor, Jarvis Connelly, would like some cream pie, Davey,’ he’d said to me.”

I about swallowed my tongue while the guy stood there, smiling, and looking oh so innocent, but also oh so fuckable too. But, from his grin, I didn’t think he really was that innocent about the cream pie.

He was just wearing athletic shorts and sandals. I managed to find my voice, though. “Well, isn’t that nice and neighborly of Gordon? Come in. Do come in and put it in the kitchen. Right through here.” Now I did reach out and touch him—on the shoulder and then moving to a bare shoulder blade—which made me shudder in pleasure—to turn him toward the kitchen and bring him into the house.

“Mr. Montgomery said I should ask you if there’s anything that I . . . that we . . . can do to help you move in.”

Then I realized I wasn’t just touching him on the shoulder blade. I was grasping his shoulder blade—not letting go. He didn’t seem to mind.

I searched for a way to get him into the bedroom. “Are you mechanical, Davey?”

“I don’t know,” he said, as we moved to the kitchen. “Try me.”

Oh, fuck did I want to try him. “Beds.” He looked at me and smiled. I nearly melted again. “I mean putting bedframes together. I’ve got one that’s giving me fits. Back in the bedroom. The master bedroom. You think you could—?” I stopped. He was smiling again.

“I can try,” he said. “Show me where the bedroom is. And, uh, this pie. Where—?”

Gladly I’d show him to the bedroom. “Gladly,” I said, adding, “Oh, the pie. Yes. The kitchen is through there.”

After depositing the pie, I ushered him to the back of the house—to the room where there were two floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking his back yard, where I’d watched him cavorted in Gordon’s pool, where Gordon had fucked him just a couple of hours ago.

Running through my mind was Gordon’s old-man gnarled hands squeezing and separating those smooth, white, rounded, perfectly formed orbs, spreading that puckered hole open, sliding his hard dick up in there. Oolala.

“Hmm, this doesn’t look too hard,” he said, kneeling on the floor. Just the right height for me to unzip and feed him my cock. “You got a screwdriver?” he asked. Then he laughed. “‘Screw.’ ‘Driver.’ Funny words.” He was on his knees inside the bedframe. When he said “screw” and “driver,” he looked up at me and gave me a saucy look. He wanted it; he’d come here to get it.

Gordon was giving me a welcome-to-the-neighborhood present. There wasn’t a doubt about that in my mind. Gordon was the guy’s probation officer. He’d do anything Gordon told him to do. But would he only do it because Gordon told him too? Did I not arouse him? The way he looked at me told me he did. No, we were good to go here.

“Oh, there it is,” he said, reaching for the screwdriver, and crouching over, peering at the inner rim of one side of the frame, holding a screw and looking at the holes where, presumably, one of the slats was supposed to be inserted.

“Look, a screw,” he said, holding one up and grinning at me. “Nothing like a good screw. This looks like it will be a great screw. I think this screw will fit in this hole just fine.”

God, yes, he was willing a ripe for it.

Bent over like that on his knees, the waistband of his shorts was pulled down onto his buttocks, showing his crack and the rise of his pert little white-flesh orbs, the tantalizing tan line clearly visible. His hips were narrow. He was brown as a berry except where his Speedo would cover him. The line between the brown of his back and the whiteness of his buttocks cried out to be touched.

So, I went down on my knees beside him and lay the palm of my hand on his lower back. He didn’t shirk away from me.

“Can you make out where the screw goes into the hole?” I asked, acting like I was looking just like he was and putting my palm on his lower back was no big deal. “Do you know about screws needing to go tightly into holes?” I added, playing him to see whether he was going to act dumb about why we were on our knees so close together.

“I know about screwing and holes,” he said.

“I just bet you do.”

He was there on his knees, screwdriver in hand, threading the screw into the hole, then out again, and then in again, all the time giving me a big grin.

I moved my hand under his waistband and touched his puckered hole with my index finger. He was trembling, but he didn’t shrink from me. Again, he kept his bent legs planted, spreading the thighs a bit as I rubbed my finger over his hole. He held steady, although I could feel his breathing to have become more rapid. The hole blossomed open at my touch. I leaned over him and kissed him on the neck. Point of no return.

“Gordon didn’t send you over here to put my bedframe together, did he?”

“No, sir.”

“Both of you saw me at the window here when Gordon was fucking you this afternoon, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you’re going to let me fuck you too? Gordon is OK with me screwing you, isn’t he? And you’ll do what Gordon tells you to do.”

“Yes,” he whispered. I had invaded his ass with my finger and he was rocking on it. He gasped as I added a finger and used them to spread the hole open.

“Are you OK with me fucking you, Davey? You don’t mind taking an old man’s cock?”

“I think you’re younger than Mr. Montgomery,” he answered. “I think you’re a hunk compared to Mr. Montgomery—not that he isn’t OK too.”

“And you let Mr. Montgomery fuck you.”

“Yes, I’m fine. It’s great. You’re a hunk . . . a stud.”

“Well, then.” I liked the guys tight. A tight hole to screw, just like this one in the bedframe. That’s one reason I preferred eighteen or nineteen-year-old guys. I liked them just finished developing into a man—hard-bodied, virile, randy—but I liked the innocence of that age, their yielding nature, and I liked them tight. I liked to feel them shuddering under me as I stretch them and then use them. And I liked to bareback them. I like feeling them flinch and gasp when I release inside them. I like pulling to the surface as I start coming, to see the jism burble at the surface, and then to ram it home again, pushing my seed deep. Barebacking him. Breeding the guy.

Show me the creampie.

I pulled my shorts off and then pulled his down to his knees. I moved over him in a crouch, running one arm under his belly to hold him in place. He was quaking under me and panting lightly. I placed the bulb of my erection in position with the other hand.

“Yes?” I whispered. One last check. I don’t know what I’d do if he said no.

“Yes,” he said and then yelped and his knees nearly gave way, as I entered him—thick, long, hard, throbbing. But he groaned and I felt him stiffen to regain position and then relax as slowly, but relentlessly, I entered him, stretching him, possessing him. Making him mine, if only for the moment.

My cock in full possession now, I moved my free hand to cup his chin and to arch his torso back into my chest, pressing his blond curls into the hollow of my shoulder. The hand I had under him grasped his cock and I milked him.

I fucked him and fucked him and fucked him. He took it like a champion.

I looked up while I fucked him to see that Gordon was at one of the floor-to-ceiling bedroom windows, on the other side of the glass, clouded now in two splatter shots of the cum I’d spouted there earlier in the day. It was his turn to lean into the glass with the palm of one hand and his forehead pressed to the glass while he jerked himself off—and watched me fuck his willing, pliable, luscious juvenile delinquent. My cul-de-sac neighbors, Harry and Trevor, were at the other window, Harry leaning into the window, palms and forehead against glass, stroking off his cock, but his rear jutted back, and Trevor mounted on his tail, fucking him. No dog being walked this time.

Gordon must have phoned the neighborhood welcoming committee that a cream pie was being delivered to the new neighbor.

When I felt myself releasing, I pulled my shaft back to the surface and creamed Davey at his entrance. He was gasping and moaning. I thrust my cock home again to finish deep in his core and he groaned for me and released in my stroking hand.

Later I fucked Davey on the mattress languishing on the floor of the bedroom, putting him on his back, crouching between his thighs, holding his legs raised and spread in my hands—invading and thrusting, thrusting, thrusting as he writhed under me, arching his back, throwing his arms straight out from his body, clawing at the mattress pad, arching his neck back, crying out to the ceiling his passion and surrender.

The sacrificial lamb. All the more satisfying when they were just eighteen or nineteen.

He was so sweet and yielding. He denied me nothing. I took everything. Gordon, Harry, and Trevor watched from beyond the glass, no doubt enjoying every stroke of it.

At the door we kissed and he agreed to come back again when I wished and as long as he was “visiting” Gordon Montgomery.

“And, oh yeah,” he said, turning back to me at the door. “Mr. Montgomery wonders if you’d like to contribute to the Peppertree Crossing Welcome Committee fund.”

“The what?” I asked.

“The program he runs of letting guys like me who are good come to his house to get ready for being out in public again. You know, the half-way house program.”

“Oh, that.” OK, I got it. “Did he name a suggested amount?”

“He thought $300.”

Gordon, Harry, and Trevor. I got it. Maybe when Roger sold the next house on the cul-de-sac, the contribution would be $400—and that I’d then be included on the welcoming committee “And I could contribute again, I suppose, the next time you came over?”

“Sure.”

“Gladly,” I answered, going for my wallet. When I returned, I gave him eight fifty-dollar bills, whispering to him, “And a hundred for you.” I didn’t know whether Gordon bothered to pay the talent or not in these arrangements.

I didn’t get the bedframe together for another month and half, finding the mattress on the floor sufficient for my sleep needs—and Davey never complained when he visited. Neither did Christopher, the guy who came to Gordon after Davey left. Eventually, I branched up to picking up young guys in the bars and bringing them back to the house. We seemed, thanks to Roger’s sales talents, to have an enclave of revolving amenable men on the Larkspur Lane cul-de-sac who were like minded, shared, and didn’t talk to community management. After sex, one of the young guys put my bedframe together for me and helped me move the box springs and mattress onto it. It only took him about a half hour. We fucked for longer than that on the bed afterward. So, there are mechanical men in the world—even gay ones. I paid him double.

The guys older than eighteen or nineteen were OK. But there’s something special about an eighteen or nineteen-year-old guy hooking his knees on your hips—and letting you bareback him for the creampie effect.