Pool Party

I lay on the bed in the cabin behind Hal’s Tavern ten miles out of town and listened to the truck driver moving around in the bathroom. I had showered first, after I’d given him a blow job, and come to the bed and stretched out, naked, while he took his. He was going to fuck me when he came out of the bathroom. I was looking forward to it; he’d looked mean and lean at the bar. I wanted someone who made me feel it. I tried to remember what his name was—Ralph or Randy, or something like that. Although I suppose it didn’t matter what his name was for why we were here. I hadn’t told him my real name. All I knew is that I wanted him to fuck me good, to manhandle me. That was the mood I was in.

The bathroom door opened and he was standing there, a towel around his waist. I knew he’d be hairy and have tattoos. He was. I suppose the arousal for him was that I wasn’t—that I was younger than he was and clean cut, a novelist, although I don’t think he believed me when I told him that. A successful one too, but I hadn’t bothered to tell him that; I could tell that he was only interested in whether I’d take his cock. It didn’t matter. He might have asked me what the titles were of my books, and I couldn’t have given those to him without revealing my real name. He didn’t look like a writer.

He looked like what he’d said he was—a long-distance semitrailer driver—one who hit the gym wherever he stopped for the night. He was dark, maybe some Hispanic in him, with black hair—thick here and there—around his pecs and down into the rim of the towel at his waist. He was tall, broad in the shoulders and across the muscular chest, slimmer in the hips. He had the biceps of a bodybuilder and thighs of a rugby player. Other than that he was rangy and wiry, tattoos up his arm and down his chest. He looked mean, which had been what had drawn me to him in Hal’s bar. I wanted to feel it. He’d already made me feel it and he hadn’t been inside me yet.

He’d slapped me around a bit, forcing me to my knees to suck him off, him creaming my face with his cum, before he went to take a shower. I hadn’t had or opportunity to see much of anything but his cock and balls as he showed me what he wanted me to do with them. He wanted to show me from the get go who was going to be boss. I had chosen him because I wanted to be bossed. When he went to the shower, he said the blow job was fine and if I didn’t want to get the stuffing fucked out of me I should go before he got out of the bathroom. I stayed.

He dropped the towel at the bathroom door. He was in erection and thick, if not abnormally long, or maybe it just appeared that he wasn’t long because his bush was so thick. He smiled at me. I tried to smile back. I had wanted someone like him. And here he was. I’d gone for nearly a year without it. I had tried to reform. It hadn’t worked. I still craved cock.

“I forgot your name,” I said.

“Vince. It’s Vince,” he answered. “That was a first-rate blow job.”

He strode over to the bed and stood next to it. Getting the hint, I turned onto my side and took his cock into my mouth again. Yes, he was longer than I originally thought. I’d been nervous the first time and hadn’t tried to take it all in my throat. He reached down and fisted my cock and we moved full throttle into the pre-fuck jacking.

I was on my back, my hands reaching over my head to grip the brass rungs of the headboard. My pelvis was lifted on pillows, my legs were spread and bent. I was leveraging off my feet to meet the rhythm of his thrusts.

“Yes, Yes. Like that. You’re huge. Pump me. Fuck me! Pull the cum out of me!” My back was arched. So was my head, my eyes focused on the brass headboard. He was between my knees, in deep, pistoning me hard. It was a rough fuck. It was what I’d come to Hal’s Tavern to get. Vince was giving me what I’d come here for.

He was laughing, clutching my hips, pulling me hard into him as he thrust forward. Pumping me fast and hard.

“You really want it,” he muttered.

Yes, I really want it or I wouldn’t be here went screaming through my brain. I’d come here in high heat. I’d needed it bad.

I moved a hand to my cock and stroked myself. “I’m going to come,” I called out, as if he was interested. He was only interested in getting a big piece of me for himself, for his own needs from days on the road without it. He certainly hadn’t gotten tail any easier than he was getting it from me. I laid right down and spread my legs for him. And he wasn’t paying for it; I even paid for the cabin—and for his drink while he was feeling me up at the bar. The guys he was drinking with when we left to come back to the cabin were leering and rolling their eyes and popping their tongues in their cheeks.

And then I did come. I had both hands palming his chest, running my fingers through the swirls of hair around his pecs, thumbing his nipples. He continued to pump me, fast and furiously. I lay back in surrender, my hands moved to palming his buttocks, his buttocks contracting and releasing with his thrusts. I held him to me as he fucked and fucked and fucked.

It was worth every penny I paid for it.

We lay on the bed, side by side, him dozing, me going over the fuck again in my mind, picking out what would inform my writing. I quietly rolled out of the bed and went to the window at the back of the cabin. It overlooked the secluded parking lot, where the men who came to Hal’s Tavern and cabins parked so their cars wouldn’t be seen from the road. I lit up a cigarette, smoked it, and killed the butt on the window sill. I was standing at the window, naked, my arms raised and pressed into the corners of the frame at the top, looking out into the parking lot but not really thinking about anything in particular.

Vince came up behind me, wrapped his arms around me, and nuzzled the hollow of my throat with his hairy face. He was bearded, but it wasn’t long or unruly. It looked sexy on him. He palmed my lower belly and pulled my feet up on my toes. He was hard again.

“You’re a great lay,” he said. “I’d like to bottle you and take you on the road with me.”

“You’re a great driver,” I answered.

“You do want it rough.”

“Yes, I do want it rough.”

“I’m gonna drive you again. Jut your ass back at me,” he commanded in a hoarse voice, and when I did so, he palmed my lower belly and pulled me up cruelly, jerking me back into his groin as he thrust his cock up into me, penetrating my ass several inches. He was inside me again, easier this time as he’d already reamed me to his size. I let out a cry of surprise and pain. Holding me tight, he pulled back and thrust up into me again and again, making each thrust a separate, “take all of it” act. It was the rough fuck I’d come here to get.

“Relax and take it, bitch. Be my little bitch,” he said in my ear. “I’m gonna drive you like I drive my truck—hard and fast.” Continuing to control and move me with a hand on my belly, he cupped my chin with the other hand and pulled my head into the hollow of his throat. I was completely at his mercy. And he didn’t have much mercy to give.

He’d already driven me like his truck. I loved it. I was a whore for it. It had been too long. I’d tried to be good too long.

I relaxed and he continued to thrust up inside me but slower, more in a rhythm, with less intensity. I turned my face to him and we kissed. He gave me tongue. I was surprised that a truck driver would do that.

When I turned my face back around to the parking lot, I saw that there were two guys back there, leaning into a car. They were using the hood of my car, my Jaguar. I recognized the guy who had the other guy bent over the hood of the car too. They had been kissing, I was sure, but they must have heard me cry out when the truck driver thrust up into my passage. They were looking, startled, up at the window I was in. The guy I recognized was Jim Thornton, one of our neighbors. His wife and my wife were in a Saturday morning kaffee klatch together. The Thorntons had a nice swimming pool. We were going there for a pool party the next Saturday afternoon. I tried to pull away from the window, but Vince held me there, concentrated on his cock slow-fucking up into my channel, moving smoothly now that he’d reamed me to his size for the day.

Jim Thornton had turned and seen me—seen us, Vince and me—in the window of the cabin. He turned away, but at the moment so did Vince, pulling me back into the room and over to the bed. He bent me over the bed, grabbed my wrists and forced my arms over my head, pressed to the surface of the bed. My chest was flat on the bed, as was my cheek. He started fucking me in earnest, in long, fast, deep, cruel strokes. It was what I’d wanted. It was why I’d come to Hal’s Tavern and had brought a truck driver to this cabin.

I writhed under him. “Oh fuck! Oh, Shit. Do it, do it, do it. Fuck me to heaven!”

“Take it, take it, take it, bitch,” the truck driver growled and fucked on.

He made me forget all about Jim Thornton—at least while the big bruiser had his dick inside me.

* * * *

There was no way I could go to the Thorntons’ pool party on Saturday if Jim Thornton had seen me, naked, with another guy behind me, in the window of the cabin behind Hal’s Tavern—and surely he must have seen us. And we needed to talk about this. I needed to get him to put it away. He’d been there too. I’d seen him kissing a guy in the parking lot. It wasn’t good news for either of us.

I knew he didn’t work days—he owned a couple of restaurants in town and rotated around at those at night. His wife, Bev, was a partner in a health spa and dermatology clinic across town, and she did work days. My wife, Ann, was a doctor in the oncology department at the university and worked days. I was a writer. I worked all of the time and, some thought, none of the time.

I decided I had to go over there and talk to him.

No one answered at the front door, so I walked around to the back, to the pool area—they had an extensive patio area in back with an oversized residential pool. The house rambled around in a curve between the pool and the street. A couple of additions had been added on as the family’s wealth had increased. The restaurant business in this university town was lucrative. Thornton was barely thirty and quite probably was already a millionaire. A deck on the second floor of the additions extended out toward the pool area.

I stopped short of the patio, next to some foliage, which hid me from view of the pool area—or so I thought.

Jim Thornton was fucking a college-age guy on a pool bed. Both were naked. Two wet swim suits lay on the patio next to the pool bed. Thornton apparently had seduced the college kid in the pool—maybe fucked him there first—and then moved him to the pool bed. They were a beautiful couple, already moving in a coordinated rhythm in the throes of copulation, and my mind ran rampant on what had happened here already. The session with the truck driver had just made me hornier.

The college guy was tanned, but nothing like Jim Thornton was. He was slim hipped and broad chested, just as Jim was. They both were trim and nicely muscled. If anything, the young man was more muscular in the chest and thighs than Thornton was. His hole certainly was being stretched open by Thornton’s cock, though. I was being given a good shot of the connection. I was mesmerized by the tan lines on Thornton. He was a deep brown except for where the edges of a skimpy Speedo would start, and then his groin triangle was much lighter in color. This contrast accentuated the slimness of his hips, the reddish-auburn of his pubic bush, the hairiness of his tight ball sac, and the length of his hard cock—which I only got a measure of when he pulled it nearly all of the way out of the college guy’s hole before sliding it in to where his pubic hair was mingling with the curls of hair around the college kid’s anal rim—then back out and back in in a steady cadence. By all accounts the college kid was melting to the steady deep penetrations.

The college guy was flat on his belly on the pool bed. His legs were off the sides of the bed, bent slightly, and the pads of his feet were pressed into the patio stone. His arms were dangling off the side of the bed as well, the knuckles of the hand I could see dragging on the stone. He was cheek to pool bed pad, his face turned toward me. There was a grimaced smile on his mouth and his eyes sparkled. He quite obviously was in ecstasy.

Jim was saddled on the young man’s ass. His legs too were off the bed on either side, bent, the pads of his feet pressed into the patio stone, being used to provide leverage for his rise and fall on the young man’s ass. He was leaning over the body under him, with the palms of his hands pressing down on the young man’s shoulder blades. He was fucking the college guy in long slides, where I could see him withdraw the cock almost to the rim of the cockhead and then glide in again, deep. Rise and fall; rise and fall. On the slide in, the college guy was pushing his pelvis up slightly to meet the thrust with a counterthrust, obviously welcoming the cock.

I couldn’t stay there. This certainly was no time to have a conversation with Jim Thornton about sex with men and what we’d seen and hadn’t. But I didn’t leave. I stood, glued to the spot in the foliage on the path around the side of the house to the pool. I wasn’t even aware of having unzipped myself, taking my cock out, and stroking it while I watched Thornton fucking the college kid.

I had thought that they wouldn’t be able to see me. But Thornton turned his face toward me and smiled. He could see me; he could see what I was doing. I pulled back in horror and embarrassment, stuffed my cock back into my shorts, and hurried home. At home, behind a closed bathroom door, and sitting on the toilet, I completed masturbating myself to visions of Thornton fucking the college kid transitioning, when I got really heated, into Thornton fucking me in the position that he’d fucked the college kid.

Later, when the phone rang, I sat and stared at it until it stopped. No message was left on the answering machine. When it rang again, I picked it up on the second ring.

“Greg, this is Jim. Jim Thornton.”

I knew it was Jim Thornton. We had caller ID.

“Greg, we have to talk.”

“I . . . we can’t come to your pool party,” I stammered out. “I’m sure you understand. That’s what I came over to say.”

He snorted. “You could have called me to say that. That’s not what you came over for. You came over to get what I was giving Randy. And I’m not sure how you will explain not coming to the pool party to Ann.” He gave a low laugh. “You certainly will come to the pool party and we’ll both act like nothing has happened—and, yes, I saw you in the window at Hal’s. Then we’ll have a private little conversation, just you and me, all alone. You’ll like it. I’ll like it with you, I’m sure. I’ll bet you’re a real sweet lay.”

“I don’t think so, Jim. It’s just too close—in the same neighborhood.”

“And if we weren’t in the same neighborhood—would you like to get what I was giving Randy? Remember, we both were at Hal’s Tavern. There’s not much of a secret about that between us.”

I hesitated, but what the hell. “Yes, if there weren’t complications, I’d want your cock. But we do live in the same neighborhood. Our wives are good friends. We couldn’t keep it secret. I couldn’t hold off from you when our families were together.”

“All that is important is that you want me to fuck you. I’d like to be your good friend too, Greg. You’re a gorgeous man—great bod. Lots of the interesting stuff happens in this neighborhood, Greg. And I don’t think you have a choice. Ann doesn’t know about you, does she? I wouldn’t want to have to tell her. Bev and I have an open marriage. She knows and doesn’t care. See you at the pool party. Oh, and wear something nice in a swim suit. I bet you’ll look stunning. You’re the best-looking man in the neighborhood.”

Other than you, I thought, as I disconnected.

* * * *

“Are you coming down?” Ann called up the stairs. “We’re already late.”

“I don’t think I’ll go,” I called down. “Go on without me. I’m at a crucial point on writing this chapter.”

“And it will be there when you get back,” she called out. “You’ve always got that excuse. It doesn’t wash. Come on down.” And then when I did, she said, “There, you were ready to go anyway, weren’t you? Is that a new swimsuit?”

“Yes.”

“A little daring, but it looks good on you; you’ve got the body for it, I’m delighted to say. You’ll make me the envy of all of the women there. Maybe we should just stay home.” She winked at me.

It’s not the women I want to impress, I thought—and I’ll bet that it’s Bev Thornton who is the envy of all the women who will be at the party.

“You looked dowdy in the other one—like most of the men who will be at the party,” she prattled on. “I like my man to stand out. You and Jim Thornton are the only men around here who have an acquaintance with the number thirty.”

She was right. All of the men at the party were dowdy and aged except for Jim Thornton and me—and later, a couple of college students who showed up. One of those, Randy Hill, was the son of one of the older couples here—Alex Hill was a history professor at the university and his wife was an editor at the university press. Randy was the young man I’d seen Jim Thornton fucking on the pool bed—the same pool bed I was standing in front of when Bev introduced him to me—two days previously. I had made the connection as soon as Jim had mentioned his name. He was going to the university here, but he also worked as a waiter in one of Jim’s restaurants.

Our neighborhood was within walking distance of the university and was an upscale area, so we all were professionals of some sort or the other and most were connected with the university. Ted Collier was a retired minister who had worked in campus ministry; Bob Holland was a doctor, working with Bev Thornton on cancer patients at the university hospital; Jeff Stevens was a judge. Clarence DuPont, from a minor branch of the notable family but able to play on the family name, chaired a political think tank loosely connected with the university, and Zach Childs owned a consortium of auto dealerships in the town.

What brought us all together at the pool was our wives, all of whom had professional jobs of their own, but whose main connection was that they got together at the judge’s house every Saturday morning for a kaffee klatch, where they ran over and ran down the national and state political situation and the neighbors who weren’t involved in the Saturday morning coffees. I wasn’t a morning person. I was sleeping every Saturday morning while they were sipping coffee and gossiping. But then I’d rarely been in bed before 3:00 a.m. any morning.

Except for Jim Thornton and me—and the college guys who showed up later, having pulled in a university soccer game earlier in the day—most of the other men were in their fifties through their seventies and were wrinkled, gray, and paunchy. That didn’t mean they didn’t come to use the pool, which was known as the best one in the neighborhood. They all were in droopy boxers, though, except Jim and I, who were in Speedos. Well, to be fair, Zach Childs didn’t look too bad. He went on camera, trying to sell cars, so he worked out and wasn’t in bad shape for someone on the dark side of forty. He had a good chest and biceps and his waistline wasn’t that bad when he sucked his gut in, which he was doing all day during the pool party when he thought anyone was looking his way.

Jim spent most of the time before the food was laid out in the pool, playing with the younger children—all grandchildren visiting their grandparents. He had handed out water guns and they were chasing each other—and him—around the shallow end of the pool with arcs of water. I stayed out of the pool, sitting at the side in a white resin plastic chair, with my T-shirt on, chatting with those who passed by and drinking a beer, but regretting that I was there—and, mostly, that I had worn a Speedo.

From time to time, my eyes met with Jim Thornton’s, and it was obvious that he was enjoying my discomfort. He’d smile knowingly at me, stand up in the water at the shallow end to give me a good look at his beautiful, tanned body, and then sink back down and send off a jet of water at a squealing kid, who was in ecstasy that one of the adults was playing with him.

At one point he drew a young boy into him, sitting him on his lap, under the water, hugging him and giving me a lustful look over the boy’s shoulder. I shuddered at the thought of the sensuality of the man and couldn’t understand why others couldn’t see it too and weren’t either disturbed or aroused by it. But, of course, maybe they were and were just trying to hide their reaction like I was doing. He bounced the boy up and down on his lap in the water and the boy squealed in innocent delight. I, however, went hard.

When we ate, I sat as far away from Jim as I could. All of the other men had put their shirts back on after getting out of the pool. Not Jim. He sat at the table, deeply tanned, muscular chested, and highly sexual, and acted like nothing about that was unusual or out of keeping with the rest. Of course he was getting interested looks from the women—and a few of the men too. I tried my best not to look.

I pulled out early, telling Ann I had to get back to my writing before I lost a plot twist that had developed my mind. That was actually the truth. The short story I was then working on came out of my encounter with the truck driver and my growing obsession with Jim Thornton. The story would never be published in the mainstream, but it was a scorcher. I’d titled it “Pool Party.”

Ann nodded absently at me, in mid conversation with Madge Hill. It was a common excuse of mine, useful because it often, like now, was genuine. Story elements for “Pool Party” had been turning over in my mind while I was sitting there watching the action in and around the Thornton’s pool—the looks going between Jim and Randy Hill were enough to light my fire—and I was hard and in heat. I needed to leave the party for that reason alone.

I made good money off my writing. Ann appreciated that and indulged my peculiarities that were connected with getting something written down that was publishable. I made the same excuse to Bev Thornton, who was accustomed to hearing it and not resenting it, hoping to make it out of there without encountering Jim.

No such luck, though. Jim was at my elbow. “I’ll see Greg out,” he said. “I want to check with him on something.”

Around at the side of the house, in the bushes, Jim pulled me to him and into a kiss. I resisted, initially, but he was insistent and I opened my lips to his tongue. He reached down, took my hand, and ran it under the waistband of his Speedo, holding my hand on his cock, which was half hard and hardening.

“You know I’m going to fuck you, don’t you? It’s inevitable.” he whispered when he released my mouth.

I said “yes” in my mind, but not openly to him.

“You enjoyed watching me fuck Randy, didn’t you?”

This time I answered in a weak voice, “Yes.”

“Maybe we could do a threesome.”

I didn’t respond to that.

“Tomorrow afternoon. Be here. In back, by the pool. We can talk then.”

“I don’t know. The wives . . .”

“Some of the women are going into New York to take in a Broadway play matinee—including Bev and Ann. They’ll be gone until after dinner.”

That wasn’t what I meant in referencing the wives, but I didn’t pursue the point. Of course I wouldn’t show up the next day. We’d talk later, over the phone, at a safe distance from each other. This just wasn’t something we should do with all of the close connections.

But, God, he was sexy as hell.

Then, and only then, did he release my hand from his cock. He was hard and thick and long now.

“Remember. 2:00 tomorrow. Here.”

“I hear you,” I threw over my shoulder as I escaped and started walking—no, staggering—back downhill to my own house. I left Ann the Jaguar. She had a food bowl to haul back when she left.

When I got home it was back into the bathroom, sitting on the toilet, and masturbating myself to a completion.

* * * *

At 2:00 p.m. the next day, I was walking around the side of the Thornton house to the pool area. I was in shorts, sandals, and a T-shirt. No way I was coming in the Speedo and swimming with Jim in the pool. This was a short meeting of the minds on stopping this silly business before it started. We were just too closely connected to get away with it. I was beyond pretending I didn’t want it, but it had danger and tragedy written all over it.

He was swimming laps, seeming not to notice I’d come when he told me to. I stood, facing the pool, at the foot of the pool bed where he’d fucked the college kid—Randy Hill, the son of friends of the Thorntons—and of us.

But he had noticed me and, after half a dozen laps, stood up in the water at the shallow end of the pool, the end I was standing at, and walked up the steps in the pool to the patio. We stood there, facing each other, for the longest moment. He glistened in the sun, as the light bounced off the drips of water running down his tight abs. His body was magnificent. He gave me a teasing little smile and then slowly pushed his Speedo down and off his legs. He was in erection, the V at his pelvis that hadn’t tanned as darkly as the rest of him highlighted the reddish-auburn bush, the long, thick cock, and the hairy balls. His body was even more magnificent and sexy naked.

“I came to talk, Jim,” I said. “This isn’t possible. We have too many connections. We’d be found out.”

“You came to be fucked,” Jim said. “We can get away with it. I always get away with it.” And then, when I didn’t have an answer for that, when I was just standing there, drunk on the sexiness of his body, trembling, he said, “Strip down, I want to see you naked. I didn’t get the best view of you in the window at Hal’s. Did the big bruiser holding you from behind in the window fuck you well?”

“Yes,” I answered weakly—and honestly.

“Was he fucking you when I saw you?”

“Yes. He was a truck driver.” I added that nonsensically, as if being a truck driver had anything to do with it. But of course it did, and Thornton picked up on why.

“So, you like it rough, impersonal . . . dirty?”

“Sometimes,” I answered, again honestly.

“I can fuck you rough. Tell me how you like it and I’ll give it to you that way. Do you want it here on the pool bed like I gave it to Randy Hill and then maybe in the pool?”

“Yes.”

“You like being slapped around?”

“Sometimes.”

“You want to be given orders?”

“Yes.”

“Strip down for me.”

I did so, and we stood there for a moment, both erect, eyeing each other. And then he moved to me, cupped the back of my head with one hand, pulling my face into his for a deep kiss, and frotting our hard cocks together with his other hand. He slow stroked them together with his fist. I moaned, already lost to him.

He pushed me at arms’ length and slapped me across the face twice. I yelped and groaned in want. He pressed me down to sitting on the foot of the pool bed, and I pressed my cheek to his lower belly and reached around with both hands and palmed his buttocks, holding his pelvis to me. He rubbed his cock on my cheek and slapped it on my cheek a couple of times as well. Then he moved it down to my lips, which opened to it. I sucked on the cock, initially on the bulb, but then taking it deep in my throat. He held my head between his hands and moved his hips in a face fuck. I opened to the cock and took it all.

He laughed. “You know how to give blow jobs.”

Yes, I knew. The truck driver had told me that too. I’d been doing it fairly regularly since my college days—up until a year previously. I had made sure not to go long without being serviced and servicing a man, but I’d never done it this close to home before—to the home I shared with Ann, and with a man whose wife I knew and played bridge with.

Pulling out of me before he came, he pushed on my chest and I lay back on the pool bed. He knelt at the foot of the bed, pushed my knees up into my chest, and rolled my pelvis up. I panted and moaned as he sucked my cock and ate out my hole.

Then he was turning me onto my stomach on the pool bed, in the same place the college kid had been several days previously. My legs were hanging off the side, the pads of my feet pressed into the stone patio surface, and my arms were dangling off the side of the bed, my knuckles dragging on the stone, while he ate out my hole some more and pulled my cock through between my legs and gave it attention too. He mounted my ass. I flinched and gasped as he entered me a couple of inches.

He leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” I whispered back. “But would you stop if I said I wanted you to stop?”

“No,” he answered and then laughed. “But if you said no to my cock, you’d be lying, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” I admitted, honestly, “I’d be lying. But you know that.”

“Here it comes,” he said. He lifted my hips up a bit with his hands, and I opened my eyes wide, and my mouth formed a deep, “Oh Shit!” as he plunged his cock up into me and immediately started pumping hard and deep.

“You said you liked it rough,” he said.

I mouthed off a bit, trying to keep it down, as the lots here weren’t that big and his eight-foot wooden fence closed off what we were doing from view, but it also gave us no clue what was going on in adjoining yards. I provided him assurances, though, as my huffing moved from “Oh, shit, you’re big—you’re too big. Slow down, you’re killing me” transitioned into sounds of passion and “Yeah, yeah, like that. Fuck he hard. Harder. Yes, Yes! God, you’re good!”

“So, this is the way you like it?” he murmured.

“I like it any way you give it,” I answered, honestly.

For a few minutes I was able to get a hand under my raised pelvis and take care of my own need. After I’d shot my load on the pool pad, though, he grabbed my wrists, and pulled them back around his side, arching my torso up cruelly, burying his face in the hollow of my neck, when I wasn’t turning my face to his for a kiss, and pounded my ass relentlessly to his ejaculation.

When he’d come, he let my body collapse on the pool bed. I heard him snap the condom off—I had no idea where the rubber had come from and how and when he’d gotten it on his cock—and he stretched out on top of me as we cooled down.

This had been a rougher fuck than I’d seen him give Randy Hill, the college kid, but maybe I’d left before the rough stuff started. But rough was fine with me—unfortunately. The fuck had been really fine. It just wasn’t what I’d come here for, or so I told myself. Jim had told me differently.

I heard him snap anther condom on. “Come into the pool. I want you to fuck yourself on it in the pool. Randy did that too. Before you came and watched us.”

Just as I had figured.

He stood at the wall, in water up to his nipples, and held my waist as I made like a crab in front of him, crouching over him, my arms stretched around his shoulders, my hands gripping the lip of the pool, and my legs raised and bent, my feet flat against the pool wall on either side of his chest—just like I was about to push off in the backstroke race. His cock was buried in my passage and, using the leverage of my hands and feet, I fucked myself on the shaft, moving slowly through the water. When I came, clouds of cum rose to the surface between us.

Thornton laughed. “Between you today and Randy the other day—and I don’t know how many kids pissing in the pool, I’d better drain it and change the water,” he said.

“Come upstairs with me,” Jim whispered in my ear after he’d reversed our positions, put my back to the wall and my knees on his hips and fucked me again. “We’ve got all day. We won’t do it in the family bedroom area, but there’s a maid’s room above the kitchen we don’t use and Bev never goes in. We’ll do it in there.”

“We can’t. We can’t be doing this anymore, Jim,” I said.

He fucked me on the floor of the maid’s room as soon as we got up there. When we entered the room, he took me by surprise, backhanding me across the cheek and sending me to the floor. I rose back up to my feet, groggily, and he just pushed me down on all fours and I went down docilely, giving him no resistance whatsoever. He mounted me, high on my ass, and fucked me hard.

He fucked me on the bed an hour later and we dozed off in each other’s arms. He woke me up as the light outside was fading by rolling over on top of me and slapping my thighs open. He fucked me in a missionary, with us in a close embrace, rocking back and forth, both of us concentrating on his cock moving inside me.

“How much of this can you take?” he murmured.

“How much can you give?”

“Forever,” he answered.

“Since this is the last time, do your worst,” I responded.

“We’ll see about that,” he countered. “I think you are in denial here.”

We dozed again and woke to the sound of someone entering the house through the front door, which was just across the wall and downstairs from where we were in the bed, a bed that had been thumping against the wall to the tune of Jim’s thrusts inside me just an hour before.

“She’s home. Your wife is home,” I said, panicked.

“Shush, it’s fine,” Jim answered, putting his hand over my mouth. “We brought our clothes up. There’s a stairway down to the far side of the house from here. You can dress and go down that and through the bushes to the street. You didn’t park the Jag out front, did you?”

“No, of course not.”

“Well, you parked it at Hal’s. That wasn’t the best move.”

“I know that now,” I said.

“I’m going back to the patio and greet Bev coming out of the pool. I know how to do this. Don’t panic. We can bring this off.”

“We can’t continue bringing this off, Jim. We’ve got to stop this.”

“You can’t give up the fucking,” he said, with a laugh. “You can’t give up the fuck from me.”

I was so afraid that he was right.

When I got home, Ann had already returned.

“You weren’t here when I got home,” she said.

“I went for a walk,” I answered without hesitation. I’d worked that out on the walk home. She bought it. I wondered how long she was going to continue buying it. Despite telling Jim it was over, I knew it wasn’t.

* * * *

I was on my back at the foot of the bed in the cabin behind Hal’s Tavern. Jim Thornton was standing at the foot, grabbing my ankles, and cruelly spreading them wide, as he fucked me in long, fast, deep slides of his cock. I was touching his lower belly, tracing the Speedo tan line, the sharp divide between dark and light flesh, with my thumbs, not only because the contrast in his coloring in the zone of his sex aroused me but also to maintain that contact with him. It must have turned him on too, because he was fucking me furiously. I was licking my lips and moving my head back and forth in pain-pleasure-passion-agony as he ravished me. I shot my load and he shot his and then he collapsed on me, searching out my lips with his for a deep kiss.

Twenty minutes later, I was at the window on the back wall of the cabin, overlooking the hidden parking area. My Jaguar and Jim’s Corvette were nestled next to each other. We shouldn’t have done that, I was thinking. Jim was lying on the bed, having a smoke. I was having a smoke at the window. After the high heat of the meeting of our bodies, I, at least, needed some separation to dampen down the smoldering. I knew we weren’t finished—that Jim and I would fuck again this afternoon. And I knew we’d come back to the cabin behind Hal’s Tavern again and again—until we were caught. I was in the spider’s web and I wasn’t getting out alive.

I’d smoked the cigarette down to the filter and stubbed it out on the window sill as so many before me had done—indeed, as I had done myself on the “day of the truck driver.” I raised and spread my arms, pressing my hands into the upper edges of the window frame and lay my forehead against the cool window. I needed to cool down. Jim had me in perpetual heat.

Jim came up behind me and took my hips between his hands. “Jut your ass back to me, I’m going to slow fuck you,” he whispered in my ear. I did so and he slid up inside me and began to slow pump me. He was moving his tongue in my ear cavity.

“Is this what the truck driver was doing with you that day I saw you in the window here?” he asked.

“Yes, he was fucking me like this, from behind. He told me to jut my ass back too, and he thrust up into me too when I did that. You asked and I told you. He was fucking me like this when you saw us in the window.”

“But not as good as I am, right?”

“No, not as good as you are.”

I looked out of the window and froze. Zach Childs, the friend from the party, the car dealer, who was as close to Jim and my ages and to being in shape as any of the others in the pool party group got, was standing out there, looking at our cars—at the Jaguar and the Corvette, nested together as close as Jim and I were now. He was a car dealer, for christ sake. He knew who owned those cars.

He looked up at the window and saw me, naked, and he saw Jim’s face over my shoulder.

I turned from the window, dragging Jim with me. “Take me to the bed,” I murmured, “And fuck me into the next world.”

Jim did just that, laying me out, fully open, totally surrendered to him—totally surrendered to the whole situation—and he ravished me, taking no prisoners.

I was sitting in the Jaguar, watching the Corvette pull away, giving it a ten-minute interval before getting on the road myself when my cell phone buzzed.

“Greg? This is Zach Childs. I’m in cabin 2. I think we need to talk about something I saw in a window.”

I lay, belly down, at the foot of the bed, legs spread and feet on floor, my eyes popping wide open, grunting at the difficulty of taking him. Childs was hunched over me, between my legs, one hand palming my lower belly and the other one pressing down on the small of my back.

“Let me in. Open for me,” he growled. He was grunting too at the difficulty of stuffing my ass. He wasn’t long, but his was the thickest cock I’d ever had, what some referred to as a beer can cock. He’d already unhinged my jaw when I was sucking it off.

But then he was inside me—just. “Yes, relax,” he muttered. “Relax and take it.” He was in maybe an inch and a half, and, grudgingly, my sphincter let his bulb pop beyond it, and my channel began to stretch open to him.

“You’re fucked now,” he muttered. “Don’t fight me. Open up. Give it to me. I’m going to take it. I’ve wanted to fuck you for ages.”

He held there, the bulb beyond the sphincter, giving me time to adjust, and when he felt I had done so enough, he pressed in on my belly with his hand, pulling my buttocks into the cock, and I panted and groaned as he gave me the other four plus inches. I felt his short and curlies tickling my butt cheeks. He was all in. I felt relief and it helped. I opened further and was surprised when he had another half inch to give me—and did.

I relaxed and took it—he had given me no other choice, saying this would just be the first of many meetings—as, in as far as he was going to get, he began to pump my ass.

“So sweet, so tight,” he murmured as he plowed me.

It wasn’t that I was so tight; it was that he was so thick.

I groaned as he turned me on his cock and continued plowing me from behind, sucking in his gut and watching us in the mirror that had conveniently been placed over the headboard. I turned my face up to the mirror and saw that the expression on my face not only showed the pain of his size but also, in spite of myself and to my embarrassment, the ecstasy of being fucked by a man—any man. In truth, any dick would do.

He leaned over and whispered in my ear, “You gonna come for me, baby?”

Yes, to my shame, I was going to come for him. And I was going to open my legs to him if he wanted to fuck me again after that.

And he did.

* * * *

One night, two weeks later, in our bedroom, I sat on the side of the bed, in my silk sleeping shorts, and watched Ann, in her robe, sitting at the vanity, brushing her hair. She was a beautiful woman, with a natural beauty. I didn’t have to watch her scrubbing off cosmetics. Everyone said we were a beautiful couple. Bev Thornton had said it at the pool party. Others had agreed. Jim Thornton, smiling, had agreed as well.

Then he fucked me. Repeatedly. I sat there, Ann counting each stroke of the brush in her hair out loud. Mentally, I was marking off an ejaculation under Jim Thornton’s and Vince’s and even Zach Childs’s influence with each stroke she voiced. I included the times I jacked off the last time I was with Jim Thornton at the cabin behind Hal’s Tavern and watched him fucking Randy Hill—and of course I included my ejaculation when I fucked Randy too. She reached the end of her count before I reached the end of mine. I was hard.

I said, “About that job offer you have on the West Coast, Ann.”

“Yes, what about it?” she asked.

“I’ve thought about it. I think you should take it and we should move out there right away. They want you right away, don’t they?”

“Yes, that was the idea killer, though, wasn’t it? Going out there right away?”

“It’s a good job. You’d be head doctor of the department. I think you should take it.”

“But what about you? About your writing?”

“I can do that anywhere.”

“Well, if you think so.” She turned to me. Her robe opened to expose her right breast.

“Come to bed now,” I said, my voice thick with need. I pulled my sleeping shorts down, and she could see my need. She, I’m sure, thought the erection was for her. That’s what I wanted her to think.

Shucking her robe, she came to me. I lay on my back on the bed, as she straddled my hips and rode my cock, her head bent over me, her long, luxuriant hair brushing my chest as, hands on her still-thin waist, I slowly raised and lowered her on my hard cock—my cock not hard for her really, because my mind was thinking of me riding Jim Thornton’s cock—or, now, Randy Hill riding my cock.

Something that couldn’t continue. We inevitably would be caught and exposed.