The early September sun, late in the afternoon though it may be, was hot; so hot my short-sleeved shirt was plastered to my back by sticky, wet perspiration; my boxer shorts underwear clung to my ass cheeks from a failing attempt to wick away all of the droplets slowly oozing down my spine, trickling between those small, firm mounds of my butt, finally, reluctantly I might add, following the natural progression brought on by gravity, dribbling down until slipping out the end of my cleft to the small valley of space between my legs before contacting my gonads! Once there, each drop migrated to either the right or left ball, dangled there a moment, tickling lightly the few fine hairs decorating them which, under ordinary circumstances would or should bring me to an erected state, had no effect what-so-ever on my libido! I was that tired, until, with a soft “drip” the liquid dropped to the crotch of my shorts or rocketed down a pant leg until it contacted the top of my socks where it proceeded to join all of the other droplets moistening my socks as well!
A suitcase gripped in one hand and a gym bag dangling from the other, standing on the sidewalk I contemplated the structure in front of me; a two story brick home, white pillared front portico built almost in a southern plantation or manor style, well-kept, a porch or railed balcony above it accessed, it appeared, through a set of French doors, and situated in a nice residential neighborhood nor far from campus.
“Certainly,” I thought with considerable doubt in my mind, “this cannot be the place I’m to live?”
Setting down both suitcase and gym bag, I dug out the letter from my gym bag (if I’d left it in my shirt, it would’ve been a soggy mess, not unlike my underwear) I’d received weeks before confirming my room reservation. I checked the address on the letter’s envelope, opened it, and read for the umpteenth time the address, my acceptance as a tenant, acknowledging payment of my rent, and my assignment of a double room, for the place I was to call home for my freshman year in college.
“Yep, 218 Wilson Avenue,” I muttered to no one in particular, “it’s the right place.”
It was the rooming house Auntie Phil assured me I would, how did she put it, “thrive in, releasing my inner desires for enlightenment, and introducing me to the wonderful world of academia through campus life, while living in a diversified environment, an environment,” she concluded, “you will find happiness in life.”
You have to know my Great-Auntie Phil, Ms. Philomena Burdick to her fifth grade students back home, to understand what she was referring to! Last winter, as we planned my foray into collegiate life and debated whether I should live on campus or off, she mentioned casually, during our discussion,
“Clay, Honey, living on campus would stifle your creativity and intellect. Besides, you might get saddled with some conservative, Bible-thumper who’d do his damn best to pray your sins away, as if you had any to bother you much, and convert you to some right-wing, bull-shit philosophy!”
“No, no, we just can’t have that happen to my Clayton, can we?” She added thoughtfully, “especially after all we’ve been through together.”
Patting my hand with hers gently, as she usually does when trying to make a point without trying to offend me, “Someday,” she continued softly, “perhaps in college or when you move away, you’ll find a nice boy to live with,” and informed me she had just the ideal place for me to live; a home owned by a very old and dear friend of hers from her own college days. Auntie Phil wasn’t bothered by me being a homosexual, although she was very heterosexual herself, and even though acts of “sodomy” were illegal in most places, she still encouraged me to be myself.
“But be damned careful,” she warned one time, “there’s plenty of homophobic jerks out there who could do you harm.”
Oh, I was very careful; so careful in fact I’d never done anything overtly with another boy! I figured if Auntie Phil could keep her private life private, I could too. Growing up in the 1940’s and ‘50’s, you just didn’t speak of such things; you kept your desires hidden from others. I heard the taunts, the vicious remarks from others, accusing this boy or that boy of being, “queer,” “a fairy,” “homo,” “rump ranger,” “fudge-packer,” “butt-fucker,” or “shit sticker,” and kept my own counsel, preferring to stay low profile. It didn’t help society any when preachers stood in the pulpits lambasting “sodomites” engaging in “ungodly” or “unnatural” behavior, sentencing all who might be so “inclined” to everlasting hell. Of course, they were exempt from any wrong doing when they were fucking the altar boy, the choir girl, or the deacon’s wife. No, it was better to do as Brer’ Rabbit did, “just lie low.”
“The home was purchased by John’s father,” she went on to explain, without telling me ‘John’s’ last name, “so he and others would have a place to live in peace and away from those who might not appreciate their presence on campus or do harm to them or having them as a roommate,” she sighed, a dreamy look on her face.
“John was a handsome man,” she continued, “and we became really, really close,” paused, raised her eyebrows and with a wink toward me, added wistfully, “perhaps even intimate,” and waggled her eyebrows as emphasis!
“He was a big man,” she remarked, “a really, really BIG man,” and suddenly ended that part of our conversation!
“I’ll write to him and secure a bed for you;” she stopped, thought a moment, and said, “I don’t think you’ll have to share a bed with anyone, but if you do, just hope he’s good looking.”
That’s Auntie Phil, always looking out for my welfare!
Auntie Phil came into my life when I was eight years old in 1948. Well, that’s not exactly true since she’s really been part of my life since I was born. She’s my grandmother’s younger sister and a fifth grade teacher. My father, her nephew, was drafted in 1942 about eight months after World War II began. I really don’t remember him since he was killed on some oddly named Pacific Island in December of 1943. Six months after he died, my mother remarried a man with two sons, both older than me; one was eight and the other nine years old and they were a couple of mean sons-a-bitches! Auntie always thought my mother was sharing the blanket with her new husband shortly after my dad was drafted!
My mother seemed to think those boys, bigger, stronger, and more out-going than me, were really something special and paid little attention to me. It was as if she hadn’t wanted me in the first place and now the other boys were here, I didn’t really exist. I guess I didn’t know any better, since I was so young and just thought every household in wartime was like ours; hand-me-down clothing, frequent spankings, and few treats for the youngest child. What the hell did I know, anyway?
Once I entered school, I found out differently! My first grade teacher, as it happens, was a friend of Auntie Phil and began giving her frequent reports on my educational progress, health, and social development. Auntie Phil was not pleased with what she was hearing and began making frequent visits to our home! A friend would often drive her even though rationing was still in effect from the recent war; other times, she would take the bus.
My step-father, my mother, and the two step-brothers, who by the way delighted in tormenting me by pinching, slapping, and teasing me, generally referred to Auntie Phil as “the old Maid,” “an interfering bitch,” “The Virgin Queen,” and other derogatory and demeaning terms. I liked her; she always brought me sweet treats, new clothes (promptly sold by my step-father once she was gone since new clothing was difficult to find during and after the war), books to read, and school supplies. If I didn’t hide these items, my step-brothers would delight in destroying them and then laughed when I cried!
Small, weighing not quite forty pounds and three foot ten inches at the time, I wasn’t very big so trying to best the two of them was certainly out of the question. Auntie Phil used to say I was so skinny she could “spit on my back and my chest would get wet!” Dark haired, big dark eyes like my dad, according to Auntie Phil, and “damned smart to boot,” she thought I was the most precious and loveliest boy she’d ever seen and, as I later found out, she’d seen quite a few in her life!
When I turned seven and entered the second grade, she announced, during one of her visits, I was to spend at least one weekend, preferably two, a month with her. No one objected, except my step-father grumbled about how I was going to get to her house and who’d pay for it. According to him, it’d be difficult to buy gas and expensive and he wasn’t going to foot the bill!
“He’s to ride the bus,” she answered emphatically leaving little room for argument or objection, “and I’ll pay for it. Next weekend, after work, I’ll take the bus here and show him what he needs to know to get to my apartment.”
Auntie Phil arrived as she said she would, helped me pack some clothes, sufficient for the weekend, in a small overnight bag she brought with her, and the two of us walked to the bus stop. She explained the bus I was to board on my visits to her would arrive every two hours and was the “Downtown” bus and would either be the “11” bus or the “23” bus. When the bus arrived and we boarded, she showed me how to pay the fare using the tokens she provided me, and announced to the driver,
“Samuel, this is my nephew and he’s going to be a regular passenger! I’d be most pleased if you and the other drivers on this route would watch out for his welfare for me and see he arrives safely.”
“I most certainly will, Ms. Burdick,” Samuel responded and smiled at her.
As she bustled me off down the aisle, juggling my overnight bag into an overhead rack, and situated me in a window seat, she explained in a soft voice, “Samuel was one of my students many years ago. He was a bright boy and oh so friendly. He’ll spread the word to the other drivers to look out for you,” and patted me on the knee.
Her two bedroom apartment was a little less than an hour ride, but it seemed to go so fast! I’d never ridden a bus before and there was so much to see and absorb! Auntie Phil answered every question popping from my young mouth and never told me to shush once! It was about a two block walk from the bus stop to her apartment and again, she made certain I knew the way.
“Don’t stop and dilly-dally along the way when you come to visit; I’d worry myself into apoplexy thinking something nasty happened to you!”
I had no idea what “apoplexy” was but whatever it was, I certainly didn’t want that to happen to Auntie Phil! I knew she loved me more than my own mother and most certainly more than my step-father, so I determined never to give her the opportunity to worry about me – much!
Dinner the first evening with her was roast chicken, mashed potatoes with gravy, and fresh, steamed mixed vegetables. A full glass of milk (compared to the half I might receive at home) and a thick slice of chocolate cake rounded out the meal. I was a full as pup! Dinner finished, chattering and visiting, I helped her with the dishes. Afterwards, as I was growing tired, she said,
“Clay, a bath first and then you can pick out a story or book for me to read from the book shelves in the living room.”
I can read pretty well for a second grader, but having her read to me would be a special treat, so I made no objection when she ushered me into the bathroom and began filling the big, claw-foot bathtub with water. She tossed in some bubble bath and while the tub filled and the bubbles frothed up, tempting me, she turned to me and said,
I never hesitated and quickly unbuttoned my shirt, undoing the button and zipper on my jeans, and dropped shirt and pants to the floor.
“Shuck off the underwear and socks, Clay, honey,” Auntie Phil said, “can’t get all of you clean if you don’t!”
She was right there, so I did, leaving me bare-assed naked and not the least embarrassed! My little two inch circumcised nub, resting over two pea-sized balls nestled securely in my hairless, snugged up tight pouch, pointed straight out and up in front of me. Even as I grew older and my pecker increased in length and girth and got hard, it pointed up to my navel, not curved up or to the side, or hung down when hard or soft as I’d observed other boys’ peckers did.
“Into the tub, Clay!”
Settling into the warm, bubbly water, Auntie Phil knelt beside the tub, shampooed and rinsed my hair, and with a soft, soapy washcloth proceeded to wash my face, neck, back, and chest. When it came to my lower parts I thought I’d probably do it myself, but instead she had me stand, and did it for me. She carefully washed my legs, my feet, my stomach, and my butt, including scouring out my crack. Auntie Phil turned me toward her and meticulously washed my pecker and balls. It didn’t bother me any and she made no comments about my size, even when it boned up (adding very little to the length I might add).
A warm Turkish bath towel was used to dry me, wrapped around me, and covered me on the way to my bedroom where she assisted me in putting on my very thin, quite small pajamas. Ready for bed, she looked at me carefully, and commented we were going shopping for clothes the next day and led me to the living room. I snuggled up against her, wrapped in a light blanket, while she read to me. I never even knew when she put me to bed!
It was the beginning of a wonderful year of weekends and vacations with Auntie Phil. We went shopping, visited the courthouse, the city hall, rode the bus to another city to visit a museum, and went to parties where I met her many friends, some colleagues, and many former students. I was surprised to see how many of her friends had prominent places in business, government, or social status. I also learned she was not the prim and proper “old maid” in her private life she exhibited in her public persona. Hah; guess it sort of fouls up my step-father and mother’s opinion of her!
The summer I turned eight and before I entered the third grade, “the shit hit the fan” as Auntie Phil described it! Riding the bus from home, sitting behind Samuel the driver, I was unusually quiet and it didn’t go unnoticed by him. He asked simply,
“Clayton, is there something wrong?”
A tear slipped down my face and I nodded my head indicating there was!
“Want to tell me about it?”
I waggled my head side to side, turning aside his offer to help; I was embarrassed, hurting, and mad!
Auntie Phil was waiting for me at the bus stop, as she often did, and Samuel mentioned to her as I disembarked, “I don’t think Clayton is feeling well,” and raised an eyebrow signaling to her something was up. “Maybe you better check him out, all over!”
On the walk home to her apartment, she made no comments, but once there, standing in the living room, she inquired softly, “Did something happen to you, Clay?”
Sobbing, I nodded, and rushed into her open arms, accepting her comforting, loving, and reassuring embrace!
“Want to tell Auntie Phil or show me?”
Again, I nodded, stepped back and completely disrobed, revealing the bruises and red marks on my chest, back, and buttocks.
“Who did this to you, Honey, and why?”
“They tried to stick their wienies in my butt-hole,” I sobbed angrily, “but their wienies are so big I was afraid they’d hurt me real bad and I wouldn’t be able to poop so I fought back, but they’re bigger than me and beat me up!”
The “who” was my step-brothers; each had, what I thought was a big, fat, and hairy cock and if stuffed where they wanted to stuff them, would’ve probably ripped me apart, I thought! It didn’t take them long to beat me into submission, but before they could fuck me, they heard my mother come home and scattered. It was the only time I could remember I was happy she was around!
Auntie Phil gave me a hot bath to sooth my wounds and aching body, taking care to clean the couple of abrasions I’d received from the two bully brothers, dried me, toddled me to my bedroom to put me in my pajamas and robe, and fed me my dinner. After dinner and after a couple stories, she tucked me into bed. I was one tired and sore little boy!
The next morning, she woke me, telling me she had some things to take care of that morning and Mr. Jenkins in Apartment 4B would be here to watch over me until she returned, and out she went! I fell back asleep and thought I heard the apartment door open; it had to be Mr. Jenkins coming to check on me. I liked him and waited until I heard him sit down in one of the living room chairs then walked out into the living room, saying sleepily, “Good Morning, Mr. Jenkins,” and headed toward the chair he was sitting in.
“Good morning, yourself, young Clayton. Your Auntie Phil said you had a bit of mishap and are a little out of sorts.”
I climbed up on his lap, responding, “Yeah; would you read me a story?”
I always suspected Mr. Jensen loved having me sit on his lap for more than just to read a story.
After a couple of stories, he helped me get dressed, clucking his tongue angrily at the sight of my bruises, muttering to himself, about how “someone should be horsewhipped” for doing such a thing to my young body. He fixed me breakfast and after doing the dishes, helped me make my bed and clean up my room (it wasn’t messy since I’m a pretty neat freak), but it was something to keep me occupied. We were just having lunch when Auntie Phil returned.
Waving a piece of paper in her hands, entering the kitchen with a triumphant look on her face, she declared, “All signed and legal according to my good friend and former student Judge Harry Martinson!”
Confused by what it all meant, she proceeded to explain to me after she left in the morning, she and a former student, a county deputy sheriff, made a visit to my house, confronted my step-father, mother, and step-brothers, and threatened possible legal action if they didn’t agree to give her guardianship of me. They agreed and Judge Martinson signed the order. Nothing like having friends in high places, I thought! As of that date, we became a family!
The past ten years with Auntie Phil had been the best years ever; growing up in an intellectually stimulating, culturally developed, forgiving, and liberal household opened a whole new world for me!
Sighing, I picked up my suitcase and gym bag and walked up the sidewalk to the brick house. She hadn’t steered me wrong yet and I had no reason to believe she would now. Only problem was, I didn’t know what she was steering me into! Hell, I didn’t even know who my roommate was!
Approaching the front door, I noticed a sign on it announcing, “Welcome to The Hawk’s Nest” and rang the doorbell. I rang it a second time and the door was opened by an older African-American woman. Although this was 1958, it was a term Auntie Phil preferred us using at home since, as she pointed out from one of her many books, it was a term used since the late 1800’s although not in common use in our town at this time. She thought it was more respectful and dignified, than “Negro” or “Black” or “colored” although some of my school mates in high school didn’t mind being referred to as “black” so I used it on occasion. The ‘50’s were turbulent times when everything seemed to boil over; a time punctuated by the continuous lynching of blacks, the burning of churches, homes, and gathering places; bombings, murder of both blacks and the whites who stood with them; increased ‘Jim Crow’ legislation and enforcement, and the most despicable, hateful criminal acts one can imagine against those persons of color! The ‘colored’ waiting rooms, restrooms, lunch counters, buses, and public areas, only further debased and demeaned those it was aimed at! This wasn’t new territory, but mass media brought the whole fucking, ugly mess to the news and people began to take notice!
The Civil Rights Movement was just really getting started in some parts of our country but in our state and city there didn’t seem to be any blatant discrimination. I really wasn’t altogether convinced there wasn’t since I heard the racial epithets and slurs tossed at black classmates and others who live in our town. The terms “n-----r,” “spear chucker,” “jungle bunnies,” “jigaboo,” and “sambo” were just a few of the nasties used! There also seemed to me to be enough racial prejudice not many white boys associated with black boys and certainly no white boys dated black girls. Frankly, I couldn’t see any harm in it but some states had laws that made marriage between races (miscegenation) illegal. If a black boy so much as looked at a white girl or touched her, he could be beaten or even killed. It made about as much sense to me as prohibiting homosexuals to marry or date or have sex. Good Lord! If Auntie Phil saw prejudice, she spoke out against it and encouraged me to do the same!
“If we don’t speak up for those who can’t, Clay, then who will?
I smiled, greeting the lady who answered the door, identifying myself; “I’m Clayton Anderson and I believe I have a room reserved here for the school year.”
She smile broadly in return, answering, “Welcome to The Hawk’s Nest, Clayton. You’re Ms. Burdick’s nephew, right?”
I nodded, indicating she was correct.
“We’ve been anxiously awaiting your arrival,” she continued. “I’m Mrs. Heppner, Anna to the boys; I live in the apartment in the Carriage House. Marcus is in the study room. I’ll take you to him, but first leave your bags here in the hall.”
I did as she instructed, but took the opportunity to look around. Directly in front of me was a wide staircase leading to the upstairs; beside it was a hall leading back to what appeared to be the kitchen; to my right was a dining room and to my left, where she directed me to follow her, was a nicely appointed living room with a couple of couches, several easy chairs, end tables, lamps, and a brick fireplace.
Walking through the living room we stepped through a set of double doors into what I first thought was the library given the number of books resting in bookcases attached to walls. There were reference books, manuscripts, text books, and assorted books for reading, as well as a couple of newspapers and a magazine rack full of current and varied magazines. A couple of library tables with chairs, three study carrels snugged up against one wall, four or five easy chairs, and in one corner, a desk, behind which sat a very handsome, light brown man perhaps three or four years my senior. When he stood to greet me, I also noticed he was taller than me. Duh, almost everyone it seems is taller than me!
Stepping around the desk and meeting me, he extended his hand, flashed a killer smile, and said, “Welcome, I’m Marcus Deloe; House Master, Senior Resident, or the Head Man, whatever you wish to call me. The other residents just call me ‘Marcus.’ At any rate, I’m the guy in charge of this house and collection of rascals. The Hawkins Family owns this house, and I’m the son of one of the owners and nephew to the rest!”
Bingo; it hit me! “The Hawk’s Nest,” right?” I grinned.
“I figured you were sharp if you’re related to Ms. Burdick, but I didn’t realize you’d be so good looking,” Marcus said with his eyes twinkling and checking me out from one end to the other!
I swallowed hard, willing my pecker not to stiffen up on me; not at this time! He wasn’t so bad looking himself. I wondered, really hoped, he might be my roommate, but I was willing to bet he wouldn’t be!
“Please sit down,” he said, taking my arm gently and leadin me to an easy chair. He sat in one near me, “so I can go over the house rules with you before I show you to your room. Your roommate isn’t here right now so you’ll have a chance to get settled before he shows up.”
Marcus took his time explaining what is expected of residents and how we should behave. The rules were really not much different than those at home; respect yourself and others along with their property; keep your room clean, keep your grades up, do your own laundry, no booze or dope in your room, and no wild parties in the house. If you make a mess, clean it up, and we all pitch in to do the cooking. The twenty dollars a month, one hundred and ninety dollars total for all nine residents, I pay for board is pooled and whoever is in charge of cooking for a particular week prepares the menu and does the shopping. Marcus budgets the funds on a weekly basis and with forty-five dollars a week allotted for meals, it means some pretty careful shopping.
“Do you cook?” he asked casually.
“Yes, I do,” I answered truthfully. Auntie Phil made certain I was very handy in the kitchen. “You never know if you might end up with some guy who can’t cook.”
“Breakfasts are at seven,” he advised, “so those with an early class can eat before classes; lunch from eleven to one and is generally something you can serve yourself, and dinner at six each evening. We really encourage everyone to be here for dinner, since it’s a time for us to end the day together and enjoy each other’s company.”
He stood, indicating he’d covered everything, but quickly added, “I almost forgot; Mrs. Heppner is our housekeeper and does the general cleaning, but we like to lessen her load by doing our share and helping her out, okay?”
I smiled and nodded my understanding; Anna may be our housekeeper but she was also our house mother and deserved our respect and protection, as well as keeping her workload as light as we could. Having nine college boys in the same house could present a problem and overwhelm her with work if we all didn’t pitch in.
Marcus led me through the large kitchen, pointing out the commercial range and oven, the commercial dishwasher, large sinks, two refrigerators, one large and one small; preparation table, and large pantry which held not only a chest-type freezer but shelves of canned and dried foods and condiments, and shelves and drawers where dining ware, flatware, and cooking utensils were stored.
He pointed out a restroom down the hall convenient to kitchen, living room, and dining room, and led me down some stairs to the basement to a recreation room with pool table, a couple of pinball machines, several card tables, a bar with a glass front cooler (well stocked), and a television.
“I mentioned no booze in your room; the exception is, any drinking is done down here and its pay as you go!” he announced. “We cut you off after three!” End of statement!
“In here,” he continued opening another door, “is the laundry room. Use of it comes with your room rent.”
There were two automatic washers, two automatic dryers, a couple of sorting tables, shelves with detergent store on them, two ironing boards, and irons. Sufficient for our use, considering the number of boys in residence, I thought. I was willing to bet, however, we had to work out some sort of arrangement concerning who used what and when.
Walking back upstairs, Marcus said, “You’ve already seen the living room and dining room so why don’t I show you your room upstairs.”
I picked up my luggage and followed him.
“Your room is #4;” he announced, “mine is #1 at the end of the hall. You’ll notice the bathroom and showers are just across the hall,” and opened the door to my room.
There were locks on the door but no key provided. Marcus evidently anticipated my unasked question, said, “We don’t lock our room doors. We really have to trust each other. You’ll find a front door key on your desk. That door we do lock – just to keep unwanted people out!”
I walked into my room and was immediately taken by the hominess of it and how welcoming it seemed. Adding to my delight, I noticed it was the room with the French doors and balcony above the front porch. It was a relatively large room equipped with two single beds, two dressers, two desks with chairs and lamps, two wardrobes, two easy chairs, hardwood floors, and a couple of throw rugs. The two boxes of bedding and other items I’d shipped were resting on my bed.
“Why don’t you get unpacked,” Marcus said to me, putting a hand on my shoulder, “dinner will be at six and you’ll meet the rest of the crew then,” and giving my shoulder an affectionate or perhaps brotherly squeeze, letting the hand linger on my shoulder, continued in a cautionary but friendly tone, “what we do in our house is nobody else’s business and we like to keep it that way, okay?”
I sorted out my linen from the boxes, made my bed, put the extra blankets, sheets, and put pillow cases (Auntie Phil insisted I have spares, just in case- in case of what I wasn’t certain, but I didn’t complain), along with bath towels and wash cloths in dresser drawers. As I worked I thought long and hard about what Marcus’s departing remarks. Did he mean we shouldn’t speak of the alcohol since some of us were under age or did he mean we weren’t to gossip about our house mates to others? Blacks and whites living in the same house didn’t seem unusual to me, but considering who raised me why should it? The living arrangements might seem offensive to others, but for god’s sake, this was a university town!
I put underwear, jeans and dress slacks, tee-shirts, socks, and handkerchiefs in the dresser and was going to hang up my shirts and jacket when I realized I’d forgotten clothes hangers! I checked the wardrobe, just in case, and breathed a sigh of relief! One of the previous occupants of the room left sufficient hangers for my needs.
Checking my watch, I noticed I still had about an hour and a half to dinner and I really needed a shower- I stunk! Scoping out the bathroom across the hall, I saw two urinals (no privacy panels), a long vanity shelf with three sinks, mirrors, and electric plugs, two toilet stalls (privacy panels), and a large shower room with three shower heads. Outside the shower room were a series of small shelves with a couple of clothes hooks under each. Evidently, I thought, this was a communal shower similar to those we had in high school. I’d have to be very careful if someone else came in while I showered. I’d hate think what might happen if I boned up; I didn’t want to have my ass tossed out in the street or someone beat the shit out of me!
Confident I’d be the only person to avail myself of the comforts and cleanliness of a hot shower this time of day, since I’d observed no one else on the premises except Marcus and Mrs. Heppner, I stripped, tossed my dirty clothes into a laundry bag, retrieve a bath towel and washcloth from my dresser, wrapped the big towel around my waist, gathered up my soap, shampoo, and washcloth and strode across the hall to the bathroom.
Hanging my towel on one of the hooks beneath one of the small shelves, washcloth, soap, and shampoo in hand, I stepped in, chose the center shower head, turned it on, and adjusted the temperature. I did have to reach up and turn the shower head down so the water would hit me instead of shooting over my head. Apparently, someone taller than my five foot eight inch height used it last.
God, it felt so good! Hair shampooed and rinsed, I concentrated on cleansing the rest of me. So immersed was I in my diligence, I failed to hear anyone enter the shower room until a hand touched my lower bare back, and a male voice said,
“You must be Clayton Anderson!”
Startled, I stepped back hastily and felt something long, limp, and warm brush by ass cheeks. It wasn’t a hand, of that I was certain!
I turned slowly around and came face to neck with a warm brown complexioned, smooth-skinned male probably six inches taller than me which might help explain the tilt to the shower head. He was slightly darker than Marcus but not much. Casting my eyes downward, conscious he still had his hand on my body, now moving from my shoulder to my ass cheek, to see if I could at least see what I suspected it was that initially brushed my ass cheek, now vacated by the hand as it migrated toward the valley between my two mounds. I discovered not only was my current companion six inches taller than me in height but, if my powers of “guesstimation” was correct, hanging from a small bush of tightly curled black pubic hairs was a flaccid, uncut, brown human bratwurst, wrinkled foreskin puckered around the head, of approximately six inches as well, nestled over two large low-hanging smooth balls!
I swallowed hard and quickly looked up fearful of what he might say or do! I found him looking over my smaller, cut male organ and expected him to be amused, but instead he licked his lips!
“I’m Jerry Holbrook,” he announced with a smile, slipping a finger ever closer to the rear entrance to my body, “I’m in room two.”
I started to stammer something stupid to keep from boning up when another voice interrupted,
“Did you start without me?”
I swiveled my head to the side and saw a white guy walking into the shower room, his circumcised cock pointing up at an angle, clearing the air at about six inches or so.
“Hi,” he said giving his cock a stroke, “I’m Howie Clark, Room five – bet you’re Clay Anderson, and without any hesitation, reached between Jerry and me and gave Jerry’s stiffening honker a quick little squeeze!
I nodded, beginning to sweat just a little, and said nervously, “I better get dressed, don’t want to miss dinner.”
“You don’t have to hurry on our part,” Jerry said as I saw his cock twitch.
Maybe I didn’t need to hurry away on their part, but I sure did on mine! I was as stiff as an iron poker, albeit a short iron poker, but still a poker, and my towel wouldn’t do a good job of hiding it I figured! I suppose if I were braver or not quite as shy I might have lingered and engaged myself, enjoying a bit of a taste of their frolicking, but shit man, I just wasn’t certain what the rules were or who the referee was!
I scurried across the hall to my room as fast as my skinny legs would propel me. Still wet, I slipped into my room, pulled my towel off and was going to relieve my heightened libido by hand when I heard my door open! Like the complete naïve idiot that I am, I quickly swiveled around to see who it was, forgetting I was naked and very erect, my hard cock pointing straight up out in front of me like a short dagger, almost challenging my guest!
Standing in the doorway was the most beautiful light-brown, almost cream-colored coffee complexioned, boy with dark short hair, dark eyes that sparkled like obsidian in a bright sun, three or four inches taller than me, slim with a runner’s physique (Auntie Phil would have said he was “svelte” or “lithe”), and a smile plastered across his face which lit up the room like a morning sunshine, not to mention it reawakened my cock which had momentarily started to wilt like a un-watered flower!
His eyes, sparkled with delight, scanned my nakedness from my wet head, lingered on my crotch where I felt one drop of water drop from my left testicle to the floor, to my toes, and up again before lingering again on my crotch a little longer this time (I suppose to see if another drop of water would cascade to the floor), before settling into an eye to eye contact with me. He stepped in, closed the door, and introduced himself;
“Hi, I’m Jared Hawkins, your roommate, and you must be Clay Anderson. I see you’ve already been introduced to Jerry and Howie in the shower.”
“Yeah,” I stammered, “How……”
Before I could finish, he laughed, walked over to his bed (again, I turned to face him, like the complete dolt I am or at the very least a confirmed exhibitionist), and sat down.
“One, you’re still dripping water; two, your cock is as hard as a railroad spike, and three, I just came from there and left after taking a leak. They were still coupled, moaning like they’d not seen each all summer, which by the way is true, when I walked out the door. I think they’re two of the horniest guys I’ve ever met!” and laughed, really laughed! His laugh is one of those joyous laughs, enveloping you, tickling your funny bone to the point you just naturally have to join in- so I did!
“Go ahead and get dressed or finish whatever you intended to do when I walked in; oh, by the way, welcome to Hawk’s Nest.”
I chose to dress, not really knowing him well enough to pull my pud in front of him! As casual as he was concerning the activities of the copulating couple across the hall, I was beginning to believe it might just be a regular occurrence in my new home. God, how could I have been so lucky!
Pointing his thumb in the general direction of the bathroom as I slipped into my boxers, noticing his eyes never wavered from my crotch, he said, “I’m certain Marcus told you those of us who live here keep really, really quiet about what happens here.”
“We really don’t need to advertise,” he said firmly, “there’s a bunch of black, Hispanic, and white queers all living together here at Hawk’s Nest! Marcus says there’s a new word going around that describes us – ‘gay’. I suppose its better sounding.”
Aha- the lights came on in my brain! I was living in a house full of like-minded people and I was as happy as a pig in shit! It made sense to me, a place of refuge, a place to escape and feel safe, and a place to be with those who shared the same feelings and values. Personally, I didn’t give a good rat’s ass what term was used; Auntie Phil didn’t steer me wrong, she knew exactly what she was doing!
It didn’t take us long to get comfortable! Jared patted his bed, inviting me to sit next to him so we could visit. At least that’s what I thought he meant and I was right, thank god! I couldn’t see us locking lips or other delicate parts of our body this soon after the initial introduction!
It didn’t take me long to relay my story; how I came to live with Auntie Phil, her insistence I go to college, and live here. “Yes,” I said looking him in the eye in order to judge any reaction, “I was, as Marcus would put it, ‘gay’ and had no experience with anyone or anything other than my right hand; sometimes my left for a little variety.”
Jared laughed; “Me too, I guess I’ve not found the right person yet!”
“I’ve been coming up here,” he continued, taking the opportunity to relate to me his story, “for years when visiting with my Dad when my older brother lived here.”
Jared was really, really the youngest of the five boys his parents had. He came along late in life; his father was forty-five when Jared was born and there was twelve years between him and his next oldest brother. His grandfather purchased the property originally as a place for his own sons and two daughters to live when they attended college. Granted, there were Negro Universities, but this one, in a fairly liberal state (his home state), was more appealing. None-the-less, racial prejudice was alive and well, and he took no chances! The carriage house was remodeled into a one bedroom apartment so the girls would have a place to live, separate from the men.
“So, your Dad lived here?”
“Yeah,” nodded Jared, “as did his brothers and one of his sisters. His youngest sister, my aunt, got pregnant right out of high school, popped out babies like a bunny, and hence, Marcus, my cousin, lives here.”
He paused, “Did you know your Auntie Phil lived here too?”
“No, I didn’t,” I responded with surprise, but I do now!
“She lived in the carriage house apartment and was the housekeeper for the boys. Dad said she took real good care of them.”
“I’d bet my left gonad on that!” I thought to myself. But, I reconsidered right away, thinking maybe a five dollar bill would be sacrifice enough, not really willing to sing soprano in a boys’ choir.
“Is your dad really tall? I asked, trying to make it just an innocent inquiry.
Well, part of another question answered in my mind; causing me to speculate what Auntie Phil meant when she said “he was a really, really, BIG man!”
“When did the family begin renting to only ‘gay’ or homosexuals?” I inquired, figuring he’d have a ready answer.
Jared thought a moment, answering, “When one of my cousins got the shit beat out him at another college! My Dad, uncles, and aunts, who own this house and another one in town, decided this house would be a safe place for guys like us. The other house is for guys who like girls.”
Our conversation came to a halt when there was a light rap on our room door and a voice announced, “Dinner’s about ready; time to help set the table!”
I didn’t recognize the voice, but Jared answered, “On our way, Denny!”
Standing, Jared hooked his arm around me as it were the natural and proper thing to do! Heaven help me, it felt so good, I just leaned into it, accepting his warmth, comfort, and friendship. There may have been nothing sexual on his part when he did so, but it certainly was stimulating on a certain part of my anatomy!
“Let’s meet the rest of our house-mates,” he said, by way of invitation, as we left our room and walked downstairs to the dining room.
The gathering at the table was racially mixed; Marcus, black and a senior; Jerry Holbrook, black, a senior, and in room two; Dennis Olson, white, a junior, and in room three; Calvin Noecker, black, a sophomore and Howie Clark, white, a junior, and both in room five (I hoped Calvin had a lot of stamina after I’d witnessed Howie’s approach to me and Marcus); and Bruce Haskins, white, a sophomore and Carlos Segura, Hispanic, a junior, and both in room six. Mrs. Heppner, standing at one end of the table, just smiled at us when she was re-introduced.
They were all more than welcoming to Jared and me, although all met him previously, wishing us a good school year, and hoping our stay at “Hawk’s Nest” was a pleasant one. Howie waggled his eyebrows at me suggestively! Carlos was standing next to Howie, stepped closer, and Howie’s grin was immediately replaced by a wide-eyed surprised look, followed by even a wider grin! I looked to see where Carlos’s hand was and noticed it was below the table top and from the angle was pretty certain it was presently handling Howie’s cock through his pants.
I looked them over carefully, after hearing Howie sigh, and saw young men very comfortable with themselves and with each other, unabashed concerning their sexual preferences, and the obvious freedom in this house to express or act on those preferences, gave me every indication it would be a great school year for my first year of college!
Introductions complete, Marcus announced this’d be the only week he’d be cooking, giving the rest of us time to sort out the kitchen duties, which would be decided right after dinner through a drawing, and “this is probably the only time you’ll have steak all year, but it’s a traditional first meal we have as a house and to kick off the academic year,” and waved his hand toward the buffet table set with our dinner ware and platters of steak, vegetables, baked potatoes, salad, and a bakery cake for dessert.
“Please follow Anna through the line,” he invited, setting a tone of respect and courtesy for her, as it should be.
It was a delicious meal! Before clearing the table, Marcus dropped four numbers into a bowl. He explained kitchen duty would be by room number, with the roommates sharing the duty. Since Jerry Holbrook and Dennis Olson had single rooms, they would share duties.
“If you need help with the preparation of a meal, don’t hesitate to ask,” he explained. “All of us help in the clean-up, including loading the dishwasher, pots and pans, and clearing the table.”
Jared and I drew week four in the rotation. I was thankful for that; it gave me a chance to see how it worked and think of some menus the others might enjoy. Jared was more than thankful, since he confessed to me softly he didn’t know squat about cooking. With all nine of us helping, it didn’t take long to clear the table, put left-overs away, load and start the dishwasher, and clean up the cooking utensils. While we worked, Marcus explained to Jared and me he helps with the menus (thank heavens for that) each week and once they’re determined, posts copies on the two bulletin boards in the house; one located on the second floor just outside our room and the second outside the dining room.
Classes started on Monday and the first semester began! Strange as it may seem, I had no opportunity to see Jared’s naked form over the weekend. My curiosity was almost overwhelming, trying to imagine what he looked like. Oh, I’d seen him with his shirt off, loving the soft brown, warm, hairless skin exposed and I’d seen him in his boxer shorts, his beautiful long, slim brown legs extending from the leg holes down to his feet causing me to almost salivate wondering what if in his crotch, where such wondrous legs began, was just as wondrous for the eye to behold and the cock to swell! I really pondered if he’d inherited some of his father’s genes in the penis department and was “really, really BIG” as Auntie Phil described his father!
Setting my curiosity aside, as the weeks went on, I found him really, really fun! He was quick of wit, slow to anger, patient as Job, and gentle in his actions and treatment toward me. I felt not the slightest inhibition or hesitation when he put his arm around me or when reading a particular assignment, clambered over to my bed to lean up against me as he sought some explanation or my interpretation of what he was reading; the reverse was true. I often found myself on his bed asking and doing the same.
By the end of our third week, we were most comfortable around each other. Often when our class work was done, we’d head downstairs to the recreation room for a soda or to watch some television. If someone else was watching something or we just wanted some quiet time to read, we would stretch out together on a couch in the living room where we could either watch television there or listen to the radio. Sitting or sprawled out, it seemed natural for me to join him, pressing my body into his accepting arms, my head on his chest, or resting on his lap.
I think both of us desired to be more intimate, even in our room, but I also think our shyness kept us from doing so. I realized, one morning when I woke before he did and I looked over at him as I left to go to the bathroom, seeing him sleeping, a peaceful look on his face, I didn’t need to see him naked; I didn’t need to see his cock and marvel at it; what I needed was to be near him, touch him, feel his presence and reassurance! I knew at that moment, I was falling in love with Jared Hawkins! How do you tell someone, after knowing them less than a month and a half, you love them when you haven’t kissed or shared those intimacies lovers share? How does a white boy tell a black boy he’s the most important part of his life and you never want to be separated from him, no matter what society and the bigots say? How do the two of you live and love in a society that reviles you, threatens you, imprisons you, and otherwise finds you a “sinner” just because one boy loves another? How do keep your love for each other hidden so no one suspects? How do I know how to show him how much I love him? What happens if he doesn’t love me? There seemed to be so many obstacles to a relationship we might have. If we truly loved each other, would we be strong enough to overcome them or at least standup against them and live our lives? It was so fucking confusing and frightening!
Closing the door, I continued across the hall, and standing at the urinal (a hell of place to make decisions concerning love and life I must admit), I remembered one time asking Auntie Phil how I’d know when I found the “right” guy. She looked at me, smiled and said, “Be patient, Clay, and follow your heart.”
The first full week of October was Homecoming Week, with festivities all throughout the week, culminating with the Saturday afternoon football game and the homecoming dance. Jared and I were both excited about it since this was our first and wanted to participate in as many activities as we could, but decided, with classes and all, we’d restrict our activities to watching the parade, going to the bonfire and pep rally on Friday night, and the game on Saturday.
Marcus cautioned us to be careful and on our guard however. “Remember, with the mass of folks in town for homecoming, there are those who think whites and colored shouldn’t associate with each other.”
We nodded our understanding, but he continued, “Before you get too many plans in your head, keep Saturday morning and after the game free.”
There’d be a pre-game party at the house for alums and their partners and after the game, before the dance, a reception so the landlords could meet and greet the residents of both houses. This year, it was “Hawk’s Nest” turn to host the reception. John Hawkins and his brothers and sisters provided the food and drinks for both events, as well as for the pre-game party at the other house, “Heritage Hall.”
The reception would include the Hawkins Family and might include “special guests” or other relatives they brought along, our house and any parents who could come, and Heritage House residents and their parents. Heritage House was larger than ours with ten rooms and nineteen male roomers; nine doubles and one single for the senior resident. It also had a housekeeper who lived in a small apartment in the house. The students there were all African-American.
Homecoming week was a busy one for all of us, attending class, getting everything ready for the weekend. Jared and I watched the parade, attended the Pep Rally and bonfire Friday night, and worked our asses off on Saturday morning! We weren’t the only ones, everyone in the house hustled as Anna sent us scurrying here and there, preparing this or that, and lifting and hauling.
“We’re going to prepare for about fifty people more or less,” she announced after breakfast. “That’s about how many usually show up, but, you two,” pointing at Jared and me, “better fix a few extra burgers just in case. You’ll find the hamburger, bratwursts, and hot dogs in the big refrigerator,” paused, and added, “You’re also in charge of the gas grill.”
The others were assigned various jobs such as preparing potato salad, pasta salads, baked beans, fruit salads, condiment trays, and desserts, all under her direction and using her recipes. Anna was a hard task master and wanted everything to be just right. I could understand why, she was proud of “her boys” and their house and wanted to show us off!
Jared and I made hamburger patties and put them back in the cooler, filled several ice chests with beer and soda, and hauled folding tables and chairs from the garage and set them up in the back yard. Having our party back there would draw less attention, according to Marcus and Anna. The pre-game party was to start at noon, two hours before the game, and we were ready!
Taking a breather, waiting for our first guests to arrive, drinking sodas and beer, I commented I hoped we won the game.
“Yeah,” chimed in Jared, “in high school we always kidded, the losers went home and the winners fucked the homecoming queen!”
It brought a laugh from the rest but we really howled when Marcus said nonchalantly, “In our case, we’d fuck the drum major first and several drummers after him just for the hell of it.”
“Yeah, but would you wait until they were off the field?” Carlos giggled.
Marcus pondered the question for a moment, before answering, “Probably!”
“Not me,” piped up Cal, adjusting the increasing mound protruding from his jeans, “I’d show him how I’d punt it between the goal posts of his ass or march his tight-end to a victorious climax!”
“Hah!” exclaimed Howie, “I’d just drop my drawers, bare my ass, and invite all of them to fuck me!”
Before we could add any more to the ridiculousness, but arousing, Anna interrupted, “Better get ready for company; the party’s supposed to start in a half hour,” wrinkling her nose and raising her eyebrows, “and it wouldn’t hurt if you boys washed up and put some clean clothes on!”
“Time enough for a quick shower?” Bruce fired over his head as we pounded up the stairs to our rooms.
“Not really,” Anna exclaimed loudly, “there’s a car full pulling up front now.”
Man, did we ever scurry!
Jared and I did a quick wash of hands and face, put on clean jeans and tee-shirts, and raced back down stairs to fire up the gas grill. We could hear the others scrambling around, coming down the stairs behind us! As we passed through the hall and through the kitchen to the back yard, I could hear Anna cheerfully greeting our guests.
We were really busy; Hawk’s Nest entertained sixty-five alumni and their friends for our pre-game party. Although our guests were predominately African-American, there were still a number of whites as well. Most of the white alums were former residents. I was surprised to see a couple of white men there with their black partners. I was dying to ask how they managed in the outside world, but I didn’t have an opportunity. Everyone seemed to have a great time! The crowd thinned as game time approached and it gave us a chance to begin clean up.
Leftovers were put in containers and refrigerated, garbage gathered up and put in the large dumpster in the alley, dishwasher loaded and started, and the few cooking pots and pans we used were washed by hand. We left the tables and chairs in the backyard, figuring we’d use them for the after-game reception. They got a good scrubbing just in case.
Jared and I sat in the student section and no one seemed to take too much notice of a white boy and a black boy sitting together. We acted as if we were just two college students who knew each other, had a class together, and just happened to find ourselves seated next to each other. Damn, it was hard (that was too), but we were trying to heed Marcus’ advice and keep a low profile! I shudder to think what it’d be like if we lived down south where the racial divide was so wide and public! I don’t know how black people survived the humiliation! Unfortunately, some did not!
We lost the game so we didn’t get to fuck the Drum Major or any of the drummers!
By the time we walked back home, the caterers were busy setting up the buffet tables, the portable bar with both wine and soda, and bringing in the “finger foods” and other comestibles to be placed on the tables for the reception guests to enjoy.
Again, we changed clothes, putting on dress slacks and dressier shirts. Back down the stairs to, as Jared put it so succinctly, “Meet and greet!” Jared was anxious for me to meet his parents and the rest of the Hawkins Family. He insisted his parents would be arrive early! He was right!
His parents were nice- exceedingly so! Jared introduced me as his “roommate” and “best friend;” his mother and father each gave me a big hug! His mother was an extremely attractive woman and his father was very handsome. I could easily understand where Jared got his good looks. I also noticed his father really wasn’t all that tall, perhaps only an inch taller than Jared.
When asked where Auntie Phil was, I explained, according to her letter, she was committed to an event in our town raising money for some sort of homeless shelter or free meals program, however, she informed the organizers she wouldn’t lend her support and endorsement unless they’d promise part of the proceeds would go toward providing school supplies for the many needy children in our school district. The sponsors agreed and she jumped right in and worked hard for the event! I felt it was more important than college homecoming. Besides, I’d see her at Thanksgiving! Jared’s parents commented they understood but had been looking forward to seeing her again.
The caterer’s handled all of the refreshments so all we had to do was keep things picked up (and empty the garbage), visit, and answer the occasional question. It really wasn’t all that too demanding. Jared informed me his parents wanted to stay a little while afterwards to visit with me before joining their brothers and sisters back at the motel for a “nightcap” and chance to really visit with each other.
After the reception ended, most of the guys in our house wanted to go downtown for pizza so Jared and I volunteered to clean up after his folks left. The visit with his folks was great! They made me feel welcome and someone they truly felt pleased with me being Jared’s “special” friend, as his mother put it. I couldn’t have been happier!
When they left, it didn’t take Jared and me long to tidy the house up, including putting away the tables and chairs in the backyard, although the exercise did leave us sweaty and somewhat dirty. Finished, he suggested we shower and clean the grit, grime, and sweat off. In our room, I quickly stripped, grabbed a towel and wash cloth, along with shampoo and soap, and headed toward the shower.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” Jared promised, still in his boxer shorts.
I was adjusting my shower head when he came in. He stepped under it with me, allowing the water to cascade over both of our nakedness. Somewhat surprised, but not really since I was hoping something like this might happen, I stepped closer to him and felt his semi-stiff penis brush my thigh in the process. I looked down, swallowed hard when I saw his maleness slowly growing in proportions, and gulped,
“Not as big as Marcus,” he responded softly, erotically, as he began nibbling on my ear.
“I know!” I squeaked as his moist tongue whipped in and out of my ear.
Jared stepped back and I swear a dark look came across his face; a look I interpreted as jealousy, wondering just exactly how I knew!
Quickly, I explained, “One afternoon I went to Marcus’ room to ask him a question and he and Carlos were stark naked and on his bed. Carlos was on his back, his legs wrapped around Marcus’ hips, with that telephone pole Marcus calls a cock, buried and pumping in and out like a drive shaft on a steam engine fly-wheel!
“What did Marcus say?”
“I’ll-------be-------with------you-----in-----a------M I N U T E!!!”
Jared laughed and pulled me tight up against him, our bare bodies contacting, sending shivers up and down my spine, and a shot of hardness to my smaller cock resting up against his much larger, twitching one reaching now, fully erect, up past my navel.
He cupped my head gently in his hands and brought his lips to mine; so soft, so warm, so moist, and so engaging! Jared was one hell of a kisser and I could’ve stood there under the running water for hours letting him kiss me again and again, but I knew there just had to be more ahead for both of us. Releasing my head, disengaging from my lips, he reached down with one hand and held my erection, softly giving it a couple of strokes.
“You’re hard for me!” he whispered in my ear.
I certainly couldn’t disagree, but I could check out the stiffness and girth of his hard cock rather than just feel its length slide up and down on my stomach. I slowly slipped one hand down between us and encircled his large, hot, soft but decidedly hard organ with its velvety smooth head, exposed with the foreskin pulled clear back on to the shaft of this delightful pleasure pole. I damn near shot my load right then and there!
Jared, saying nothing other than “later,” slowly turned me so my back rested against his front, his ball sack resting about half-way down my butt cheeks and his rampant stiffness partially nestled in between with the rest poking up to the small of my back, and with a dollop of shampoo, began shampooing my hair. I sighed, leaned back, and allowed him to pleasure me with his hands massaging, cleaning, my hair in the most sensuously, erotic shampoo I’d ever had! Finished and rinsed, he soaped up a washcloth and began carefully, delicately soaping and cleaning every part of my body. His hands and the cloth, moved over my sensitive cock and balls, between my quivering ass cheeks, tweaked and soaped my anal ring paying special attention to those boy parts he savored and I wished for him to enjoy!
Turning me so I might rinse the soap from my body, he handed me the cloth in a silent invitation to return the gesture, and I did, with just as much care and loving attention as he showed me. We were showing and sharing our love for each other through a simple act of cleansing, preparing our bodies to receive each other. I bent over to do his legs and in doing so, my face came in contact with the head of his erection. I quickly gave it a swipe of my tongue, felt him shiver, and groan “later.”
Our oblations complete, we carefully dried each other and walked hand in hand across the hall to our room. Jared shut the door and led me to his bed! Gently urging me with his hands, had me on my back with him between my uplifted legs and his hands drawing loving, light patterns on the front of me, up to my lips and down around my cock and balls and up to my lips again. Pausing, he secured a tube of lube from his headboard shelve, applied a liberal amount of the slippery stuff to my small, puckered rear entrance and worked more inside with first one, then two, and finally three fingers, coating my bowel well, preparing me for him, before slicking up his own stiffness!
“I don’t know if it will fit,” I said shakily, “but I really want it to!”
“It might hurt at first, my love,” he murmured in reply, “according to Marcus, but if we take our time, it should find a home!”
I spread my legs even more, he positioned his cock at my entrance, and after some effort, the thick flared head popped through my anal ring! My soft cry of pain was muffled and ameliorated by his soft lips securing mine! Slowly, he stretched me, wiggled, pushed, and pulled ever so slightly until I could feel him deep inside me, his ball sack resting on mine. God, I was so full of him and so happy!
Jared began a measured, slow cadence of pumping forward and back, my legs wrapped tightly around his hips as I began meeting each of his thrusts with a clamping of my anal ring and a push back, trying to not only secure him to me, but to force him deeper. Soon he was pumping faster, striking a part of me I didn’t really know could be so stimulating, and I was responding! When I moaned my release, white, sticky goo splurging across my stomach, he pushed deep, really deep, and shuddered his own rapture, spewing the contents of his sex into my warm tight tunnel, linking us together forever!
Both of expended but not fully satiated, he rested on me, my arms around him, both of us breathing heavily from our orgasms, but smiling at each other as only lovers can. He didn’t soften or withdraw, but stayed securely anchored inside!
Raising himself slightly, he asked, “I could go again; how about you?”
Smiling, I twitched my ass a bit around his cock in response and agreement, and chuckled to myself; Auntie Phil certainly didn’t steer me wrong this time either!
Thank you for reading Hawk’s Nest.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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