Incident at Zhenbao

By Emory Black

Tom Hamilton, kicked out of the familys Arizona ranch by his Marine step-dad, instantly falls in lust for Mike Kelly when he arrives at prestigious ivy-covered all-male Ridgeston College.

But Toms not queer and neither is Mike, his twenty-eight-year-old Dormitory Master and one tough Marine. One misstep at Ridgeston and Tom will find himself drafted into the Vietnam War.

A stunningly handsome swimmer, Tom is hardly cut out for the fast-paced sophisticated life and his fragile innocence is prey for women, his fellow swim teammates, and Jim Bradley who owns him with booze and taunting secret sexcapades, all things he fights to shun.

Tom, confused and plagued by inner demons, is driven to the brink before he bares his soul to Mike. Both men are brought to their knees and Tom discovers who Mike truly isa warrior to his very corein the incident at Zhenbao. Tom grasps perfection for a moment. But a moment cut short by Fate.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 6, 2011
• ISBN: 9781463444204

Emory Black

Emory Black, a graduate of a private liberal arts college, has worked and written his way across four continents in various business and government operations. A teller of stories and a mentor to many, Emory now lives in the desert Southwest of the USA with his faithful jack rabbit chasing dog, Pugsi, and surrounded by loving friends.

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© 2011 Emory Black. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 10/2/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4634-4420-4 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4634-4421-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4634-4422-8 (sc)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011914158

Printed in the United States of America

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock, Shutterstock and Queerstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Cover by Canz

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

About the Author

Chapter 1

Arrival

My family. They eventually got to know me. Know me better than I did. I didn’t know who I was. I’m sure of it now. Back then, I didn’t want to know—you know, the stuff that’s stuffed in your heart and head that drives you nuts sometimes. Three things. That’s all I knew: the old man wasn’t my father, the bastard kicked me out of the house, and I’m no queer… sure as hell hope not.

So I stole his beat-up USMC sea-bag. Big deal. Mom didn’t give a hoot of that, or much of anything but horses. I didn’t hate the ranch. Just Arizona and my so-called friends. The ones who got me into this mess. But cool ones too, like Bruce and Jack. But mostly yahoos and country music freaks with fake Gunsmoke’s Chester twangs, thick as bricks baked in the desert sun. I dreamed of so much better. The old man hated me for it. No balls. Me or him.

I went down to the wash where I burned the wrestling magazines. They came from The Devil himself, like me, like so I was told, like about what I’d do to myself out behind the horse barn where I stored ‘em. I kicked the soggy ashes into the monsoon runoff, then killed off the booze, and pitched the empty bottle half way to Mars. Glass shattered bell-like against the rocks. I was finally ready to kiss the desert’s ass farewell.

That was yesterday. Literally. Now my trunk, his sea-bag, a two-suiter and a backpack were on the curb. My worldly possessions in a place as different and far away as I could get.

I slammed the door and the taxi took off like a scared rabbit across the empty parking lot and down the narrow forest road toward the distant village. Alone on the macadam in the warm humid August morning, the intimidating English Collegiate Gothic dormitory, old Taylor Hall itself, glared down at me in bright sunlight, its dull gray surface camouflaged by gobs of ivy clinging to the venerable weather-worn stone, ready and waiting for another class of fresh males who’d lay siege next week to their new home.

The driver bled me of $22.75. Only $177.38 left. Mostly from life guarding. When I cough up another $2620.00, my tuition will be paid. Yeah, sure! It must be in my other jeans. The scent of my gross fuckedupedness filled the air.

My guts hurt from a ton of doubts I wish I could shit. Me huddling with fancy blue-bloods, thinking great thoughts, holding a cup of tea, pretending I had a lousy buck in my pocket. Yeah, sure! Maybe the stupid money is under that rock over there along with my food, books, and clothes.

Don’t think about it. I’m a phony Robinson Crusoe washed up on the strange all-male island of Ridgeston College. A place to tame or be tamed and where, when I fail, my ass will graduate to Vietnam. Or I’ll dodge the draft and go to Canada. I could get used to Canada. Another good reason to be damned scared shitless.

The oak backdoor of Taylor Hall stared back at me. I gave it a yank. Then a push and a rattle. I peered in the leaded glass window and pronounced the building dead. But I was numb blind to the plaque in front of my nose: Ring Bell After Hours.

Did mid-morning qualify? I asked myself, and timidly pressed the button.

The rasping buzzer would have waked the dead. Nada. My pile of luggage at the curb. I’d camp with it tonight. I leaned on the buzzer again. I’d nothing to lose.

I hear you! shouted a hoarse male voice. A moment later the door clanged open and bolts of lightening shot through me. A statuesque block of marble chiseled beautifully into a twenty-something man, dark stubble, strong jaw, short tousled hair, muscular arms and pecs crammed into a tee that fell to the top of his sturdy thighs, taunted my curiosity of what lay underneath.

And you are?

His gleaming gunmetal blue eyes, slitted like a dozing cat, drilled me deep somewhere behind my solar plexus, in my heart or balls or both. The effort not to look, not to stare, while yearning to discover if he were completely naked, sapped my vocal cords.

S…sorry. Sorry to bother you. I’m here to check in. I said with an uncharacteristically squeaky voice.

Name?

Tom Hamilton, sir, I said, gathering my wits.

I’ve been expecting you. Come.

His long artistic fingers ruffled his dark hair, his other hand extended horizontally holding the thick plank door open as if it were a feather.

My bags too?

Unless you want to sleep outside, the creature said with a silky voice.

His raised eyebrow confirmed my stupidity. I was damaged goods even to a total stranger and pathetic enough for him to linger in the doorway and watch as I nervously trotted back and forth to create a jumble of luggage in the foyer.

This back door is always locked. Those are the main doors. He pointed to the far side of the cherry paneled foyer high enough for basketball and big enough to stable a team of horses and with double doors to the quad you could drive a wagon through. I could hardly wait to see the rest of the dorm.

For now, I lock the doors at 2200, that’s 10 o’clock. Miss that and you’ll sleep outside ‘til I open at 0500. I’ll announce changes and dorm rules at 1900 next Wednesday when orientation starts. Understood?

Yes, I answered quickly.

I’m Mike Kelly. The guy who runs this place—and your life. You may call me ‘sir’.

Yes sir, Mr. Kelly.

I was off to an impertinent start as usual.

Alpha-dog extended his right hand. I hesitated. His thin smile seemed like permission to touch. His firm grip jellied my guts. A handshake too short that lasted too long.

Follow me, please, Mr. Kelly said, pulling his hand from mine.

We glided past a stone staircase that lead to the upper floors and under an ornate pewter chandelier hanging in the center of the foyer. The rich walnut paneling flowed into an elegantly furnished lounge with a huge manor house fireplace, a grand piano, leather sofas and chairs, walls dripping with oil paintings, shelves of books and…

This way. Mr. Kelly motioned me to the left. I’ll tour you later.

…a few steps further and I was at his eight-paneled apartment door, transfixed by the brass plaque engraved Dormitory Master. He whisked me into his simple neat living room where beyond was a kitchen tucked mostly out of sight around a corner, and through an open doorway nearby on my left was a crumpled queen bed right out in plain view… there… his bedroom… his sheets… his dented pillow where I had awakened him. I tore my gaze away to an office area near my right elbow, a creamy leather sofa faced me…

Please sit down…

…with a glass and cherry coffee table to trip over and make myself look like an ass.

…at the chair by the desk.

I planted my butt and glanced out the leaded Gothic windows to the bright green campus beyond, but for only a second. The best view was in the room.

His biceps bulged, triceps stretched, shoulders flexed sensuously as he rummaged in the file cabinet. The bottom edge of his tee seductively rose to unveil a round iron butt that drew my eyes like magnets and aligned my brain to a single thought: strip him naked!

I ripped my gaze away to the nearby walls speckled with diplomas and citations.

Don’t mind those, they’re just pieces of paper.

His back was to me, his head still buried in the file drawer.

He turned. I saw, for a fleeting moment, a barely visible line, a scar perhaps, wandering beneath his fine dark thigh hair that disappeared too quickly under the desk as he sat down with a manila file that bore my name.

You’re not assigned a roommate.

And I wondered if he had one with a bed that big and why I didn’t, and feared it meant I could be banished from Ridgeston that much easier.

Manicured fingers flipped through the curiously pregnant folder.

I’ve assigned you to a single room. Top floor, north end. Number 301. Please sign here for the key. He pushed a paper across the desk.

Yes, Mr. Kelly, sir.

He stood, his torso twisting across the desk in front of me… and closer yet as he reached toward a small brown metal cabinet on the nearby wall. Dare I lean forward? I could. I could let my lips touch the bulge that pushed at the bottom of his tee. My eyes squeezed shut to garrote the animal stirring inside me. Fingers fumbled in my jeans.

He raised his arms full length to stretch, and pointed his face to heaven and unveiled the thin tight white newly fashionable nylon underwear, a bountiful snowball straining to confine his seductively veiled man-flesh imprisoned by the cloth fringed by coal-dark pubic hair, where I paused long and hard to meditate.

He bayed a yawn. A thick smooth penis glans hinted of an uncut cock that nudged the elastic on his groin and sought escape just as a puff of hair had done in a delicate Happy Trail that narrowed at the navel and faded into a soft line undulating through his six ripped abs—where lay another scar. Like Jesus Christ’s.

I felt his stare. And ripped mine away.

I…I can’t find my pen. Embarrassed as hell. I was losing control.

Mr. Kelly tugged his tee, stepped quickly to the other side of the desk and impatiently flipped me one.

I understand your uncle attended Ridgeston, Mr. Kelly said flatly, his deep blue eyes drilling holes in my mind, reading my very thoughts.

Yes sir, he did, I said with an anxious voice.

He stayed here in Taylor Hall, Mr. Kelly said laconically, This was my dorm too, and, ironically, still is. Our footprints are on the floors of this hall, if you know what I mean. Ridgeston College and the boys Academy have a long, rich tradition. Solid. Steadfast.

His words worked magic on himself. He leaned over the desk and shared sonorously, Learn well, so you can chart your life with confidence. Here you’ll find the cream of young men, our future leaders. The best there is. There’s a lot to live up to. Keep that in mind as you loiter here.

Yes sir, I will.

For better or worse, this is our dorm.

His legs, his hips, his chest and face paced slowly back and forth, his whole six-foot plus—I have to know exactly every bit of his dimensions somehow, someway—body, a pendulum that mesmerized me.

Rules are to be obeyed. You’ll get the manual at our dorm meeting at 1900 hours next Wednesday.

His pecs flexed as he rubbed his hands together. Then he suddenly relaxed. Meanwhile, there’s a list of nearby eateries on the bulletin board downstairs in the Social Room, aka Wreck Room, along with everything else you need to know.

I…I’m sorry. I forgot today’s date.

It’s Wednesday twenty-eight August, Nineteen-Hundred-Sixty-Eight, Mr. Hamilton.

After I scrawled as best I could, he lifted the pen from my trembling fingers and boldly signed Michael Kelly next to mine and handed me the key. Our fingers touched. My guts tingled yet again. My cock applauded.

Good luck, Mr. Thomas Hamilton, he said quietly, his words hissing through his lips like steam from a dying tea kettle. You’re on your own ‘til next week. Don’t mess with me and I won’t mess with you. Understood?

Yes. Yes sir, I said, wondering if I would even see next week.

His face softened, his deep blue-steel eyes warmed for the first time. I understand you had some problems at home.

Gut-jabbing words for sure. Was it a good guess by this alien, a world away from the ranch? What did he know? That I had fuck-all for money in my pocket? That I scrounged the airline ticket? That I was a sitting duck to get drafted? Did he know why the fuck I got thrown out of my house? That I’d give my right nut to be here on campus?

You know where to find me. His voice was sonorous. But his glance, chill and momentary. There was nothing more to be said.

A drop of cheek-wet spoke for me. In private. With blurred eyes, I stared at my luggage seeing everything, seeing nothing. I was alone in the dorm. Unwelcomed silence would be my companion for the coming week.

I lugged my cherished and irrelevant Western gear up the three flights of stairs in the steamy August heat pondering Mr. Kelly’s stern face, condemning eyes, and drill sergeant voice. Kelly was a younger version of the sonofabitch I left behind at the ranch. I’d fucked myself again.

I pulled the letter from my backpack for the umpteenth time: Please report to the Bursar’s Office promptly at 8 a.m. September 4, 1968. Whoever this money-man is, he wants what I don’t have and what my old man refuses me. The fucker wants me screwed. To see my pussy ass in Vietnam. It’ll make a man out of you, girlie-boy. He prays the heathen communists will kill my heathen ass. There’s my fucking future. I could puke.

I threw open the leaded glass casement windows of my stuffy room. The billowing white of pregnant thunderstorms beyond the sun-dappled forest did little to cool the air that rushed against my bare and sweaty chest. I sat on the sill staring at my barren cell, the gray-green plaster walls, the pale terrazzo floor, the well-worn oak dresser and desk, and the thin gray dingy white-striped mattress that barely covered the metal frame.

I’d traded one prison for another. Icy fear filled my chest. In a flash of consciousness, I realized how badly I’d screwed up my young life, my choices, my relationships. Everything. I needed Ridgeston. They didn’t need me. I needed a miracle from a god I could no longer believe in.

The sun, the trees, the chirping birds. I stifled the tears as best I could. I slapped my face. I’d waded through shit before and could do it again. It was different shit in a different place, but it was still shit. I reckoned I was the kind of guy who’d always have to carry a shovel in my back pocket. That’s the way life is, whether the fuck you like it or not.

I couldn’t be the cardinal calling to his mate in the tree outside my window, but I did have my nest here in Taylor Hall as I’d often dreamed. Step one is done, for today. I heaved a sigh, stepped out in the corridor and imagined the dorm full of a hundred other eighteen-year-old guys, making friends, yakking in endless bull sessions, feeling horny. Doing what young guys do.

Comfort sex. That’s what I needed now. A healthy rub always cured a funk, and with Mr. Kelly far away on the bottom floor, the gang shower down the hall seemed a most exotic place to pull it off.

My sweaty jeans were tossed and my tighty-whities passed under my nose to whiff the pungent scent of acrid sweat mixed with the sweetness of semen that oozed from my overburdened inventory. I closed my eyes and inhaled. And thought of him.

My wet-eyed slit stared up at me surrounded by its turtleneck of skin. I cocked my thick branch and let it smack against my abs, and did it again in the reflection of the full length mirror on my closet door. I tugged my foreskin. I was vexed by the sight.

People compliment in all sorts of ways, but they’re liars, blind fools. They mostly want something—that something in the mirror. That curse who’s painted on the glass.

Six foot with a stretch, taller would be better. I grabbed the tape, 29 inches, should be 28. Chest 40, inhaled 46, should be better. And the favorite part me, 8 inches by 5, plus a bit. Those are my numbers. That is the whole of me.

Oh yeah, can’t forget my butt. I worked my ass off—a lousy saying, not literally true—I’ve got a damned neat swimmer’s ass. Bubble-butt round. And solid, as you’d expect. One more thing that got me into trouble. That goddamned pool party.

I grabbed a towel. I’ll jack-off and plot my next move. I’ll be lucky if Ridgeston lasts a week.

Chapter 2

Shower

I nearly pissed to the far end of it. It reminded me of our horse trough except this was porcelain about five feet long. I tried to overshoot. Better luck next time.

The dim unlarge shower room was steps away. Six shower heads crammed on three walls. Rush hours would be unnervingly cozy. Right now it was my space to enjoy any way I chose. Under a drench of cool water I lay on the tiles, toes at one wall, head at the other, and lapsed into a dream-like state.

Hi!

I went right through the goddamn ceiling! Probably yelled. Whatever the fuck.

Naked. Built. My age. Big Fucking Smile.

Surprise you?

He was damned pleased with himself. Violated my aloneness. I morphed to anger in a split second…

Who are you?!

…hazel eyes, broad shoulders, tanned smooth muscular chest, beauty-mark nipples, ripped abs like the sand dunes of Sahara, plump cock gently circumcised suggestively at the eight o’clock position, subtle-haired Mt. Everest legs. Athlete. No question about it.

I’m Jim. Jim Bradley.

I’d seen tons of naked athletes. I’d stripped and dressed in locker rooms, showered with teammates and a few other buddies too, admired them and wished I looked as good. No immunity from sexual thoughts I tried to suppress in the noisy banter of wet guys naked together.

You must be the early bird, he chirped, extending his hand.

In the four steps it took him to approach, I tried to wrest a smile.

I live just down the hall. His eyes drilled mine.

I’m Tom Hamilton, I said, matching his firm grip.

I’d seen that look before. The impish gaze before the pounce when young guys hoot and shout and bellow superficial laughs to disguise their sexual curiosity and their lust to explore, their wet towel snapping, a proxy for hands yearning to slap bare male skin, to retaliate in playful anger and the excuse to finally wrestle and slither naked on the floor and grab and grope forbidden places now sanctioned by the boyish game.

He read my thoughts. I tore my gaze from him. Of the five remaining shower heads, he came next to me. The room suddenly seemed crowded.

I didn’t know anyone was here, I said, voice cracking.

Just our fearless leader and me. So what do you think of Mike?

Mr. Kelly? Trapped and on the spot. Do I say a real sexy stud who scares the shit out of me, or handsome as hell and…?

He seems like a great guy, was my uncertain answer.

Jim bothered me. Not for who he was—I didn’t even know him—but what he was. A male. With power to control, exploit, damage, like that disgusting day earlier this summer. But if I moved to another showerhead he might think me rude. I didn’t need to alienate anybody before the school year even starts. I faced the corner of the shower and pretended he wasn’t there with hope my cock would pretend as well.

Can I use the soap? he asked.

Before I could react, Jim’s fingers zipped past to the little cubbyhole in the wall. His arm grazed my shoulder. Our eyes met. I couldn’t tell if he were annoyed or brash.

Sure, it’s not mine, I said, thrilled by his touch.

I left it here.

Sorry, I didn’t know.

It’s for both of us. Jim said with a slight smile.

So you’ve been here for a while?

This whole loooong summer. Jim rolled the soap in his hands. I do maintenance work. Just ‘til school starts. For some extra money.

You’re a freshman too?

Of course.

He burbled under the running water then lathered his face and head. My chance to watch errant bubbles slide down his chest and through his matted pubic hair and off his dick as if he were pissing foam. I sucked in air and tried to cut the link between his ass, my eyes, and my cock.

I was here to rub off. My cock cooperated all too well. I wasn’t here to cop a faggot label or an instant shiner, or both, and get mocked and gossiped about and royally fucked at Ridgeston in more ways than one. I prayed the cool water would shrink me.

Rinse water flew as Jim shook his head. I pretended not to notice and scrubbed my hair with both hands, facing away at the tiled wall.

Let me know when you want the soap.

Anytime, I murmured.

I sensed his presence behind me. A feeling of inches, not feet. His hand, his forearm, brushed my side—I tensed like a bowstring—as the soap sped past. Our fingers mingled on the bar of soap.

Thanks. I was reluctant to move a muscle lest our bodies touch.

I hugged the wall so close it was difficult to lather. Escape my only option. I knelt to bury my blooming erection and washed my feet until my muscle softened. Brain pleaded with cock to stop conjuring problems for me. Maximize control, minimize embarrassment. And get the hell out.

Then it struck. The lightening bolt that split me in two.

Would you wash my back?

The shower echoed like a cathedral. My guts froze, locked by shock and fear. I pretended not to hear.

That would really help. I can’t reach back there, Jim nonchalantly added, breaking the prolonged silence.

Fear fought with desire to please and be accepted. Desperate to touch yet dreading to be perceived as anything but totally masculine. His foot slid toward me. He was man enough to have me touch him. I was not man enough to do it.

Come on. It’s okay. I don’t mind.

But I minded. Minded like all hell! Of what he’d think of me. To be flagged a queer. To lose control. To do something stupid I’d regret big-time. I stayed crouched and needlessly scrubbed my foot, perplexed as hell about what to do.

He backed closer. My face was inches from his smooth round butt. Steel bands tightened around my chest. Beads of water dripped down his ass-crack, dribbled off the bottom where crevasse and crotch and thigh meet, where my tongue could catch a drop or two. My guts surged, my hands trembled.

His butt muscles flexed under his smooth skin. He had no tan line. Naked in the sun pricked my lust. Fear healed it at once.

My eyes coursed upward past his narrow waist and his muscular torso to the back of his head. Jim was steadfast, as if he knew I would relent.

Come on. I’ll do you after, he coaxed gently.

Trembling, I rose slowly with my butt thrust backward, insurance my turgid cock would be safe. His head suddenly turned toward me. His eyes darted downward. His smile vague.

The bar of soap hit his shoulder, my fingers careful not touch his skin. His body backed closer, his arms dropped loosely to his side. I backed away and massaged the soap.

You can use your hands.

Cock, not brain, took charge. The coup d’cock happened suddenly, I don’t know why. A tentative finger touch now raced beyond control. My whole hand….then both… soapy slick across his hard muscled back of soft, smooth skin. Fuck! His power raced through my arms and pounded my heart and knotted my gut… and fiercely throbbed my erection.

I jerked in air. Cautiously, my hands moved together as one between his shoulder blades, tentatively lower, then reversing, parting and moving to each side of his shoulders. I could have clutched him, pulled him to me. I could have lunged at him. But I restrained myself.

Slowly, I slid my soapy hands onto his prideful bulging biceps. I lingered there—scared—aroused—confused.

Jim was motionless, silent. Stop and flee was an enticing option. But cravings forced me to slowly slide down to his forearms to the back of his hands. I returned the soap to the dish and my fingers accidentally brushed his butt.

I’m sorry, I squeaked, quickly jerking my hand away.

He said nothing. He did nothing. But that tiny touch engorged my yearning to fondle his muscled ass and explore its tight wet crack; but fear of reprisal, condemnation, or any kind of rejection, bridled my actions, but did nothing to extinguish my lust.

There could not be another accidental touch. I stepped away to end this crazy game.

Why don’t you do my lower back?

And play with fire! I screamed inside my head.

With persistence he raised his hands high overhead and leaned on the shower wall with head bent down. His butt and back waited a hand-breadth away.

I knew the price of sinful sex. It turned my life upside down. It got me exiled. It got me where I am today: at the thin edge of failure. I didn’t trust myself. And I didn’t trust him or his motives, or have the balls to ask why he couldn’t wash himself. I was at the cusp to screw Tom Hamilton out of Ridgeston.

My one hand clutched the bar of soap, the other my erection. Jim’s naked ass and his torso, every part of him, craved my fingertips. My senses red-lined.

Come on, it’s okay, Jim pleaded, his head twisted under his armpit peering at me. His words hit my brain like an order.

I tentatively touched the soap between his shoulder blades, slowly moving laterally. His skin, his muscles, the sight of his round ass dangerously close to my protruding penis, fueled fire in my guts, my crotch, my head, my whole being. Fortress walls crumbled as my trembling hands slid down to his narrow waist.

You can go lower, he said matter-of-factly.

We’d reached the Rubicon. I knew then this must be a test. With a build like his, Jim had to be a jock and no doubt straight arrow. This was a test of me, the new kid, to see if I’m some sort of queer, and he’d be the first in the dorm to spread the news that a faggot lives in 301. Next week when everyone arrives, I’ll be the laughing stock. I’ve been scared to death someone will think I’m queer and now I’ve handed them proof on a silver platter! Eyewitness proof of Tom with a hardon and his hands on Jim’s ass. Case closed. Guilty as charged.

You’re in really good shape. You an athlete?

Jim made no response. His hesitation unnerved me. I’m on the wrestling team, he said finally.

I’m a swimmer. I quickly responded. Fags can’t and aren’t allowed to wrestle, I thought.

Jim tried to face me but I stiffly pushed him toward the wall and slathered more soap on his back before he could check out my erection.

I do some weights. You know, build up and stretch out. Swimmer stuff, I said with a nervous raspy voice.

You’re definitely in great shape, Jim said, crooking his head over his shoulder to glance at me again.

The feel of his skin drove me nuts and knowing he grapples with guys explained why he’s not shy of a man’s touch. More fuel for my lust. Yet I dared not drop south toward his rift. A place too dangerous. Too sacred. Too taboo.

My hands reached for safer ground and dwelled in his armpit hair before he pushed my fingers slowly over his bulging pecs. But I escaped his grip and slid my hands down his lats, carefully stopping at his waist. His stomach jerked taut and his hand gripped mine, again. I could not— would not— pull away.

Wash me there, Jim said emphatically, pushing my hand to the top of his butt.

My senses short-circuited. He demanded. I relented. Again. I gingerly sailed over his hips but did not touch his crack. This was new territory on a dangerous continent. And I was clueless how to explore.

I was ready to flee. Again. Jim arched his butt and my engorged cock brushed the topside of his crack. I jerked away. Jim threw it in reverse and collided with my cock. An accident with intent.

So you’re hard too?

Jim damn well knew I was. With his little confession he turned and flaunted his own erection, enticing me, not easing my singular embarrassment but inflaming it further as he jabbed his cock to my stomach, prodding, pulling my hands to his ass to force fingers to lose their virginity in his crack and to watch my eyes blaze with lust.

That’s all he needed to back his butt into my cock again. Fear drove me to withdraw, but he pushed more heavily against me. Why is a jock doing this to me? He thinks I’m queer? I grabbed my cock and stuck the end firmly, squarely, under his butt cheeks—right there at the bottom of his ass-crack. May I clam that as an accident? Would he call it a test of my masculinity?

He must be putting me on. I froze, and waited for his rejection, or a second thought.

Jim reached behind me… his hands firmly gripped my ass… his fingers dug and tugged my butt and made my cock jam hard against his thighs… yet again. We were either in this together… or it was his word against mine.

I deeply inhaled and let my cock slide into his flesh-cave that had so piqued my curiosity and now rewarded me with the warm pleasure of his crotch skin and soft hair against my shaft and the touch of his scrotum’s backside that my hard flesh pushed away… and stayed and throbbed. And I lingered in the soft warm wetness harboring a deep sense of unease in my guts.

That should do it, right? I said with a heart-pounding raspy voice as I pulled out.

Jim’s cock hit mine as he spun and faced me.

Looks like we’re both pretty horny.

His voice was desperate, his face intent, his hands pushed me against the wall. Soap spun in his fingers with a sensual slurping sound. He slapped his hands on my back and began to powerfully knead my shoulders.

I groaned and squirmed as he worked his way down. His immodest fingers crawled over my butt cheeks and danced in my ass-crack and unapologetically touched my forbidden spot. Then he knelt behind me, face close. One hand gripped my thigh, the other reached around to fondle my balls.

I yanked away and turned to flee. His face slapped against my crotch— the hard and the soft of it— his fingers gripped and stayed my hips and he nibbled, then leapt up and faced me. Hands grabbed my biceps and pushed my shoulders heavily against the wall, cock jabbed my belly and plastered my butt against the cool tiles, and his hot panting breath flowed across my nostrils.

I’m so fucking horny, he hissed through clenched teeth and close slitted lips. His intensity was off-putting.

Damn, not here! I shuddered, wanting it, fearing it.

There’s no one around, only us.

That’s what I thought until you appeared out of nowhere. I pushed him away. Jim’s face turned pink as a penis and just as wrinkled, lips puckered in anger.

I can’t do this, I muttered. I felt like shit to hurt his feelings. His sullen eyes watched for any change of heart. I turned away