Hard and Fast

By Sean Wolfe

In this edgy, provocative anthology, Sean Wolfe uses his wickedly erotic imagination to expose the wild side in every man--the side that's just waiting to be released. . .

A counselor at a church camp succumbs to a gorgeous younger guy's unrelenting advances in "Camp Quaker Haven." In "Pool Party," twins Cole and Chris get a chance to explore their most mind-blowing fantasies with their school's hottest jocks. A lonely cowboy plays Good Samaritan when he finds a young Native American man being harassed by a bunch of drunks--and is repaid in the most gratifying way possible in "Lone No More." And a priest beloved by his community finds forbidden temptation--and unexpected understanding--in "The Collar."

By turns explicit and intimate, tender and raunchy, here are twelve stories that satisfy on every level. Because nothing beats the thrill of giving in, and learning that breaking the rules brings all kinds of rewards. . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kensington Books
• Release date: Jan 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9780758267870

Sean Wolfe

Sean Wolfe lives in Denver, Colorado, and wishes desperately that he were living back home in San Francisco…or better yet, retired and looking young and pretty while living in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. Sean has had over fifty erotica stories published in just about every gay magazine in print, and over a dozen have been reprinted in several anthologies. His debut collection, Close Contact, was a 2005 Lambda Literary Award nominee. Sean is also the volunteer coordinator for the Lance Armstrong Foundation’s LIVESTRONG Challenge in Denver and is in high demand for speaking engagements on many subjects. He also facilitates workshops and seminars. Though Sean does write more than just erotica, and loves to talk, and is a prolific public speaker, as well as a Gemini who believes he is never wrong…he has been woefully unsuccessful in convincing others that he is not a sex maniac, because all of his published works suggest otherwise.

Book preview

Author

Introduction

All my life I’ve been called a Good Boy. Even to this day I’ve never done a single drug—not even pot. I’ve never touched a cigarette. I drink a little, but even at … thirty … yeah, we’ll go with that… I’ve only been drunk five times. All of those, with the exception of one, were when people close to me died, and so I give myself a little wiggle room on those. The one exception was during a game of Quarters while living in Mexico, in which the entire group of fifteen of my friends and fellow teachers ganged up on me and forced me to drink shot after shot of Tequila, the official Welcome-To-Hell drink personally presented by Satan himself upon arrival. I try very hard not to think about that exception.

Because I’m a Good Boy.

I grew up in a very small Texas Panhandle town and was every teacher’s pet. I started a lifelong love of volunteering while in high school. I went to a Christian (Quaker/Friends) University in Wichita, Kansas, and developed a solid foundation of faith and good works. I was a camp counselor and a youth leader all through high school and college. I was so angelic and perfect that when I finally came out to my mother and told her I was gay, her response was, Oh, thank God. You’re not perfect.

It was not quite the educated response I’d hoped for—because I never have equated my gayness as the imperfect part of me; in fact, it’s the one quality of my life that lifts me closer to perfect. My mother was—and still is—a biker chick whose daily existence relies upon lots of cigarettes, alcohol, and drugs, and she never hesitated to remind me of the difficulty of parenting a perfect Good Boy. So, though her response was much more positive than stories I’ve heard of other gay young people coming out to their parents, and it was her own special way of saying she accepted me and loved me, her response demonstrated it was still all about her rather than being about me.

When I moved to Denver eighteen years ago, I began a career in nonprofit that continues today. I have a very strong need to help those less fortunate and to make a difference in my community. I’ve had a very public life, always in front of large communities and audiences, with public speaking appearances, myriad trainings and workshops presentations, and community activism. People know me for this.

Because I’m a Good Boy.

And that has been presenting a problem for me recently. Up until seven years ago, I was in quite possibly the most magnificent thirteen-year relationship with Archangel Gabriel himself. His name was actually Gustavo, but in my eyes he was God’s favorite angel—and His undeserved gift to me. Though it wasn’t perfect, it was amazing. While in that relationship, Gustavo and I were the poster children for strong, healthy gay relationships.

Gustavo passed away in 2003, and it’s been a difficult time for me getting back into the swing of meeting people and moving deeper into relationships with them. I’m sure psychotherapists across the nation could expound upon my issues endlessly, and I’m no doctor, but even I can tell you the root of them. But that doesn’t make it any easier to overcome them and to move on.

The problem isn’t meeting people, really. I’m meeting plenty. But I seem to scare them away really quickly these days. Though it might not be the singular reason, a big part of the reason they run screaming like madmen is that I have a … healthy … appetite for sex. My friend Gary calls me a whore—I say that I’m polyamorous. My friend Kyle calls me a slut—I say that I’m sexually expressive. You get the picture.

This presents a problem for people who have a preconceived idea of who I am, and in a city the size of Denver, it’s hard not to have that preconception. How can a Good Boy visit a bathhouse a few times a month? Good Boys don’t blindfold themselves and crawl up into a public sling for hours on end for the pleasure of the masses! Can we give a Good Boy card to someone who likes to be tied up and roughed around by complete strangers on a semi-regular basis?

Not that I do any of those things!!

< looks around nervously >

But they make excellent examples of my point. Good and Bad are all relative, and subjective to our individual culture, upbringing, social environment, and experiences. And just because others express themselves a little differently from what we might come to expect from them, for whatever reason we’ve come to expect it from them, it doesn’t mean they aren’t Good Boys at heart.

The stories in this book deal with guys most people would easily identify as Good Boys—preachers and their kids, teacher’s pets, camp counselors, even a real Angel. Though the characters seemingly walk on water to all those around them, the stories show that as humans, we all struggle with living up to those images of perfection imposed upon us by others. And sometimes our own needs and desires must be expressed, even at the expense of shattering the image others have created of us.

Our soft and gentle nature is an important part of who we are, but it shouldn’t define us. We need balance in order to live a healthy and growth-oriented life. And sometimes … especially for Good Boys who might feel the need to rebel against that image … we just need it Hard and Fast

The Good Boy

Part 1

Axom, honey, it’s time to wake up.

Axom groaned softly and pulled the blanket over his head. From the other side of the room he heard the morning crew from FM 105.9 carrying on about the latest faux pas of the vice president. They were quite amused with themselves, as they usually were, even at 6:35 in the morning. Axom knew it was that time even without looking at the clock because his alarm was set for 6:30, and his mother always let it play for exactly five minutes before she knocked lightly on the door and announced it was time to get up. This had been their routine since he entered junior high school four years ago and became, as she put it, a big boy.

Pulling the covers over your head won’t make the alarm shut off, sweetheart, his mother chided from the other side of the door. Come on, now. Get up.

He pulled the blanket down and blinked rapidly as the morning sunlight splashed across his face. He took a deep breath and smiled.

Is that pancakes I smell? he asked loudly.

No! his mother yelled, and slapped the dishtowel across his closed door. It’s stuffed French toast. You know, your favorite.

Axom covered his mouth and giggled into it. He loved getting his mom riled up like this first thing in the morning. Really? I could swear I smell pancakes.

Honestly, I don’t know why I bother. And how you can smell anything other than the sausage and coffee, I will never know.

He yawned and kicked the blankets onto the floor. When he stretched his body across the bed, his cock bounced across his stomach, turning a darker shade of red each passing second and demanding attention. He heard his mom’s footsteps descending the stairs several feet from his door, and reached down and took the hard shaft in his hand and squeezed it.

Axom moaned softly as tingling bolts of pleasure shot up his torso. He bit his lower lip to keep from being too loud, and slid his hand slowly up and down the length of his dick.

He’d overheard enough conversations in the locker room to know that his situation wasn’t unique. Apparently, every sixteen-year-old boy woke up with a raging boner every morning, and also had to take care of them a couple times throughout the day while at school. Though his classmates were notorious for their exaggerated tales of sexual and romantic conquests—as well as their athletic prowess—he was certain that their boisterous accounts of morning wood were true. And he’d seen enough of them in the boys’ rooms between classes to know that they weren’t lying about their afternoon responsibilities, either.

Still, he was sure that none of them felt what he did every morning. It couldn’t feel as good to his friends as it did with him. It was inevitable to see everyone else’s dick in the locker room after practice. Though they were all still growing, Axom had a sizable advantage over all of his own classmates, and even over most of the juniors and seniors he’d seen naked. When fully soft his cock swung almost five inches below his waist, and the thick vein that ran the length of the shaft always kept it thick and on the verge of being hard. He commanded an undeniable respect from everyone at his school, and though everyone pretended it was because he was the co-captain of the football team and one of the most popular guys in school, the envious way they looked at him in the locker room told him otherwise.

He spit into his hand and then slid it up and down the length of his dick. With his free hand he clutched the sheets and bit his lip again as his body writhed beneath him. The giant vein running along the top of the shaft throbbed against his palm, and Axom thought he could actually feel the blood flowing through it and filling his cock to full capacity. When he squeezed the big dick, a large drop of precum oozed from the head and slid down the pole.

The smell of French toast wafted past his nostrils again, and his stomach growled.

It never took him more than a couple of minutes to blow his load, and he was close already. And hungry. He reached down with his free hand and squeezed his balls gently as he tugged on his cock. His knees began to shake first, and then he felt his entire body begin to quiver. His ball sack recoiled tight against the base of his cock, and he felt the load push from his nuts.

Oh, God, he whimpered, and quickly removed his hand from his dick.

The first three shots flew past his face and landed on the headboard behind him. Several more landed on his face, even as he tried to turn his head to miss them. The last couple fell onto his chest and stomach as he wiped at the jizz on his face and tried to catch his breath. He looked down at his slowly deflating cock and prayed that he wouldn’t need to take care of it again before lunch.

I don’t hear the shower running, his mother yelled from the kitchen below. Breakfast is almost ready. And don’t forget, you told Pastor James that you’d help serve communion this Sunday.

Down in five, Axom yelled as he bounded out of bed and trotted into the bathroom.

Please, class, Mrs. Rasmussen said with a heavy sigh. We’ve got a lot to cover this morning, and we’re never gonna get through it all if you don’t settle down.

Half of the class wasn’t listening to her at all, and the other half took turns distracting her and then throwing wads of paper at her when she wasn’t looking right at them.

She was only three months from retirement, and the elderly teacher had lost the will to fight and try to control her classes long ago. Now she just did her best to ride out the outbursts and keep the class under enough control to prevent an outright riot.

Axom? she pleaded as she looked over her cat’s-eye glasses and sat heavily in her chair.

The class groaned in unison for a couple of seconds, but when Axom stood up, everyone quieted down instantly. Several of them looked down at their desks and appeared to be at least somewhat ashamed of their behavior. Others looked directly at him with a mix of awe and admiration.

Come on, guys, settle down, Axom said with the smile that he knew would quiet them without questions. I’m sure we all wanna get out of here on time, and we can’t do that if we don’t pay attention. And—he looked over at his teacher and winked—Mrs. Rasmussen has worked really hard to try and teach us something over the years to make sure we aren’t completely ignorant. She deserves a little respect, don’t you think?

He sat back down and winked at Mrs. Rasmussen as he heard everyone behind and next to him opening their books. The corner of her mouth curled just the slightest bit, and she pushed her glasses up higher on her nose. Apparently, the lots to cover his teacher was referring to was calm, cool, and collected—and presentable—though for whom he wasn’t sure. She spent the next twenty minutes fussing with her ash gray hair, smoothing out the wrinkles across her blouse, taking deep breaths, and exclaiming, Oh, my every couple of minutes.

No one in the class expected to learn anything new the last three months of her class. Certainly not Axom, who’d had to remind her several times over the past year that she was teaching economics and not Spanish, which she not only had never taught but barely spoke or understood. The bell rang, and the class, with the exception of Axom, jumped up in unison and bolted out the door. He took his time gathering his books and placing them carefully in his backpack.

You okay, Mrs. R? he asked as he slung his backpack over his shoulder and walked over to her desk.

Sí, estoy bien, she mumbled almost unintelligibly as she hoisted herself up from her chair.

Axom smiled compassionately, and leaned over to kiss his teacher on the cheek. I’ve really learned a lot from you, Mrs. R, he said softly. You’re a wonderful teacher.

Oh, my, Mrs. Rasmussen gasped, and pulled on the waddle of skin beneath her chin. He waited for something more, but when his teacher only looked at him blankly, he turned and walked to the door.

Axom, Mrs. Rasmussen called as he reached for the door handle.

Yes, Mrs. R?

Thank you, she mouthed silently, and wiped a tear from her eye.

Axom blew her a kiss and walked out into the hallway.

Bayh!

Axom jumped to the right out of automatic reflex, just in time to miss having his best friend, Aaron, slam into him. Instead, the door next to him rattled loudly as the oversized junior crashed against it.

Damn it, Aaron said as he lifted himself from the ground and rubbed his shoulder. Almost had you that time.

Yeah, Axom said, pushing his friend against the wall, but that one almost didn’t count as a legal warning. You were practically on top of me when you yelled.

Fuck you, Aaron said as he turned to watch Madison Chaddon strut past and then behind him. Next time I won’t warn you at all. Maybe then I’ll finally get you.

Maybe. But it’d be a false win. You know the rules say you have to warn …

Whatever. Hey, did you hear about Matt Robinson and Christy Barton?

Axom rolled his eyes. No! he said dramatically. What happened?

They were making out up at Makeout Point and he was fucking her boobs, dude! Right as he started to splooge all over her face, the cops flung the door to his Jetta open and dragged them both out of the car, Aaron choked out as he laughed so hard he had to stop and lean against the wall. Matt’s cock shriveled up like a deflated balloon, and Christy still had his cum dripping from her face when they handcuffed her!

"I’m kidding, stupid. Of course I heard about it. Everyone in the whole fucking school heard about it. And I wouldn’t be surprised if Matt didn’t start the chatter to begin with, just to let everyone know that he got to home plate with Christy. And please tell me you don’t believe that the cops would actually handcuff a high school girl for having sex in a park, especially that park."

Doesn’t matter who started it, Aaron said. It’s still frickin’ awesome! And why do you have to spoil everything by debunking the details, dude?

You’re so easily amused.

Yeah, well not all of us were born with a silver spoon in our mouths, Axom, Aaron said with more than a little edge in his voice. Some of us get our nuts off any way we can.

What are you talking about? I’m not rich. Far from it, actually.

Yeah, which makes it even worse. Only the uber-wealthy enjoy the kind of popularity and adoration you do. Well, only the uber-wealthy and you. Would you prefer the analogy of walking on water?

What’s up your ass today?

Aaron took a deep breath, and draped his arm across Axom’s shoulders. "Sorry, man. I just get really tired hearing my mom saying, ‘Why can’t you be more like Axom?’ or ‘Axom wouldn’t talk back to his mom like that.’ It gets really old after a while."

Yeah, it would get a little tiring. But it’s not my fault, so chill a bit, okay.

You’re right. Forget it. Hey, what are you doing tonight after practice?

It’s Thursday, moron. I’m volunteering over at Sunset Manor.

Of course you are, Aaron said, and pushed Axom ahead of him. Gimme a call when you get home later tonight. I’m gonna go see if I can get Joanna Pratt to blow me under the bleachers again.

I thought you said she scrapes your dick with her braces.

She does. But it’s still better than my hand. And besides … practice makes perfect, Aaron said as he grabbed his crotch and ran off down the hall.

On the first Sunday of every month, Pastor James asked the members of his congregation who felt so moved by the Spirit to form three lines for communion. Even after two years, Axom still blushed a little whenever his minister feigned indignation over the length of the line in front of him whenever he helped serve communion.

In the sixteen years I’ve been senior pastor at Riverdale Community Christian Church, I’ve tried everything I could think of to get people in those pews to understand the importance of communion, he said again as he carefully removed his robe and hung it on a wooden hanger. "When they finally did get it, and participated, then it became a challenge to get them to understand that I don’t have to be the one who gives them the communion, that it’s not a confession and I’m not forgiving them of any sin, and that they can receive the wafer and juice from anyone. It doesn’t have to be the senior pastor."

Well, we can be a little dense at times, Pastor James, Axom said with a smile as he placed the juice goblets and wafer baskets in the box to be taken into the kitchen. He looked around the small study. Sometimes we need to have a picture drawn for us. Have you seen my iPod?

Pastor James pointed toward the recliner in one corner of the room. "No, apparently all I had to do was ask you to be one of the communion assistants. Have you noticed that on every Sunday that you help out, your line is three times longer than mine even? And poor Betty Slovacek; she gets no one in her line."

That’s not true. I’ve noticed that every time Mrs. Slovacek serves, Mrs. Howard and Mrs. Pitts always go to her line. Any other Sunday they insist on being in your line.

Pastor James laughed. You’re so sweet, Axom. You know very well that Carol and Gloria play pinochle with Betty Slovacek twice a week, and that if they didn’t go to her line that she’d not only beat them to within an inch of their lives, but she’d stop bringing her famous lemon squares to those card games. And that is unthinkable to Carol and Gloria. I swear they are no less addicted to those damned squares than a junkie is to heroin.

You do know that Mrs. Slovacek puts cognac and Amaretto in those lemon squares, right? Axom asked.

Pastor James smiled at Axom and raised an eyebrow.

I’ m just sayin’ …

My point is that all I ever needed to do to get people out of their seats and into the communion lines was to ask you to help serve. From that very first Sunday, everyone was scampering to be in your line.

That’s not true, Axom said, and felt his face blush as he picked up his iPod and draped the earphones around his neck.

It is, and you know it. And it’s not just the twittering teenage girls, either. It’s their flustered moms and their envious dads and even their jealous boyfriends. Everyone wants to be in your communion line.

Well, I don’t know why, Axom said, and looked out the window distractedly.

Because you are you, Axom, Pastor James said affectionately. And I don’t think I tell you often enough how much I appreciate you and all that you bring to the church.

Thank you. But really, I’m not bringing or doing anything special.

That’s a very Jesus-like attitude, son.

Oh, I’m pretty certain Jesus knew he was special.

Pastor James smiled, and draped his arm around Axom’s shoulder. Yes, I suppose he did. But he didn’t hold that over anyone or let it get in the way of his good work. Just like someone else I know. I’m very proud of you, Axom, and I want to say thank you for just being you.

Thank you, sir. You’re welcome.

Now, his minister said as they reached the door, Scott wanted to see you before you leave this afternoon.

"Oh, no. You didn’t tell him I’d