Alice, My Uncle, & Me Ch. 04d

This continues the account of the five days and nights that studly 18 year old Mikey spends together with Mike, the 24-year old uncle he idolizes, and Mike's fascinating and beautiful 22-year old fiancée Alice. The beginning of their story is told in "Cross-Country with My Uncle," and continued by "Alice, My Uncle, and Me," day 1 and day 2, and Day 3, parts 1 and 2, and "My Uncle's Bachelor Party," parts 1 and 2, wherein Jeff, Mike's old college roommate and lover, is introduced.

By 8.30 Mike, Jeff, and I had arrived at Alice's. I wasn't quite certain what Alice had said to Jeff on the phone last night, but evidently it was something in the nature of an invitation to have a serious conversation with him. In any case, their reunion was remarkably cordial.

Mike turned to me and said, "Mikey, let's go for a little run." And of course I was very glad to. We went along the path that wound its way down from the back of Alice's townhouse, and it was very pleasant in the June morning, wearing just our running shorts and shoes. Though the last ten days had been incredible in their intensity: the new experiences and new personalities, one thing remained constant: it was the extreme pleasure that I had always taken in Mike's company all my life. And as ever, it was especially wonderful when he and I were alone and I absorbed all his attention. Running alongside of him, it was just sublime. And when he looked over to me and grinned at me, I felt warm and happy, as though I were basking in a beam of purest sunshine. It was a sort of magic.

"Mikey, I have a good feeling about Jeff and Alice. She and I have been over the subject again and again, and she has the best of intentions, but we've had relatively little hope that Jeff would prove to be flexible. But it seems that we may have been mistaken. Since he's been here, Jeff seems to be much mellower than in the past. Anyway, he has accepted Allie's invitation to visit with her, chat with her, and his anxiety when he's with me has entirely dissolved, and, more importantly, there doesn't seem to be any evidence of the kind of bitterness toward Alice that he once could not help but show."

"Gee, I hope so, Uncle," I said. "I really like him."

"Well, you hardly know him, really, but if you do come to know him better, you may be astonished. He's a deeply fascinating and talented guy."

On the whole 6 mile trail, there was only one grade crossing. We had to stop and wait nearly 90 seconds for the traffic signal to change. Standing there, Mike turned to me, looked me in the face, and put his big hand on my bare shoulder. The power of his gaze directly into my eyes, combined with his gentle smile, almost transfixed me. I was instantly 100% percent alert, and yet, at the same time, paradoxically almost paralyzed, and warm waves of profound pleasure at his touch radiated from his hand and propagated across my shoulder, up my neck, to my ears and scalp, and across my chest, and down across my belly and into my genitals. The hair all over my chest and forearms and legs erected at once, and the prickling of the skin of my scrotum was remarkable. My cock began to expand. I cannot begin to explain his power to control me absolutely, with the slightest effort - no, with no actual effort at all.

He said, "Mikey, day after tomorrow Alice and I'll be flying off to Maui, and you'll be heading to Colorado." With a new shine in his eyes, he continued, "There's no way that I can tell you what these last ten days have meant to me." He took his hand from my shoulder, and in a brief gesture touched my cheek. I instantly was wholly erect, tenting my little running short right there beside the road carrying heavy, slow-moving traffic. God knows what the drivers thought. But in a second or two the light had finally turned in our favor, and we resumed our run. I was thinking, "There's no way he could tell me what these ten days have meant to him! But God knows, my life has been revolutionized!" I had thought I had been happy before last week's trip with my uncle - and indeed I had been. But a new door in my life had opened, and I found that there were altogether new planes of pleasure and deep psychic satisfaction that I had never even dreamed could have existed. I knew that circumstances soon would necessarily take me and Mike apart, but somehow I was absolutely certain that all the rest of our lives we would love each other just the way we did today, no matter what. And that this certainty would sustain me throughout any and all future separations that necessarily would come to pass.

We got back to Alice's place and Alice and Jeff were still sitting together at the little table on her patio, talking earnestly. Mike and I had seen them from a hundred yards away; but so intent were the two interlocutors on each other than they had not noticed us until they could almost smell us, covered as we were with sweat from our vigorous run.

They broke their conversation to greet us. Allie looked at her watch and observed that they had only a few minutes before they needed to go to the airport to pick up Mike's folks. Because of some late business in New York, Mike's parents (my grandma and granddad) had taken the red eye from Philadelphia. My mom and dad would be arriving in the early afternoon midday on another flight, and in between Mike and Alice needed to take care of a couple of last minute details before the wedding rehearsal at 7 pm, and the rehearsal party that would soon follow.

So Jeff and I had the rest of the day to ourselves. Jeff had earlier suggested that we visit the Stanford campus, only a few miles away. Mike and Alice would use Mike's BMW, and Alice let me drive her pickup.

One of the things that most fascinated me about Jeff is that he was the most socially diglossal individuals I'd ever met. In formal discourse, Jeff spoke with remarkable grace. I didn't know it then, but Jeff's writings in places like the Annals of Analytic Philosophy were universally praised for their pellucid qualities, even when he was formulating the most complex and intricate arguments; and his ability to counter rebarbative criticisms in Yale philosophy workshops with learned ex tempore reposts, replete with quotations from Kant in the original 18th century German, was a matter of open and undisguised admiration of even his most earnest rivals. But I did know that when he spoke about matters of substance, he spoke with elegance and unusual clarity, though he always preserved the mild accents of East Texas.

But more often, around pals, he loved to talk as if he had never been out of the Big Thicket, and had never seen the right side of the 4th grade. "Shit fahr" [shit fire] was his favorite epithet, which he used indiscriminately as an adjective and interjection.

Jeff directed me to the campus and then to the special players' parking area right behind the Arrillaga Athletic Center, and we walked in. Only 24 months ago Jeff had been one of the biggest stars in Stanford baseball history, and he barely opened the door to the trainers room when he was hailed by two of his old teammates, now seniors, who were all over him with claps on the backs and friendly punches in the ribs.

When at last they'd parted, Jeff led me to the baseball workout room, and once again he was greeted with hoots and cheers by an ex-teammate and a trainer. When he'd caught up with them, and introduced me, he asked if we could work out, and of course we were invited to. They had every machine in the world, and in the last ten days I'd had a few runs and a little biking but it felt great to get a thorough workout for a change.

Just as we were starting the last iteration on our last machines in our cycle, in walked two guys in soaking wet sweats, a blond with a pitcher's glove, and the other, with light brown hair, carrying the tools of ignorance. Grinning and chatting, they strode into the locker room and we heard the clatter of equipment.

By the time we'd gotten to the showers they'd already been there several minutes, and as a three-letter man back home who had spent many an hour in team gang showers, I was only mildly surprised to see that both of them were whacking off. The catcher was a remarkably good-looking guy, whose open and candid face bore very regular features. He wasn't big, maybe 5' 10", but he had a perfect body. Well-built-shoulders, big arms and chest. His thighs were imposing, and his calves extremely well defined, but it was his six-packed abs that sold the picture of the perfect athlete. His perfectly defined chest was essentially smooth, but a couple of inches above his navel a thin line of dark hair begin; each inch below that it grew thicker and wider and wilder until it lost itself in his pubic hair. Under the shower, the hair on his legs lay flat and dark and dense, like the notably lighter colored hair on his forearms. His blond battery mate was, if anything, more imposing. He was maybe 6' 3", and though he had notably broad shoulders, and big arms, overall had a comparatively slim but highly athletic physique, rangy and wiry. His wet hair streamed across all his forehead, down to his eyebrows.

He faced way from the spray, which played over his back and shoulders, his legs were well-spread; and he was working a 7 inch soapy cock quite slowly and deliberately, his eyes closed, his beautiful mouth a little agape in pleasure, so that his brilliantly white teeth were particularly evident.

His wonderfully built teammate was only inches away. He was cupping his big balls with his left hand, and stroking with his right, while intently studying his partner's action. In fact the scene was totally engrossing. Jeff and I maintained some sort of middle ground between gaping at this scene, and seeming to ignore it. We began our own showers nearby, but both us constantly monitored the guys' progress, and of course our own cocks inevitably sprang to full attention. The kids progressed from the slow and easy to the urgent, and then to the near frantic, and soon, going "Yeah," and "I'm there, buddy!" they both shot into the air, and broad smiles filled their faces, and they both shook their arms all around, and then they proceeded to finish their showers, their cocks now well on the way to full relaxation. The whole process seemed to have been absolutely routine and unremarkable.

It was only now they really paid any attention to us at all. Then the strikingly handsome catcher looked over and said, "Hey, you're Jeff Jackson! We met once during my recruitment visit here in the spring of my senior year of high school. Your team was amazing. The coaches never stop comparing us - unfavorably - to you guys."

The golden-haired pitcher said, "You're Jeff Jackson?" Putting out his hand (now entirely clean!) he goes, "Bob Runciman, and this is Andy Lascelles. We're going to be juniors next year. Hey, you guys really left a legacy that's tough to live up to."

Jeff goes, "Yeah, we had some good years. And this here's Mike Cavendish, nephew of my old teammate Mike Burlington, and a prospect for next year."

They went, "Glad to meet you, dude," and "Good luck. It's a great program, as of course you know. I've met your uncle a few times; he's really a great guy. And boy do you resemble him. You an infielder too?"

I said, "Yeah, second baseman." But Jeff could tell I was a little embarrassed, since, to tell the truth, it was an odd way to make someone's acquaintance, since both Jeff and I were sporting big boners.

Jeff noticed my diffidence, and said to the current players, "I see the ole tradition jist keeps on keepin' on...."

And Andy said to me, "Yeah, no varsity baseball player ever goes to the showers at here without beating off, no matter what. It's so cool."

Though Bob said, "Yeah, you can only beg off if you're going to have a big date within the next three hours. But if it's four hours away, you're definitely jerking."

"Wow," I said. I was thinking these seemed like great guys. There was at least a chance that I'd be teammates with them in about a year from now, though if so I'd be a lowly freshman then and by then they'd be lofty seniors.

With a few kindly parting words, they departed to the lockers, and Jeff looked at me, and with a shrug, said, "Okay, guy, let's get to it," and we proceeded to act as if we too were varsity Cardinals, Jeff a real one only two years ago, and I at least an aspirant. Jeff and I faced one another, about 18 inches apart, under the hot and steamy spray. He as an 18-year old, I didn't need any kind of an excuse to beat off: it was natural as breathing really. But being there with Jeff, with his really hot body, his big cock waving in the air, I had to admit that it was a huge turn on, and I couldn't have helped carrying wood if my life had depended upon it. But hot a guy as he was, it was really his personality that so enthralled me. Ever since I'd laid eyes on him, jealously fearing him, knowing what an enormously multitalented guy he was, and knowing the unique place he had sustained in my uncle's affections, he had treated me with such respect, kindness, and attentiveness that I was now quiet a long way down the road to falling in love with him, too - or at least something damn near close to it.

Jeff, I knew already, never did anything sexual in a precipitous manner. His was always the deliberate way. It was an approach that strongly appealed to me, too, though my experience was so limited compared to his. So he started in a very calm and calculating manner, soaping up his chest, his belly, his balls, and then getting his cock extremely slick. And then with his right hand, he very slowly and grasped his phallus with the palm of his right hand downward, so that his thumb was nearest his belly, and his palm contacted the upper supersensitive dorsal side, instead of the pedestrian choking grip with the thumb uppermost or outermost. After some time of slow, exquisite stroking, he surprised me by switching hands, so that now he was using his left hand but in the same manner as before. And then with the palm of his right hand, he made slow circles on the big, shiny, head of his magnificent cock.

In deliberate compliment to him, but also curious exactly what it felt like, I followed suit. Early in my Little League days Mike had encouraged me to develop as a switch-hitter, and though I was usually stronger batting righty, I did well as a left-handed hitter too. But I rarely was a switch-hitter when it came to masturbating. While I was careful and considerate with my sex partners, and (I hoped) infinitely patient, under normal circumstances I just didn't have the patience to jack left handed, right handed action being so much more efficient. On those occasions when I wanted to spend an hour or so masturbating, I thought I was sufficiently adventurous. I think I'd tried everything I described in Jackinworld.com that a guy by himself can do, and occasionally on a winter Saturday morning I've taken the "stop and go" as far as 90 minutes - on the first pull.

Anyway, doing it Jeff's way seemed the right thing to do just then. With Jeff in all his glory pulling away right there a matter of inches from me, if I'd just cranked in a typically efficient way I'm sure I would have been a goner within a couple of minutes at most. But with this technique, the pleasure just built and built and rolled on and on. Jeff and I were standing with our legs well spread, and facing each other, and stared each other right in the face. It was a very, very powerful feeling. Eventually, Jeff eased up, and actually removed his hands and his chest heaved. I stopped too. In a moment or two, Jeff began again, and again he used the same technique. And as before, I followed Jeff's lead.

When we had left the weight machines, we were the last in the workout room, so we were not expecting anyone else to join us in the showers. Eventually Jeff said, "Okay, now, Son," and shifted to the classic grip, and progressed in steady stages to culmination. And as before, I followed Jeff's lead in every detail, even as our eyes locked permanently. And when Jeff shot, it was all over my chest; and it was only three or four pulls more before I shot my load onto his body, and we both smiled broadly.

"Attaboy, Sporto," he drawled. "You done good."

Still happily smiling, we soaped in again and rinsed and began to dry off, when right through the shower room walked Bucky Buccleugh, the infield coach and head of baseball recruiting, naked as a jaybird.

"Hi, Coach," goes Jeff, with a broad smile.

"Jeff, ole man! It's great to see you!" with even a broader smile, and grabbing Jeff's hand and pumping it vigorously. Bucky was an unusually good-looking guy, who, at 31 was already in his 7th year as Stanford's infield coach. He'd graduated from Stanford after a stellar career at second base and was immediately drafted by the Pirates. In his second year in the majors, remarkably he won the NL gold glove, but it was the same season that saw his career-ending slide into home. "How're they treatin' you at Yale? You must be here for Mike's wedding."

"Fine as frog hair, Coach. I shore am. And lemme introduce you to ...."

And Coach Buccleugh just amazed me by interrupting him: "To young Mr. Michael Burlington Cavendish of Doylestown, PA," now grabbing my hand and giving it a sincere and manly squeeze.

"Uh, yeah, Coach," I stammered. "Glad to meet you. But, but... We've never met, how'd you...."

"Oh, Mike, that's easy. First thing is that I spent four years coaching your uncle, and it's amazing how much you remind me of him. You're just about the age he was when I first met him, and over the years he's mentioned you to me several times, most recently no more than a couple of months ago. And God knows, not many kids look like him! And of course when I see Jeff here, it's only natural to think of your uncle. They were always that close. But as a matter of fact, within the last few weeks I saw films of you and, what, the Central Bucks East Patriots at the Pennsylvania State High School Championships. Mike, you had a really great series."

"Thanks, Coach. Yeah, I had a few good swings."

"Yeah, you did, Mike, but that's not what I mean. You might be surprised at how many kids can hit high school pitching, even pretty good high school pitching. That's not what we're looking for. It's your impeccable defense that impressed us. Your moves around second base - that's just what we're looking for. And really perfect defense - it's just not that common."

"Well, Coach, that's kind of funny because I'm not surprised that you like my action around the keystone. My uncle's been giving me tips - actually coaching me - for years. And he often refers to you. I bet I could quote you almost all your favorite sayings. So I'm not surprised you like my moves: they're just the same ones you coach."

"So that's why I like your action, Mikey!" he said with a broad grin. "Guys, I just finished my run, and I see you're done with your workouts. How about taking a tub with me and we can really catch up?"

So we went to the Jacuzzi, stripped, and eased in. Buccleugh had a remarkable body, just as toned as one of his undergraduate athletes, really quite perfectly developed. I admired his big chest, broad shoulders, and big arms. His legs were powerful looking and wiry, but on his left leg from above the knee to several inches below it was a long and rather jagged-looking scar.

Bucky noticed me eyeing his scar and he said, "Yeah, I really wrecked that one."

"Coach, I saw that play that ended your career in the majors. I was at Veterans Stadium when the Pirates came to town. That play won the game, but..."

"But it also won me a one-way ticket to college coaching. I've been happy here, and never more than the four years when your uncle was my second-baseman and Jeff here was my shortstop. It was a classic combination!"