Maynard's Secret

And so that summer passed away. His mother returned at weekends to look after the house and see to her son's needs, so we could only meet maybe twice during the week. I remember one occasion, after he had come off magnificently, that I traced a big letter "M" on his chest, the tip of my finger sliding through the ribbons of spunk. He didn't get it to begin with, but when I did it again I said "That's for M for Maynard …. And that's M for Magnificent." He gurgled with delight.

Then it was time for my annual holiday. I went to Spain and had a great time with some girls there, fully reinforcing my conviction that though I could not compare with Maynard in terms of sheer virility, yet the girls liked me and came back for more. When I got back to England my boss moved me to a new place of work and so I left home and rented a flat. And it was not long before I met a wonderful girl called Wendy. Within three months of our first date we were engaged and six months later we were married. A year later we were the proud parents of a little boy and three years after that a little girl. When we visited my mother with our family I used to ask after Maynard and was told that for sure he was a bit "slow" but he was invariably cheerful and polite, always punctual for work and worked hard. He kept himself to himself, rarely went out and seemed a nice but rather secretive guy. His auntie had died and his mother had returned home but she was far from well and was suffering from arthritis. So it was not for another five years that I saw Maynard to talk to again, I mean really to talk to, and it happened in this way.

I was living with my family on the other side of town and my mother phoned me at work - a rare thing for her. Her voice sounded tense and excited. She asked me if I would come round to see her at the end of work as she wanted to talk with me. I said "Fine" and phoned Wendy to explain that I might be a bit late getting home. When I reached my old home my mother took me into the sitting room, asked me to sit down and offered me a drink. Normally she only ever did this with guests. Nervously she said "You know after your dad died I sa8idm I would never want to remarry?" I nodded. "Well," she said, "I've met David, he's asked me to marry him and I've changed my mind." She looked up at me in an agony of anticipation that I might not approve. But even though this was the first I'd heard of it, no rumours, no nothing, I was delighted for her. "But that's wonderful, mother," I said, "When can I meet him?"

"Well I thought I might invite you and Wendy and the kids over to lunch on Sunday. He wants to come then and would like to meet you, if you're happy about it, that is."

"Of course I'm happy about it," I said, "We'll come." "Oh! I'm so pleased" she said, "I wasn't sure how you'd take it. I feel sure you'll like him. He's a widower and has three children, one of them your age." I was a bit surprised to hear I'd been landed with three step siblings but felt it was probably just the same for them and that it could be nice for all of us.

"Well, thanks for telling me," I said, giving her a hug and a kiss. "It's great news. I'll go and tell Wendy." And I set off with much to think about. As I was leaving by the front door I saw Maynard pull up in his car and we greeted each other like old friends. I told him my news and he said "I guessed as much. He's been visiting your mum a lot recently. He seems very nice."

"Tell me about him" I said, to which Maynard replied by inviting me in for a beer. I had time on my side so I said "OK" and we went indoors. He told me that his mother was now in a home and that he visited her every day. He still had his job at the cigarette factory and was living alone. He said he was really pleased to see me and added, after a pause, "At last". The way he emphasized "at last" suggested to me that he was referring back to our past and the time we had spent on his bed together. I realized then that he had never met "Miss Right" and was probably still a secret wanker. Maybe this had something to do with being an only child, brought up by an older mother. I thought that if I had had his magnificent dick and balls, but was nervous about using them with others, I might have been the same. You're not given something like that by Nature not to use them! Moreover I had long done with the notion about what was "politically correct" and if he was that despised word, a "wanker", then good for him. He was a good, reliable lad – and one of my oldest friends.

In the meanwhile he was telling me about my step-father-to-be. He'd met David to talk to and reckoned he was really fond of my mum. He thought he had two sons and a daughter, but he wasn't sure. This was good news and I warmed to him. When he'd finished talking (he never said very much) and a pause developed between us, I said "So you've still no girlfriend then?" He shook his head. "So it's still the trusty right hand, is it?"

He had to think about this and then said "Yes."

"How often?" I asked. He thought for a moment, then "About four or five times a week."

"Do you still do it sometimes on your return home from work?" He shook his head. "It was fun when you were there, but without you, I'd rather do it when I go to sleep. If I do it earlier I feel tired and the evening drags." (A long pause) "I wish you'd never gone away."

I looked at him. His eyes were downcast and there was an embarrassed flush on his handsome face. I liked him very much and felt sorry for him. "Well I'm here now," I said. He raised his head slowly and looked me in the eyes. "You mean you'll come upstairs and lie down with me?" "Sure" I said, "You know I enjoy it." And I could feel that tingling feeling in my loins that comes with the anticipation of sex. My dick started to grow and I put my hand down to cover my crotch. I noticed he did the same. We both stood up at the same time, moving with one accord towards the staircase.

His room was just the same as I had last seen it five years earlier. The TV set we had manhandled up to his bedroom was still in place, there were still no pictures on the wall, his change-of-clothes was neatly folded on a chair by the bed, and on the table on the other side was the box of tissues that I had come to know so well. He said nothing, just began to take off his clothes - all of them, quite unselfconsciously - while I took off my shirt and vest and my jeans. I didn't want any accidental spillage to leave tell-tail stains on them!

In the nude he looked as fantastic as ever. A squarish, manly body, beautifully proportioned, and a dick and balls to die for. While he was standing it was not yet completely hard, but as soon as he lay on the bed with me beside him, it stiffened. It was such a lovely shape - straight, hugely thick and ending in that broad, wedge-shaped knob which I had come to admire so much. He put his hand on it and pulled back the supple foreskin, revealing the glans in all its crowning glory, its flaring rim edged in purple. I stretched out my hand to grasp it, but my thumb and finger were no way near meeting. He removed my hand and put his own on it, stroking it deeply downwards and then letting the foreskin recover the glans on the upward stroke. I remembered perfectly how he liked to do it - so differently from me - and I waited for him to get close to the point of no return before I gently cupped his balls with my hand. He groaned and said "I love it when you do that." And it was not long before the ribbons of spunk had erupted from that broad, broad knob. The second jet was so forceful that it hit him on the chin and after his orgasm had subsided in the usual dribbles, he smiled almost sheepishly for what he had done, but there was delight and triumph too. I loved him for that and did something I had never done before - I passed him a tissue to wipe his chin, then leaned over, taking care not to wet myself, and kissed him. It was not an erotic kiss but a kind of benediction. He seemed surprised and didn't return any pressure with his lips, but he was obviously pleased. I told him I would have to go. He understood and lay there, naked, with his spunk still lying on his chest and belly, so I traced a big "M" on his chest. He smiled with the recollection of when it had happened before, and I slipped my clothes on, went downstairs and left the house, leaving him lying there.

That's the last time I saw him. I think of him as one of Nature's wankers. He finds it difficult to communicate with people and still believes that when he wanks it is "his" secret, that others disapprove and don't do it. He had missed a "normal" upbringing, having no dad, brother or sister in the house, and while he was supremely endowed between the legs, Nature had given him neither dynamism nor speed of intellect. Maybe I was the reverse of that, but what I knew was that he was a guy who was good and reliable through and through and a worthy friend.