Stephen Ch. 01

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A homophobic man begins to learn about himself.
8k words
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47.2k
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Part 1 of the 2 part series

Updated 09/22/2022
Created 09/26/2009
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Dedicated to Krista, since it's her favorite. With thanks to her and to Melanie for their input and Melanie especially for her editing.

Even though it's in "Group Sex", this story contains a heavy M/M theme. If that's not your thing, you might want to move along.

***

I rolled into the yard an hour or so before dawn on what looked to be a beautiful spring morning. The plan was for me to meet my new road partner and head out early- we had hundreds of miles to cover and many weeks' worth of work at the end of them.

Normally the boss would break something like this up, send a couple guys for a while, then a couple others, like that, but I didn't care about being on the road for weeks and months. And I was his most reliable guy, he wasn't going to complain about me handling the whole task. It meant he wouldn't have to send anyone else out to fix anything, which was the normal course for a job this big. We'd decided that the best plan would be to rotate my assistants as they wore out and just let me go for as long as I could stand it.

I was pleased to see that he'd shown up early enough to see me off. That's class. He wasn't scheduled to be in for almost three hours, but here he was to make sure everything went smoothly for me. We loaded my truck, went over some of the job specs, and sat down in his office with our coffee. After a few minutes he glanced at his watch.

"Half an hour late, now. Not a good start."

"Nope," I said. "Who're you sending, anyway?"

"You know Stephen? Little guy, works for Loretta?"

"The one with the stereo?"

"Yeah," he said with a grin. The guy in question had a ridiculously jacked-up truck with a stereo you could hear from 3/4 of a mile away. I'm all about the good tunes in my ride, but there's no need for volume that you can literally hear vibrating the vehicle apart.

"What'd I do to you, man?" I said with a laugh. He grinned again.

"Loretta says he's okay. Does his work. And he's been bugging her about getting the extra money on the road. Which reminds me, he's gonna ask you about rooming up."

"Sure, long as he's not intolerable." At this company we got paid a per diem allowance instead of the company directly paying for our rooms. Which of course meant we all stayed at the cheapest places we could find and pocketed the rest of the money. If you roomed up you could really save some loot, it amounted to a nice, legal, tax-free raise.

"One thing, Ken. What Loretta actually said was, 'He's okay as long as you partner him with a white guy.' Just a heads-up, you've got a lot of friends that look like me. You might want to do your drinking in cracker bars if he's going with you."

"Sheee-it. Thanks a lot. You're officially off my Christmas card list."

"Hey," he said with a laugh, "at least he's small. If worse comes to worst you can smack him around some. Which I'm gonna do if he doesn't get his ass in here."

He grabbed the phone to wake the guy, Stephen, up. I wandered outside to enjoy the morning air instead of listening to a bitching-out, but a moment later he followed me, phone in hand.

"His truck's broke," he said without preamble. "Wants to know if he can ride with you."

The look he gave me was wry. I shook my head with a little laugh.

"Sure, why not," I said. "Save me waiting while he gets that pig stuck in every patch of rock. Tell him to pack light and leave most of his tools, we'll work out of my stuff."

"Pack light," he said into the phone. "Ken's got better tools than you, anyway. Just bring your cordless and whatever cable tools fit in one bag, none of your hand stuff. And leave the pretty dresses."

He gave me the phone so I could get directions to Stephen's place, and I was off within a few minutes. Fortunately he was kind of on my way out of town, I didn't have to go an hour the wrong way or anything.

At least he was ready when I got there. And he'd followed instructions, he only tossed two bags in the back of the Bronco, plus a tool bag and his cordless drill set.

He was cute enough. Small, as the boss had said, no more than 5'4" and slight of build, with collar-length light blonde hair and a pretty face. I grinned to myself.

"Now, Ken," I thought. "Don't go thinking of fucking the young man. No doubt he's far too macho for that."

He climbed in and we were off. My suspicion of his would-be macho attitude was confirmed within the first few minutes of conversation, when I asked where he'd been working.

"So, you're one of Loretta's guys," I said. "Were you working in the Bay Area, then?"

"Yeah, for a couple weeks at a time," he said. "Glad to be out of there, man."

"Why's that? Didn't get along with Loretta?" I could almost hear his answer before he gave it.

"Nah, bro. Too many fuckin' faggots up there. We saw dudes just walking down the street holding hands."

"Oh my god, how awful! You must have been traumatized! Good thing they didn't kiss, you might have PTSD!" Sigh.

He looked at me like he was pretty sure I was giving him shit but not quite positive. Or maybe he was sure, but taking stock of the difference in our sizes.

We had better than a five-hour drive to the first site to get to know each other. His conversational interests seemed limited to trucks (he couldn't understand why I didn't jack mine up like his), hip-hop music (yep, a racist who listened to black music. If only they were rare), football (Raiders fan, of course), pussy (apparently he'd had all of it on the West Coast), and pro wrestling. Especially the last.

I'm not without my own character faults. One of them is that I always make an assumption about guys like him: Homophobic, falsely macho to an extreme degree, massively insecure, and obsessed with a form of entertainment that should really be classified as repressed gay porn seems to me to lead to an inevitable and obvious conclusion. Repressed homosexuality, latent homosexuality, whatever term you want to use, the boy was hungry for some cock.

I almost laughed aloud the first time we stopped for gas. He came out of the little mini-mart and stood by me while I watched the pump roll. I could see him staring at me out of the corner of my eye.

"Dude," he said admiringly. "You're, like, all yoked up. You're diesel."

"Am I? I'm only about two hundred, still a cruiserweight most of the time. I guess I don't think of that as too big, my best buddy has like eighty pounds of muscle on me."

"You mean Shawn? I worked on one of his jobs. That dude is cock-strong."

"And head-sure." 'Cock-strong?' Are you kidding me? Why don't you just get some hot-pants and a mesh shirt, man?

That image made me smile. He would definitely be cute all twinked up. Hell, he was pretty damned cute anyway.

Easy, Ken. We will not be attempting to turn the little angry boy out. Even if we think we know better than he does what he's angry about.

Or maybe I would. Stephen's urge toward men turned out to be some extremely low-hanging fruit. I'd have been a fool not to pick it.

He was practically begging for it, from the very first night. Tired from the long drive and the bit of work we'd been able to do, I crawled into the shower as soon as we got to our room. When I came out wrapped in a towel he just couldn't manage to take his eyes off me. He was so enthralled by my torso that I don't think he was even aware that I was watching him watch me, or that I found it funny.

You know there's no way I could let something like that lie. I decided to see how far I could press, see how he'd react.

After dinner we sat around playing video games and watching the tube for a while. It was still early when I announced my intention to hit the sheets.

"Alright, man. That's about it for me, that drive wiped me out. Don't feel like you've gotta turn off the tube or anything, I'm just gonna stretch out and read for a while 'til I doze off."

"Okay, cool," he said. I moved over by the closet, which was right next to his bed, and stripped down.

"Hope you don't mind," I said. "I have to sleep naked, if I wear anything it feels like I'm tied up or something."

"Y-yeah. That's okay," he stammered, his eyes locked on me. He wasn't radar-locked on my cock, but his gaze certainly never climbed above my chest.

I stretched out on my bed, leaving the covers to one side, and spent an hour or so working on my book. It wasn't hard to see him staring. He watched an infomercial for like half an hour, on mute, because he was so busy looking at me he didn't notice his show had ended.

For the next few days that was the pattern. I started showering as soon as we got to the room and just stayed naked, or near it, from then on. And his fascination never wavered, not in the slightest. If anything, it seemed to grow. He did get enough control to stop staring like a 12-year old at Hef's place, but his eyes never left me for long.

And I started adding some physical contact to the game. I'd put a hand on his shoulder as I gave him instructions at work, lean over him, arm on his shoulder, to point something out, clown around physically a little in the room, whatever occurred to me. He quickly got used to me sitting naked beside him while we played video games, so much so that he'd shift over to make room on his bed as soon as one of us suggested it.

I kept expecting a protest, but none was forthcoming. Of course, I hadn't made a move on him yet. That's always the tough one, putting a move on a guy who thinks he's straight. The game was fun, though, and doing a good job of helping the otherwise dull evenings pass. And I could live with it if it didn't go further, it had started as a game and could end that way. I admit my fetish for turning homophobes, but it doesn't bug me to miss.

Thursday morning I stepped into the bathroom just after his shower, as he was standing at the sink getting ready to brush his teeth. All he was wearing was his underwear- black bikinis, I shit you not, like he should have a gold medallion around his neck, a hairy chest, and heavy cologne. Or different genitalia.

"Nice panties, princess. Scootch over a little, and give me some of that." I bumped him over a little with my bare hip and held my toothbrush out toward the toothpaste he still held. I'd placed a hand on his opposite hip as I moved him and I left it there as I brushed my teeth. He stiffened, but didn't protest. His toothbrush hardly moved as he stood by me, staring at me in the mirror.

I took a little longer than I had to, shifting my hand a little to hold his hip as I leaned down to spit, then patted him on the ass as I finished.

"C'mon. We've got a lot to do today. Quit staring and brush." I grinned, winked, playfully pushed his head, and went to get dressed.

He was quiet on the ride to the site, but perked up at my good mood and was bantering happily soon enough. The mood lasted through the day, it even survived a semi-humorous conversation along the lines of, "Hey, man, it's just you and me, here. Just relax, okay? I'm not gonna think less of your manhood if you don't act like a sucked-up, macho asshole all the time. I promise." It was at least the third such conversation we'd had, but this was the first time he didn't get tense at it.

I pushed it again at the end of the day. The site was on top of a small mountain or very large hill, and had a great view in three directions. The sunset was just gorgeous as we were packing up. I stopped to look at it as he was talking about something, telling me that my music was growing on him as I recall. After a moment I put a hand on his shoulder and gently turned him to face the west.

"Shh. Check that out. Beautiful, isn't it?" I was half behind him as he turned, and I pointed over his shoulder with the hand I'd used to turn him. It sort of naturally put my arm around him, and I just left it there, draped down across the crook of his neck. Not only did he not resist, he actually looked back over his shoulder at me for a moment as I watched the sunset.

It was long after dark when we got back to the room after dinner, and I headed straight to the shower. When I came out he was watching wrestling. I grabbed my book and flopped down on my bed, but watched the TV for a minute.

"See," I said, "I don't get how anyone sees this as anything but gay porn."

"Shut up!" he said with a laugh. "There's nothing gay about it!"

"Really? You've got two guys, extremely well-built, half naked, oiled up and grappling each other. I mean, if it was combat that'd be one thing, but it's all fake. Which means they're just putting on a sex show, right? It's like hot oil wrestling for repressed queers."

"Shut up! It's not fake, it's scripted!"

"Oh, well, there's an important distinction. I'm not sure what it is, but I'm sure it's there."

"Besides, a lot of girls like wrestling," he said, still laughing. "My girlfriend likes wrestling."

"And a lot of girls like gay porn. It's cool, man, you like to watch muscular, half-naked men grope each other. I'm casting no stones."

"Hey, you're not one to talk! You're muscular and half-naked most of the time. Or all naked, like now!"

"So, what, you want to watch me grapple those guys, is that what you're saying? They're kind of big for me. I can still find my nuts without a search party, I'm not in their class."

"No!" he laughed.

"Ah, I get it. You want me to grapple you!" I leaped suddenly off my bed onto his, bouncing on top of him. He laughed, almost a shriek, and we wrestled around for a good few minutes. I had him by better than sixty pounds and could easily have controlled him, but it was more fun to roll around grabbing and tussling and watching him laugh.

Finally I pinned him down, sitting astride his stomach and holding his wrists down on either side of his head. My cock was a little chubby and I could feel the head of his poking against my ass cheek.

"Do you surrender?"

"No!" He laughed and tried to squirm away.

"Is this where I pin you for a three-count? Oh, wait, that's real wrestling. I'm supposed to pick you up and throw you down a few times first."

The wrestling was back on for a minute, and the laughing. I grabbed him with one arm over his shoulder and the other under his crotch, picked him up and bounced him off the bed a couple times. His cock pressed against my arm, hard enough to etch glass.

When he went slack and quit fighting, I rolled back on top of him. This time I was a little higher on his torso, my hands on his shoulders, my half-erect cock laying on his chest. His breath came in great, laughing gasps, and we were both a bit sweaty.

"Now I pin you," I said with a laugh.

"Get off me, fag!" He was laughing as he said it, but he immediately gasped and put a hand over his mouth.

"It's okay, Stephen. It's different when it's light-hearted teasing. You can call me fag when we're all sweaty and laughing and happy 'cause we've been wrestling. Or, y'know, 'cause I've been corn-holing you." I grinned.

"Get off!" We both laughed and I let him push me off. He immediately bounced to his feet above me and pointed an accusing finger.

"You're a faaaag!" He said it in a big voice, almost singing it. "I can't believe you attacked me naked! I need a shower!"

"Don't act like you didn't like it, Stephenie. Wearing my ball-sweat is a small price to pay." I slapped the backs of his ankles, flipping him onto his back on the bed. He laughed as he bounced.

"Shut up! And get out of my bed! You're sweating all over it."

I joined him at the sink again the next morning, again shifting him with a bare hip and standing with my hand on his waist while I brushed my teeth. I was groggy, and it took me a minute to notice he had another pair of the bikini briefs on, this time in blue.

"Yeah, those are cute," I said, snapping his waistband, "but I kind of like pink panties. Got any of those?"

"Shut up!" He bumped me with his hip and just for a second I saw a surprised look on his face, like he couldn't believe he'd just done that.

"They're not panties," he said with a laugh.

"There's not even an airlock in the front," I teased. I reached around further and pulled the waistband out again, this time right in front, and let them snap back.

"Jockeys have an airlock. Those are panties. It's okay, though, they're cute." I patted him on the butt, which didn't even tense him up this time.

"Come on, uke," I said. "Hurry up. It's Friday, I want to get finished."

We grabbed some breakfast and headed out to the site. I was glad this was the last trip to this particular location, the road to it was nasty and muddy and rocky and very annoying to drive repeatedly.

"About this weekend," I said along the way, "I assume I'm driving you home? Will you be able to get your truck to a mechanic on the weekend, or do we need to leave late Monday? 'Cause normally I don't go home every weekend, it's way too long a drive. It's no problem this weekend, I know you didn't plan on your truck breaking, but if you go home every week you'll need to get it taken care of."

"What do you usually do on weekends if you don't go home?"

"Depends. When we hit Vegas..." I flipped a hand over in an 'it's obvious' kind of gesture.

"Yeah, sure. But what would you do here in One Horse?"

"Find a bar, paint it red, see if any of the local flavor follows me home. Try to make a date to guide me around the local sights tomorrow. Roll out to the next site Sunday unless something grabs my eye here."

"Um... I don't need to go home if you want to put it off 'til another weekend. I'm not spending any money on gas riding with you, and all I'll do is play Playstation if I go home. My girlfriend and I are fighting, she's at her mom's back east."

"Up to you."

"Then we'll stay." He paused. "Hey, what was that you called me this morning?"

"What, uke?"

"Yeah."

"It's Japanese." I grinned. "It's, um, nuanced. It's hard to translate. I'll save it for our next long drive. Basically, it means 'small man.' Or maybe 'small, pretty man.' Like I said, it's hard to translate. It's not an insult."

It's not hard to translate at all. But damned if I'm going to just now.

"Uke," I said again, pointing to him.

"And seme." I pointed to myself.

"What's that," he said, "like, 'large man?'"

"Kind of." No. "Again, it's hard to translate. And it's hard to concentrate on this bumpy road. Remind me next time we've got a long-ass drive, I'll explain it."

(To save some googling for those unfamiliar with the terms, seme is a top, uke is a bottom. Roughly. In yaoi, the uke is almost always drawn small and effeminate, the seme larger and butch. Well, more butch. It is anime, after all. Nobody's exactly Wolverine in anime.)

The day passed quickly enough. We finished up at the site, drove back in, had some dinner, showered up, and went out looking for trouble.

Almost found some, too. We got drunk, and Stephen was being the obnoxious version of himself. I was making time with a couple girls, thinking I was buttering one up for my little wing man, when I saw him getting into it with one of the local guys.

The guy was obviously a bully. He'd glared at me as we passed each other earlier, unhappy that we were horning in on the best looking girls in One Horse, but hadn't said anything. Now he'd cornered the smaller guy and felt his oats a bit more. I sighed.

"Ladies, I have to go rescue my friend from Cooter, over there. Shall we order another round and move up to that booth back there?"

Fortunately the confrontation was quick and non-violent. I pointed out to Cooter and one of his buddies the likelihood of them ever succeeding with those girls if a 125-lb man and I beat them until they pissed themselves, and they had just enough sobriety left to look at their pendulous guts, my shoulders, and the pool cue Stephen was holding and do the math.