tagGay MaleMisunderstandings



I leant my hip against the veranda rail and drank my coffee as I gazed out over the green of the mountains and the string of houses nestled in the trees along the shore. All reflected back to me in the silver mirror that was the early-morning lake.

When I'd finished my coffee I wandered back inside and into the kitchen. Hank was there, wearing nothing but a pair of running shorts while consulting a recipe book and frowning. I dipped my finger into the beaten contents of the large mixing bowl standing on the bench beside him, and then I reached over and smeared the cake mix around his right nipple. Hank yelped and turned, making it easier for me to spread it in the dark hair and over the hard brown knob.

"Hey," he laughed, as I bent to suck the sweet cake mix off the hairs surrounding his dark nub and large aureole. Licking them clean, tasting the salt under the sweet goo. Feeling his nipple harden and his breathing get faster. Meanwhile, my cake mix-coated finger was moving to his left nipple and spreading the mixture over that dark spray of hair and the exposed skin.

I lapped and sucked that one clean too, my cock stiffening as I ran the last of the mix down to his quivering belly and followed it with my tongue. My own tool began to press against the material covering it, and my hand finally slipped into his shorts and grasped the root of his cock. I slowly slipped my hand along his engorging length, loving the growing firmness of him as I pulled his seven inches free of his shorts. My tongue stretched out to his cap and I tasted him there. Yum.

"Uh, oh." Hank gasped as his hands moved to my head. "Give me five minutes," he croaked, pulling my head up and bringing our mouths together. "I have to get this in the oven soon, or it wont be any good for tonight."

We had visitors coming for dinner. Our mouths joined in a deep kiss, and I pulled him to me and we rubbed our stiffening cocks together briefly, both already hard and eager.

"Ok," I replied in a growl, "Five minutes. And if you aren't lying naked on the bed by then, I'll be coming after you," I added, smiling. Looking into his dark, laughing, incredibly sexy eyes. "Yum. Have I told you lately how good you taste?" I asked, in my deepest voice.

"Frequently," he told me huskily, "Now go. Or this cake will be ruined."


There had been no life for me before there was Sandy. I had thought I was getting along fine, but I was wrong.

I had always thought of myself as an asexual sort of guy. I had been lost in my studies and then my job, not even realizing that there was anything else to life, when I'd been enticed to go on that blind date I refer to as "the disaster." We were parked at a seaside lookout point in my new convertible—I later suspected I only was along because of that convertible. Ned was in the backseat with his date, and I heard them going at each other hot and heavy. Then the girl I had been tagged with started rubbing up against me in the front seat and running her hand between my legs. The blood rushed to my ears—I could hear that over the noise of the surf below us. I panicked. And that ruined the evening. It wasn't until years later that I realized that all of my senses that evening were tuned into the sounds of lust that Ned was making there in the backseat.

How was I to know, though? My parents were cold people. They never touched each other that I could see. They certainly didn't touch me. It was all striving ambition for them. For me as well as them.

I didn't know until Sandy came along anything about myself, really. I only discovered myself—my wants and desires and capabilities—slowly. Slowly, as his cock entered me that first time and filled me and thrilled me and moved endlessly inside me. I had never known what a moan of pleasure was until I was nearly twenty-five.

And if it hadn't been for the misunderstandings, I probably still wouldn't know.

The cake that day. And I laugh about this. I was proud of my cakes. Vain, really. That dinner party was important to me. There was a lot of time and effort and money invested in that cake. And yet, when I heard the sound of the timer telling me it was done, I didn't care. Fuck the cake was all I could think. Sandy was arched over me, kissing me on the lips and the eyes, and in the hollow of my neck, while his hard, hard cock was moving ever deeper inside me. Fuck the cake was all I could think. And fuck the dinner party, if it came to that. I would be here, my legs spread wide for my lover for just as long as he was moving deep inside me.

We made do with almost-stale ice cream.


I remember it was a Tuesday. Not Monday. No idea why, as I have a bad memory for days and dates. I can't remember the date. The month, yes. It was August. Late. So it was a Tuesday in late August.

The guy who had been behind the counter came over with the bill. "I'm sorry we're closing now," he said, and I had looked up and seen that the small café was empty. Except for me.

"Sorry," I said vaguely, and stood up, finding I was unsteady on my feet as I fished out my wallet and put $50 into his hand.

"Enough?" I asked, feeling the full effects of the bottle of wine I had had with my late meal.

"I'll get your change," he replied, and moved off.

"Keep it," I mumbled, feeling like giving it all away.

My life was in ruins and money was a minor thing just at that moment.

I shuffled out onto the street, and the heat hit me. A hot damp evening. No, night. It was very late, and the usually busy road was empty; not a cab in sight, and I ended up walking all the way back to my apartment by the river. Revived by the fresh air. I often walked home. That was why I lived there, it was only a fifteen-minute walk to Morton Grey Developments.

At the entry door, I bumped into a guy leaving. He was dark and lean, but strong looking and masculine with it, and pulling some sort of small bag on wheels. He smiled slightly as he passed me, and somewhere in my fuzzy mind it registered that he appealed to me and that it was a long time since I had fucked anyone. Even longer since it had been really memorable. I turned to watch him walk to the edge of the road as a cab pulled up, and I stood and watched him get in and be driven away. He looked back at me briefly, and then I turned away and went in through the main entry door and forgot him.

Morton Grey Developments. I worked there. And on that Tuesday I had found my career collapsing into ruins. That was why I was crawling home late. That was why I had gone out to eat and had too much wine over a late dinner eaten alone. That was why I saw him—the first time.

At Morton Grey we had our weekly progress meetings on Tuesday mornings. And that morning Dave had bypassed me and handed our big new project to Malcolm Morrison. Malcolm had joined us six months before, coming over from a large private developer specializing in luxury retirement projects.

"It looks like Forest Lake is going ahead," Dave had said, and a murmur of approval went around the table.

The project was big and had come up against some environmental problems that had seen the design team reworking it for the last two years. I had been sitting back at the meeting, needing something new to get my teeth into and waiting hungrily for Dave to put it my way. I got all the hard ones, and the really big ones. Ever since I had first come to Morton Grey I had been focused on being the only choice to take over Dave's job when he retired.

Instead, he had looked at Malcolm, and said "Malcolm, I think that Forest Lake will benefit from your experience at Paradise Cove."

Surprised murmurs rippled around the table, and I went cold, and my smile froze.

A few minutes later he handed me Milson Park, a small inner-city development. Very small by our standards. A nothing project by mine, I thought.

"And Sandy, call my wife," he added, looking right at me, "She wasn't to talk to you about the weekend."

"I hope you aren't too upset about Dave giving the Forest Lake project to Malcolm," she said, after some desultory small talk.

I wasn't shocked she was behind the decision. I knew Dave relied heavily on her advice in some things. I just felt hurt and betrayed.

"Why?" I asked, clenching my fist, my anger showing through in my voice.

"Its time you did something but work, Sandy. Its four years now since Lars . . . died. I'm sorry, but someone has to say it. To do something. There's more to life than work. And anyway Milson Park is special. You'll like working on it."

"I wanted Forest Lake," I replied stonily, and there was a few moments silence.

"Do you do anything but work out at the gym and work? Tell me, honestly."

"That's not the point," I replied angrily.

Lars. There was hardly a day I didn't think of him. He'd worked in the emergency department of the local hospital and had died there. Stabbed repeatedly in the neck by a drug-crazed patient he had been attending to.

Rebecca and Dave had been more supportive than anyone else afterward, and I owed them both. I'd had nightmares regularly in the first year. Seeing Lars in a pool of blood, me struggling helplessly to stop it, waking exhausted and in tears.

That Tuesday had dragged, and I had left work depressed. Part of me knew that Rebecca was right. But most of me didn't want to admit it or deal with it. I decided my life was a mess, and after sitting alone in my flat—which had been Lars's and mine—I felt even more depressed and had finally gone out to have something to eat. And I had walked home more drunk than sober.

On Friday I took a walk over to the site for Milson Park. And there my work brain took over. I suddenly saw that it might be a small project, but that in its own small way, it was as challenging as Forest Lake. And it was probably the most exclusive project we had ever built. The half dozen residences were all spread over several levels at different angles, which maximized privacy and views. Looking at the plans and the site, I could see that the architect had done a great job. His name wasn't familiar; he was someone new, not someone I had worked with before.

But the site had problems with access and the slope of the site was difficult, and I knew that it was going to take up a lot of my time for such a small-sounding project. And I'd need to work closely with the architect. I wasn't sure that some of what he had in mind was going to be practical.

On Saturday night, I went to Rebecca's party. I had tossed up the idea of not going, but knew that was petty. I owed her and Dave too much. So instead I arrived on the dot at 7 pm.

Rebecca made a fuss of me, and as few other guest were there yet, she dragged me into the study and gave me her new "you need to get out and find someone" lecture. I mumbled and got annoyed, but I tried not to let it show. I downed a strong drink, and as soon as she released me, I wandered to the bar and got another. I usually didn't drink more than the odd glass of wine.

I knew nearly all the faces at the party. I went to most of their parties, and had for years. When I first started at Morton Grey, I had hesitated to take Lars the first time I was invited, but he had insisted. And we had been accepted as a couple without comment. Fortunately, Malcolm wasn't there today. I wasn't sure how I would have dealt with that. But it wasn't a party for the staff, it was more of a family party.

At some stage I saw a face I recognized, but was surprised to see, and couldn't quite place. By then I was feeling rather mellow and was certainly not sober and the party was quite noisy. Then Dave brought the familiar stranger over and introduced him. "Sandy, I want you to meet Frank, he. . . . ," Dave said more, but it was lost in a sudden shout of laughter and the general hubbub, and I smiled and shook hands and said 'Hi.' and Dave moved off.

"Nice party," I said, almost shouting "Where do I know you from?" I asked. I recognized Frank, but still couldn't place him. But he had given me an encouraging look over, and I found him surprisingly appealing.

"Rebecca," Frank replied, and I could hear his American accent, over the noise of the party, as he continued talking. "I've been taking cocks, four of them, all day. A mixture. They came out well."

I had no idea what he was talking about, and to be honest I was shocked at his openness, but it sounded incredibly hot and I liked the look of him and I was half drunk. And the last few days with time on my hands I was suddenly feeling hornier than I had for months.

I leant in and put my mouth to his ear, "So do you want to take my cock too? Fuck all night?" I asked.

Frank jumped back and went red and gave me an odd look. "I don't think so," he said coldly and turned and walked off.

Great butt I thought, as he moved away, shame he's such a stuck up slut. The party moved on, and I got a bit drunker and then got into the birthday cake. It was more than good. Rebecca told me it was her nephew Hank's special Milky Way cake.

"He bakes all the cakes for me," she said, "he's very versatile."

I didn't know about the versatility, but he could certainly make a great cake. I was ready to go before the party started to break up, and when I found Rebecca to say good-bye, she was talking to the very hot and good-looking, well-fucked, but stuck-up slut Frank.

"I'm off," I said, moving in to give Rebecca a kiss.

Rebecca hugged me, "You may as well share a taxi with Hank then," she said. "He's ready to go and he's temporarily living in your apartment building."

"Ok," I said, shrugging, having no idea which one Hank was, and not really caring, "I'll go and call the cab then."

As I ordered the cab, I saw Rebecca having a tense discussion with Frank.

"It's coming; I'll wait outside." I told her when I had finished the call.

"Hank will go with you," she said, and pushed Frank forward and left us.

"But. I thought you were Frank," I said, wondering how drunk I was.

"No. I'm Hank," he replied coldly.

"Oh," I said, "Rebecca said . . . oh, you are the guy who lives in my apartment building," I added foolishly, suddenly remembering where I had seen him before—our previous meeting at the entry door to the apartment building.

"Yes," he replied.

The cab came and we got in and rode silently into the city. I saw his hand covering his lap and was sure he had an erection, and was getting a bit sick of his coolness and superior look. And I was horny and angry and annoyed with Rebecca and. . . . And well lots of things. Like half drunk.

As soon as we were inside the entrance to the building, I pushed Frank, Hank, whatever, up against the wall, and, with my face right in his, I said, "You couldn't resist telling me you were getting fucked all day today. By four guys. And how good it turned out. So how come you don't want to be fucked all night? Or is your boyfriend waiting for you?" At the same time I grabbed his mound, surprised at the size of his growing dick, and I squeezed it.

"You're mad," he gasped, "I did not tell you anything like that. Get off."

Hank pushed me harder than I expected, and I staggered back, still feeling his stiffening dick in my now empty hand.

"I told you I had been baking cakes all day. Baking. I made Rebecca's birthday cake, and the three others, the carrot cake, the yellow Cake, and a coconut cake. You're a lunatic, with a serious drinking problem. And don't you ever touch me again," he added, shaking with anger and glaring at me, before he turned and sprinted up the stairs and out of sight.

A few moments later I heard a door bang closed somewhere up above me. I looked at the empty stairs, my cock staining at my pants, my hand still hot from the heat of his mound, my open mouth desperate to taste his.

"Shit," I said out loud. "Shit."


That first encounter with Sandy, that first misunderstanding-based encounter was when my life started. I know that now. Before that, I hadn't lived. I was as cold as ice—as frigid and as dead on my feet as my parents were. I gauge my life in two parts: before and after Sandy's cock entered me. The first part a cold death, the second part hot, hot overflowing of life, the scorching, freeing, imprisoning feel of the hot poker searing my insides, melting me, branding me as alive in the very center of me.

But those two parts don't divide so evenly. That awkward pass he made at me in a drunken stupor in the foyer of our apartment building. That was the beginning of the beginning. He cradled my penis through the thin fabric of my trousers, the first time since that unfortunate blind date in my convertible that anyone had touched me there. And although it enraged me, it also inflamed me. I didn't consciously process it at that moment, but somewhere, somewhere deep inside me, I knew that I wanted that hand there. That I wanted much more than that. I wanted to be writhing underneath this man as he thrust inside me and moved in and out, endlessly.

I stumbled up the stairs to my apartment, and, as I had done on many a lonely night, I lay on my bed, naked, and stroked myself. But whereas before I never dreamt of anything while I was masturbating other than relief followed by untroubled sleep, this night I dreamt of Sandy fucking me as I masturbated—and I engorged and sighed and flowed as I never had before. The beginning, although I told myself before entering a restless sleep that I never wanted to see that man again. I totally misunderstood. I genuinely thought I wanted the ice rather than the heat.

* * *

Having made a complete fool of myself on Saturday night I spent Sunday getting over my hangover, going to the gym and dropping into the office and having another look a the plans for Milson Park. I left a message on the architect's answering machine, asking if he could call me to arrange a site meeting as soon as possible.

On Monday I seriously got stuck into organizing the first stage of the project. And I worked on the ones I was still finishing off on. I got back from lunch to find the architect had called, and someone had checked my diary and made an appointment already for the site meeting at Milson Park. I frowned, a bit annoyed, but I could make it so I left it.

On Wednesday I walked up to the site and looked over it yet again as I waited.

"Hi, are you Sandhurst Cullen?" a voice asked from behind me. I hadn't heard a car pull up, and I spun around, jerked out of my reverie. And yes, I had recognized the voice too, it was him. Hank, Frank whoever. Shit.

"I thought your name was Randy," Hank said angrily.

"No. Sandy," I replied in shock, "And you are Hanrob Moore? The architect?" I replied, hoping it wasn't true.

"Yes," he replied grimly.

We looked at each other for a few minutes, knowing that we had to work together.

"Um, they are great plans," I said. "Um, I'm sorry about the other night. I misheard what you said," I added.

Hank seemed to relax a fraction. I didn't, I just wanted to reach out and take hold of him. And I could hardly stop myself. I'd have fucked him right there on the bare ground of the muddy site if I could have.


I was panicked when I fully understood it was him. I had never wanted to see him again. Or, so I had convinced myself that I never wanted to see him again. I could feel the heat starting to rise. Little did I know that it was the ice of my former life that was melting away—that forever now it would be heat, that whenever I was alone with Sandy for the rest of our lives, he would find me only in gym shorts, staving off the heat. He was that hot for me, the burning poker buried deep inside me.

I was sure he could feel the heat coming off me—that he could tell I was hyperventilating behind the calm exterior I was trying so hard to project—as he stood there and spoke enthusiastically of this Milson Park project. It was from that moment that I began to love him—not just to lust after him, but to love him for far more than what was swinging between his legs. The Milson Park project was a small jewel, possibly the best opportunity to show creativity and both form and function that I had ever had—and perhaps ever would have. But it was a small project, something nearly every builder and architect would pass over for something big and flashy. And Sandy was talking about it just as I felt about it. He could see what I thought only I would be able to see.

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