tagGay MaleNaked, Not Nude

Naked, Not Nude


About the time the top-down convertible stopped just down the road, waiting for him to catch up, Brady realized who it was. He should have been faster on the uptake, he thought. Who, other than the guy living five houses down from his parent's house in Titusville, Florida, owned a restored, cherry-red 1967 Impala SS convertible? Of course, what could he do other than walk up to the car? Dive into the bushes? The guy had stopped to give him a lift.

Brady's dad had made him stop mowing Mr. Wheaton's lawn three years earlier when Brady was in high school. His dad wouldn't say why, but it was right after Mrs. Wheaton moved out and took the kids. The whole neighborhood was buzzing about whatever had gone bad between the Wheatons and wouldn't talk to their kids about it. The Wheatons had seemed like a Ken and Barbie couple up until then.

He hesitated for a moment, but only for a moment. He needed to get back to the college campus from bumming a ride to his parent's house to raid the secret stash of money he had there while they were vacationing over in Tampa. He was hitching it, and Mr. Wheaton had been good enough to the stop the car. Brady needed the ride. He thought too of pulling his T-shirt back on. There was a thought in the back of his mind that he probably should do that. But he didn't. He also didn't want to think about how he'd been told he'd get a car to stop faster for him if he was shirtless—because if he thought about that, he'd also have to give some thought to what he'd had to do a couple of times to get the rides he got. But he had to admit that it always worked—and it wasn't like he didn't give out at college from time to time.

As he reached the passenger side of the car, he heard his name being called. "Brady? Brady Buxton? That's you, isn't it? Where can I take you?"

"You headed to the center?" Brady asked as he looked up and down the road before pulling open the heavy door of the old land cruiser. "If so, I'm on your way. The college by the causeway out to Merritt Island. If not, no problem. I'll get another hitch."

Walt Wheaton worked at the Kennedy Space Center, as did most of those Brady knew in Titusville, including both his own mother and father. Brady didn't know what Wheaton did there, but he assumed it must be physical, because Wheaton was in top physical shape. He did a lot of running up and down the streets in the neighborhood in just his athletic shorts and runners, and it didn't look like he had an ounce of fat on him. Not bad for an older guy. He must be in his late thirties at least, Brady thought.

When Brady opened the passenger door, though, he stepped back, his eyes going big. "Whoa," Brady both thought and said. Mr. Wheaton might look stripped down during his neighborhood runs, but he was even more stripped down than that now. He was naked.

"What?" Wheaton said, and then he laughed. "Oh, yeah, I didn't think. It's become so natural. Climb on in, Brady. I won't bite. I'm on my way out to Playalinda Beach, on the northeast edge of Merritt Island. Here, I'll cover up, if it will make you more comfortable." As he said this, he unrolled a beach towel that had been stuffed in front of the center console and spread it across his lap.

That hadn't been in time to hide from Brady, though, that the man was built big and that the sandy-red hair on his head was just as sandy red elsewhere.

"Still got the Impala," Brad said, nervous for something to say as they got on the road.

"Yep, still got the old '67 Impala Supersport. Wouldn't let go of it for the world. Happy my wife didn't want it. I'm livin' alone in the house now, you know."

"A 396-4BBL-V8 engine," Brady said.

"Yep. You remembered. I'm impressed."

"I've always loved this car."

"I always would have given you a ride. All you had to do was ask. I'd still like to give you a ride. So, off we go; go ahead and climb in."

Brady swallowed hard and decided it was time to change the subject. "Playalinda Beach? Isn't that—where you are headed?"

"Yes, that's a nudist beach. That's why I'm . . . well, you know. Do you know what Tuesday is? And, get in the car. Neither one of us can get to where we're going if I don't get this buggy going down the road."

"No, what's next Tuesday?" Brady said, as he slid into the seat, but kept as close to the passenger door as he could after he'd closed it. It was a big boat of a car, so there was distance between them—which Brady thought was good. Bucket seats, which also was good. He was having a bit of problem with tension and response. He was a player—in sort of an exploratory way so far. He just never thought of doing it with Mr. Wheaton. Now, with his father's admonitions going through his brain and certain things maybe clicking into place, thoughts were entering his brain. He was fighting them off, though.

Included back there in his brain were thoughts about Mr. Wheaton he'd had when he was mowing the guy's lawn. Not thoughts he should have been thinking then—and maybe shouldn't be thinking now. The guy was a lot older than he was and he lived in Brady's parents' neighborhood.

"Tuesday is National Nude Day," Wheaton said, as he pulled the car out onto the street and pointed it at the Atlantic Ocean. "Both my wife and I are nudists. Well, my former wife, I guess I have to say. We met at a nudist camp. Not something we followed in the neighborhood, of course, but we'd go to beach camps now and again. It's all natural and comes comfortably for me now. I'm sorry if I wasn't thinking about how it looked when I picked you up. But I was driving directly to Playalinda Beach for the weekend. They're having a big celebration to mark the day. And it's not something I'm supposed to go to dressed."

"Uh, it's OK," Brady said. "But, uh, is it really feeling so natural to go around naked?"

"Naked's not a word we use for it, Brady. Naked is being stripped of all your clothes and exposed to emotions and senses—if you know what I mean. Nude is a lifestyle. You're still stripped, but it's of inhibitions and all the baggage we have to carry around all day in regular society. When you're nude and with other nudists you just are stripped of all the baggage. thoughts of sensual don't enter into it."

"But, uh, doesn't it get embarrassing? Isn't it sometimes, you know, arousing—and easy to see?"

Wheaton laughed. "Not for experienced nudists, like me. You get used to it. Older and out-of-shape nudists, of course, don't cause much trouble for those not yet fully immersed in the practice. It's not about sex—not when you really get into it. It's more about freedom. Hardbodied and young and attractive people sometimes make controlling yourself difficult, but nudists understand. They take someone showing arousal in their stride—just like being given a verbal compliment—like me telling you that you are sure looking good these days—which you are. You must work out a lot."

"Yes, some," Brady answered. He couldn't help letting his eyes gaze at Wheaton's towel-covered lap to see if he was showing any signs that Brady himself was experiencing. But the towel was so thick and bunched up that he couldn't tell.

When the trajectory of his gaze raised to Wheaton's face, he saw that the man was looking at him instead of the road and had a little smile on his face. And the gaze hadn't started at Brady's eyes. It had moved up from his young, cut torso.

Embarrassed—and feeling something else he was fighting—Brady said, "If you turn right up there, my dorm is down the street a bit." He wasn't sure, but he thought what he said came out more like a squeak than his normal voice.

As the car stopped and he opened the door, Wheaton said, "Remember, it's nude, not naked. We're not talking anything prurient here. It's just a natural, back-to-nature lifestyle. You might give it a try. I'd love to take you to one of our gatherings, if you're ever interested."

"Uh, yes, thanks," Brady answered. "And, uh, thanks for the ride. Thanks a lot, Mr. Wheaton."

"Call me Walt, Brady. You're grown now. What, nineteen? Twenty?"

"One, going on the other. Thanks again for the ride. See you around."

"I sure hope so; you know where I live," Wheaton said, flashing Brady a big smile before he got his land yacht back in gear and on the road.

Brady couldn't stumble into his dorm fast enough.

* * * *

Brady had to hold his T-shirt in front of his crotch as he entered the dorm and hit the stairs to his floor. Maybe if he studied nudism deeper, he could be as casual about it as Mr. Wheaton was and as easily separate it from sexy and arousal as Mr. Wheaton did. But he couldn't do this, and he found not just finding Mr. Wheaton naked—or nude, as Mr. Wheaton put it—in his car out in public disturbing and, yes, arousing, but it also didn't help that Mr. Wheaton was a hunk and a half or that Brady had been known to fantasize about older men—and, at one time, about Mr. Wheaton himself.

When Brady got to the floor his room was on, he didn't go straight to his room. He stopped at the resident adviser's door and knocked.

"Yeah, whata ya want," came the sleepy reply. "I'm tryin' to study here."

"It's me, Brady," Brady said in a tone pitched to be heard beyond the closed door but, Brady hoped, not up and down the hall. All the guys on the hall knew what it meant when a guy sought out the resident adviser on this floor, and it wasn't to get guidance on studying or on toothbrush etiquette.

"Come." And then when Brady was standing inside the door he'd closed behind him and was looking down at the bed where the resident counselor, Kenny, was stretched out in all his football linesmen glory in just briefs and socks, having been woken from a nap, Kenny asked again, "What do you want?" But this time he didn't ask it the gruff way he had before knowing who was knocking on his door.

"I want what you've been wanting me to want. I got a raging hard on and I need it bad."

"It'll be more than a blow job."

"I understand."

"Come 'er."

Kenny sat up on the side of the bed, as Brady stumbled over to him. Then, rather than pulling Brady down to sit beside him on the bed, he pressed the younger man all the way down on his knees between his spread thighs, pulled his cock out of his brief slit with one hand, cupped the back of Brady's head with the other, and brought Brady's mouth down to open over the head of his cock. "If this is what you came for, this is what you get."

As Brady showed that he'd done this before, Kenny murmured, "Awww, nice," through his released breath. "Be good to Kenny and Kenny will be good to you. Been waitin' a long time for you to come to Kenny."

They were sixty-nining on the bed when Kenny pulled back and asked. "Why today?"

"Just creeped out about something, I guess," Brady answered.

"Some guy's advances creepin' you out? Some creepy guy after you?"

What do you mean, Brady thought. Who's advances would have creeped me out more over this semester than yours? But what he said was, "I creeped myself out more than anything—seeing something I wanted that's been in front of me for some time. Surprised and scared the shit out of me. But, we just gonna full around here, or are you gonna nail me?"

"You know I'm gonna nail you. You knew at the start of the term I was gonna nail you. You've just been playin' hard to get."

Their sixty-nine turned into a struggle of how that was going to happen. Brady's experiences had been pretty vanilla and furtive up to that point. Kenny liked variety, though, and positions that showed off his size and his strength. Brady was trying to keep his head from bouncing off the floor at the side of the bed or for the strain of his weight to fall on the back of his neck by palming his hands on the floor in an effort to keep his head off the concrete, as Kenny, sitting on the side of the bed, grabbed Brady's hips, with Brady's ankles hooked on Kenny's shoulders, and jack hammered Brady's channel with a thick, throbbing cock.

Brady was nearing exhaustion when Kenny hauled him up on the bed and on top of him as he lay stretched on his back. "Like a reversed crab," he muttered, as he brought Brady on top of him, nudged Brady to place his feet on either side of Kenny's hips, with his legs bent, and grab for the railing of the headboard over their heads with his fists. Grabbing Brady's hips in his hands again, Kenny skewered Brady's asshole with his cock and pulled Brady's channel on and off his cock.

A short time later found Brady stretched out on his belly on the bed, grasping the rails of the headboard overhead and slightly raised on his keens, as, reversed and on top of Brady, Kenny grasped the legs at the bottom of the bed and put his pelvis into motion, mining Brady's channel in a reverse thrust. Pumping and pumping . . .

. . . Until Brady collapsed in exhaustion, and Kenny just rolled him off to the side on his belly, reversed his body on top of Brady, saddled himself over Brady's buttocks, and rode him to a taunting completion, while Brady moaned and begged for the total fuck he was getting to forget the one he feared he really wanted.

"There, forgot what was creeping you out?" Kenny growled in Brady's ear as he covered him close from above after shooting off and left his signature hicky on the side of Brady's neck.

"Yes, God you wore me out," Brady murmured. And indeed, Kenny had worn him out, and Brady now recalled what guys had said about Kenny—not to go with him without expecting a full workout. Brady had been fucked before, but never for as long and in as many positions as that. Kenny's attentions should have satisfied him for many days to come. But Brady wasn't entirely truthful. All the time Kenny was fucking him, Brady was thinking of the mature man's hunky naked body he'd just left, driving away in his cherry-red, 396-4BBL-V8 engine 1967 Impala SS convertible.

* * * *

By the time Walt Wheaton had made it across the causeway onto Merritt Island and then northeast to Playalinda Beach and had run the gauntlet that got him onto the nudist beach, Brady had already been pretty much nailed by Kenny and Walt was panting heavily to do the same to somebody.

He had lusted after that Buxton boy for all the years the kid had mowed his lawn. He had sensed some interest coming from the other side that he thought could be cultivated and only had been waiting for the kid to be legal. But in the meantime, he got caught in the act with another guy, which had led to the unraveling of his marriage and being shunned in the neighborhood. The Buxton kid had gone off to college, and Walt hadn't seen him around after that. Seeing him today—grown a couple of years hunkier—had put Walt in a mood that he couldn't ignore.

Marching up to a tent with a familiar rainbow emblazoned on its side, Walt jerked open the tent flap and, in the dim lighting of the canvas protection from the sun, saw the not-so-young, but not-too-old and well-preserved stretched out body of fellow nudist and investment banker Charles Laney. Charlie was lying full frontal toward the front of the tent. Conveniently, he had been wanking off, and thus was hard and ready to go.

"Spread your legs and give me your ass," Walt growled. "I got a load to drop fast."

"I thought you'd never ask," the slightly effeminate Charles purred, grabbing and stuffing his pillow under his butt, spreading and bending his legs, putting his feet flat on either side of the blow-up mattress, and giving Walt an "It's about time" saucy look.

Walt slid down onto his knees between Charles' spread legs and reached up with a hand to grip Charles' throat and hold his head and shoulder blades flat on the surface of the mattress. Charles gasped and groaned, struggling a bit to arch his back to provide a straighter trajectory for the penetration, but Walt struck fast, true, and deep and immediately went into a rhythmic pumping action that had them both groaning and straining against each other to get full mutual benefit of the spiking.

Pulling out and shooting off on Charles' thigh, riskily not having taken the time and patience with a condom, Walt collapsed on top of the banker, younger than Walt only by a couple of years, but thin and willowy to Walt's muscular hunkiness, and slightly limp wristed.

Charles had already ejaculated. He wrapped his legs around Walt's thighs, holding the more muscular man to him, hoping that Walt would fuck him again—he'd wanted Walt to fuck him for the longest time; it's why he'd joined this nudist group. And, although recognizing the danger of the lack of protection, he had reveled in the skin-on-skin friction of the fuck and regretted, despite everything, that Walt hadn't come inside him. He ran his fingers lightly over Walt's shoulder blades, torso, and buttocks as Walt's panting decreased. Running his hands back up to Walt's head, he pushed his fingers through Walt's luxuriant sandy-red hair, whispered in his ear, "Fuck me again. Please fuck me again. Just as ferociously as that." Then he tried to bring Walt's face around for a kiss on the lips, but Walt wasn't having any of that. Not a sucky-face kiss with this wimp.

This had been the release of tension and frustration, not a romantic tryst.

"Fuck me again, Walt," Charles whined.

"In a minute," Walt answered. "If you've got a—"

"You can bareback me. I'm clean. I want you to bareback me," Charles murmured.

"If you don't have any rubbers in here, it won't happen."

With a sigh, Charles reached over and unzipped the duffle bag he'd brought with him. He had been living in hope for this attention from the magnificent Walt Wheaton. So, of course he had a couple of condoms with him.

After the second, doggy position, fucking, Walt lay on his back on the mattress with Charles stretched out beside him on the sand.

"I've been wanting that," Charles said. "But I don't know—"

"It doesn't have anything to do with you," Walt answered. "You know we aren't supposed to get into any sex here—it flies in the face of the principles of nudism."

"We don't have to do it here. I'll give you my phone number. My house or yours—or a motel—I don't care."

"Not likely to happen again," Walt said. "Just had a blast from the past. Something I wanted to get into a couple of years ago. Lost control. Had to spike someone. Gotta work that out of my system, though."

Walt rose and quickly left the tent, looking around the beach to make sure that no one had seen him. People were just starting to gather for the Nude Day celebrations. He wasn't supposed to be into this kind of shit here. People got tossed out of the nudist scene for losing it like this.

Good thing, though. Now he wouldn't be walking around with a hard on thinking of Brady Buxton—if he could keep himself from thinking about Brady Buxton.

When we was gone, Charles moved back to the mattress and started slowly jacking off again. He was disappointed that Walt didn't promise more of a hookup. But it was Walt's body that had gotten Charles to pretend he was a nudist. And it had happened once. So, it would happen again. He lay there, purring, smiling, and stroking.

* * * *

Walt answered the knock on his door at dusk two days later.

"Brady," he said, surprised.

"Do you really believe all that shit about nudism being different from being naked and some sort of pure back-to-nature philosophy with no sense of arousal or sex—and if you see another nudist and get hard it has nothing to do with sex?"

"No, Brady," Walt answered with a smile. "I became a nudist to shop naked bodies for who I'd like to screw. How about you?"

"I've seen a naked body I'd like to screw me," Brady answered, almost breathless.

"Driving a 1967 cherry-red, 396-4BBL-V8 Impala SS convertible?"

"Yeah," Brady said quietly.

"You want to come into my house, Brady?"


"You want to come up to my bedroom, Brady?"

"Yeah, I want to come up to your bedroom."

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by Anonymous

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by Anonymous10/06/18


WTF -> No Fuck Brady & Walt? At least fuck the Impala's tail pipe!

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