I hadn't made up my mind whether I wanted to fuck or be fucked that night, so I lost out altogether—or so it seemed at the time. There hadn't been much pickings in Bill's, a hole-in-the wall gay pick-up bar tucked away in an alley off Maunganui Road in the Mount Maunganui district leading up from the cruise ship wharf to Mount Maunganui.
When I'd first stumbled on Tauranga, a resort town on the Bay of Plenty of New Zealand's North Island, I'd thought that New Zealanders sort of went into a deep, nonimaginative grove on giving out their place names. But quite quickly I learned that it didn't mean much that they were so repetitive; I didn't have a prayer of being able to pronounce the names correctly anyway.
I had arrived here a month earlier while nearly two-thirds around on my "great postcollege adventure" of circumnavigating the world, with most of the expense being covered by stopping in one place and doing odd jobs until I'd earned enough to move on. I'd had some of the oddest of jobs, and I was half thinking of writing a book about that when I got back to the States. Here in Tauranga I'd started off work right here at Bill's as a bartender and had saved lodging money by sleeping in the back room with Bill—but Bill snored something fierce after sex—which he wanted to have often—so I'd moved into a room of my own after a couple of weeks and had also landed a bit better-paying job.
I was good with computers—certainly a lot better than most anyone in this remote corner of the world—so I was hired on to a firm called Need-A-Nerd, which outfitted me with a small bubble of a car in a sick luminescent green color with advertising all over it and sent me around the town, such as it was, helping people set up and troubleshoot their computers in their own places of business or homes.
That evening I was using my new job to maybe wriggle into the bed of one of the blokes in the bar who looked like he'd pay well for a fuck. He was past fifty, I was sure, but he dressed elegantly and was in good shape—and I didn't think he'd have come into a bar like Bill's unless he was on the make. Guys like him had actually been the most lucrative of my "odd jobs" wherever I'd gone on my world travels. They had money, were lonely, and wanted someone to hold them close and fuck them for a one-night stand or a weekend at the most. I figured if I included that part of the "jobs" in my book, I'd have a bestseller.
This guy and Bill had been talking about computers and how difficult they were to figure out when I'd come into the bar, so I sat down and started jawing with them. I flipped out my card and gave it to the man on the off chance that the guy would take the bait and invite me to his house—which I found out was on the Marine Parade, overlooking Main Beach, which was the high-priced section of town—to look at his computer and maybe into his baby blues as I fucked him for a nice piece of change.
But all of the time I was talking to him, I was eyeing—and being eyed by—a hunky muscle guy who was sitting at the end of the bar. He was about my age and was an obvious top; decked out in flip flops; baggy gym shorts, inside which I could see a pair of humongous gonads when he lifted his leg; and an athletic T-shirt that strained across his chest even though I figured it was at least a 2XX. The top/bottom bit didn't phase me. I could go either way. For money, I'd top; but for fun, I was just as happy to bottom. And that was my quandary. Did I want to fuck and make a bit of extra money tonight or did I want to have fun. The more mature guy talking with Bill and me at the bar, or that dangerous looking muscle guy at the end of the bar who was nursing his drink and giving me "the look."
Bill's itch interceded, however.
"Hey, Dan," he said. "Got an itch. You feel like doin' some paying up of your bar tab?"
Bill was standing away from the bar, leaning up against the counter behind the bar, and he was rubbing his crotch with one of his hands. I knew what kind of itch he was talking about—as well as what sort of "paying up" he had in mind. And my bar tab was pretty hefty, so I said, "Sure, why not?"
"Hold down the bar for a few," Bill tossed over his shoulder to Tony, his new bartender—and, as far as I knew, the guy who now had to put up with Bill's snoring. I went around the bar, and Bill, a big mitt on my rump, guided me into his back room, which functioned as his living and sleeping quarters as well as the liquor storage locker.
I went down on my knees in the center of the room and unbuckled and unzipped him. Then I let him guide my head with his hands palming my ears as I opened my mouth for him to face fuck. When he was fully engorged, I bent over a stack of beer create as he snapped a condom on and lubed my ass and then slow fucked me.
Bill took his jolly time getting his rocks off, and when we returned to the bar, both of my prospects for the evening—the guy at the bar I was cultivating for someone I could earn some money off fucking and the muscle hunk at the other end of the bar who I might have enjoyed bottoming for—were gone. There being little other action that evening, I figured they'd left together.
I left some afterward, no one else having showed up that I was interested in and being somewhat satisfied that I'd at least worked off some of my bar tab and hadn't had to lay around listening to Bill snore.
The next day, when I arrived at the office, Bruce, the office manager, was all in a dander.
"You're fifteen minutes late," he said and looked menacingly at me like I'd been fiddling with the company safe or something. Bruce was quite a mountain of a guy—at least half Maori, I think—and I didn't want to cross him. But it had seemed to be a pretty laid-back operation here, so I had no idea I might be in trouble.
"Well, not too many people are in the mood to fight with their computer and call us at nine in the morning, I would think. Or at least that's the pattern I've seen working here," I responded. I'd had to sleep alone last night—and for some reason that had helped make me late. I'm used to blokes who want me up and out of their house at the crack of dawn with at least the temporary hope that the neighborhood didn't know I'd had my cock working in the ass channel of one of their upstanding nearby residents all night.
"Well, there've been two calls already this morning—asking for you specifically and sayin' they needed your help urgently." Bruce said it as if I'd had a way of knowing about the calls.
"Where?" I asked. I did have regulars already, but none that I'd have thought would be so desperate and pushy on a Saturday morning.
"Here's the ticket. Up by the beach. On Marine Parade."
Ah, so, I thought. Maybe the man from Bill's took the bait last night after all. But I found that a little surprising. I somehow thought he'd left with the young muscle guy at the other end of the bar while I was settling my bill with Bill's cock. And given that thought, I rather assumed the older guy couldn't walk this morning let alone sniff around another dick. The humongous balls I'd gotten a glimpse of up the muscle guy's shorts promised a similarly oversized rod. The muscle guy looked like he'd have something to split you in two and the energy to do it repeatedly. Which, of course, was why he'd caught my interest to begin with.
I wasn't wrong. Trevor. That was the older man's name. Trevor. And there was some last name that indicated he was big in local business or something, although I hadn't remembered it. The size and lushness of the house bore out that impression, though. Well, Trevor met me at the door in a silk robe and nothing else.
And he did look a little bowlegged and bedraggled this morning—walking really stiffly as I followed him from the foyer to a living room with a gorgeous view of the Bay of Plenty. Dragging-quality tired, and just slightly put out too. Not really mad; just a little miffed maybe.
"So I understand that you're having computer problems," I said. It was always best to ignore the obvious for the longest time possible—because just occasionally, things aren't what they seemed, and it would be really embarrassing to assume that a guy wanted his ass stuffed when he really, really did only have trouble finding the Internet on his computer.
Still, his response surprised me: "My main problem with computers is that I don't understand them and am confused on where even to start with them. I don't own one. No, I have a deal to offer you."
"A deal?" I asked. Here it came.
"I'll pay you three times the hourly home computer technician rate if you'll walk through that door at the head of the stairs and not walk back out for another hour."
"And will you be walking up there with me?" I asked. "You want it any special way?"
"Me?" he responded, his face looking a little distressed. "Oh, no, not me this morning. I've been reamed within an inch of my life. I won't want you that way for another week or so—although I must admit you're tempting. So, are you interested or not?"
"Sure, why not?" I said. I was curious now.
Trevor mounted the stairs behind me and was standing behind me in the doorway when I looked in.
There he was, the muscle guy from the previous evening at Bill's—looking even more bulky and hunky and capable of destroying an ass canal in the nude than when I'd seen him sort of clothed in the bar. He was lying on his back on a four-poster king-sized bed that looked like a battle zone, and he was fisting and stroking what looked like a fifth bed post in both width and height. His cock was already crowned with a condom, so there was little doubt where this little meeting was headed.
The guy, whose name I discovered was Larry during one particularly intimate moment when he said he wanted to fuck me again sometime and so told me what to call him, seemed glad to see me. "Hiya," he called out. "Come sit on this, will ya?"
I stood, stunned, not only because of the suddenness of the action but also because of an assessment of what "sit on this" would mean to my ass walls.
I backed up involuntarily, but ran into Trevor. "There's a hundred dollars in it if you let him fuck you," Trevor murmured. "I only got him home last night with the promise I'd produce you this morning. If the hundred dollars doesn't go to you, it will go to him."
Pushing my trepidation away at the size of the cock standing straight up from a mound of well-cut muscle, I moved slowly to the bed, discarding clothing en route. It was easy to reason out; the previous night I would have gone with this hulk for free and not even known what was in store for me until it was too late. I'd get no worse this morning plus a nice price.
"Well, for an hour," I muttered as I straddled Larry's hips with my knees. He had scooted down to the foot of the bed until his calves dropped off toward the floor.
In fact, it was more like two hours but for the last hour I was exhausted and split asunder and just laying there like a rag doll as Larry showed me all of the positions in which one very flexible and virile man could fuck another. It took a good ten minutes for me to lower my channel on his hard cock, huffing and puffing and groaning and grunting as my channel slowly expanded to accommodate him. When he was a good seven inches in me, though, he got impatient and grabbed my waist in both of his big mitts and slammed me down the rest of the way—which was a good length more. I howled in response, but when he was fully embedded, I'd managed the worst—and then he just took over and drove—and drove—and drove.
Immediately upon bottoming, he brought his torso up and tipped me over until I was resting my shoulders on the carpet. My legs were splayed out wide and he fucked me like a pile driver jack hammering old asphalt off the driveway. Dear old Trevor pulled up an easy chair, sat down, opened his silk robe to reveal he, indeed, was naked, and started to stroke himself as he enjoyed the show.
I was beginning to whimper and groan convincingly because of the strain of this position and Larry uncocked himself, lifted me and threw me down on the bed on my belly with my head facing the foot of the bed. Trevor was just off to one side, and the only thing he said to me during the whole fucking was to request that I turn my face toward him so he could see what I thought about the experience as we went along.
What I thought about the experience? I thought I'd die. I thought I was going to heaven. I thought I'd be ruined forever. I thought it never again would be this good.
Larry was straddling my hips now and riding me like a bucking horse as I writhed under him in a fuck that was moving my body, with the power of his thrusts, along the surface of the bed. Soon my head was hanging over the foot of the bed. And then I was out so far I had to put the palms of my hands down on the carpet for support. And then, I only had one leg on the bed and hands on the carpet and the other foot on the floor and he'd come off the bed and was hunched behind me and driving hard. I collapsed full on the floor and he raised me to my knees with a bulging forearm under my belly and fucked me like a dog, the force of his thrusts moving me through the bedroom door. I hand walked down the stairs, with his forearm under my belly holding my hind quarters to his pelvis and his thrusting cock.
We came halfway down the stairs, and he held me there while he changed condoms after ejaculating with a yelp and several jerks of spouting—I myself had come first, while my thighs were still on the bed.
At the foot of the stairs, he raised me up and slammed me against the wall and pushed me up and down on Trevor's nice flocked wall paper with the thrusting of his freshly crowned cock. Then he pulled me off the wall and crouched down a bit with me lapped on his impaling cock. I raised my arms and locked my fists behind his neck and reached back with my feet and hooked them behind his knees. I bowed my chest out, and Larry fucked on.
Trevor had come to the balcony at the top of the stairs and actually applauded that position. And I certainly hope some of the applause was for me, because at that time I was still expending energy toward being part of what the fuck was all about.
After that Larry had to change his condom again, which helped me believe he, at least, applauded my contribution to the performance in his own way.
He moved me into the living room and placed the small of my back on a square ottoman and held my legs wide and fucked me from the front. I looked up into the undulating movements of his magnificent chest and abdominal muscles, and I came again up into his belly button. He laughed and leaned down and gave me a smacking kiss on the lips for that. Then he turned me sideways on the ottoman and side split me.
I sort of lost count and total awareness of what he did to me and how he did it afterward, but he was by no means finished at that point, and when I'd finally stopped shuddering and moaning and he'd left the house, I counted four used condoms spread from the bedroom down into the living room.
"He told me to tell you he enjoyed that and he has a computer in his home he thinks needs debugging." I opened my eye in mid moan. Trevor was talking to me—from far, far away, it seemed. I was draped over the back of the sofa on my belly, my face looking out over the Bay of Plenty, my feet off the ground—lifted there by the force of Larry's thrusts—and the fourth—used—condom laying at my feet. "He left this card for you," Trevor continued.
When my eyes focused enough for me to read it, I laughed. Larry owned the local serious men's gym. That figured.
Trevor helped me back up the stairs, both of us now walking bowlegged; helped me shower; and then laid me back on his bed, which he had remade, and rubbed my shoulders and back and thighs and rump, while I slowly got feeling back into them. Then he turned me over and gently sucked my cock dry, turned out the lights, and let me sleep the sleep of the dead.
He was terrific to me. He called in to Need-A-Nerd and said my services would be required at his house for the rest of the day—which, of course, Trevor would pay for—and to satisfy Bruce further, said he was going to need a new computer and ordered the best one the shop had on offer on the spot.
That night, after I had fucked him in gratitude in the conventional way in his bed and just before we both drifted off to sleep, he murmured to me, "You know, now that I've bought a new computer, I'm going to need instruction day and night on what to do with it. Think you might move in with me for a while until I conquer it?"
I've been with Trevor for two weeks now—and he really is quite generous and a very sweet fuck. One really good thing: Trevor doesn't snore after sex. I'm building up the courage to look Larry up again. I most certainly will, though, before I shove off to Tahiti on the next leg of my journey back to Chicago. And this may be a whole chapter in my adventure book.