Pool Party

I lay on the bed in the cabin behind Hal's Tavern ten miles out of town and listened to the truck driver moving around in the bathroom. I had showered first, after I'd given him a blow job, and come to the bed and stretched out, naked, while he took his. He was going to fuck me when he came out of the bathroom. I was looking forward to it; he'd looked mean and lean at the bar. I wanted someone who made me feel it. I tried to remember what his name was—Ralph or Randy, or something like that. Although I suppose it didn't matter what his name was for why we were here. I hadn't told him my real name. All I knew is that I wanted him to fuck me good, to manhandle me. That was the mood I was in.

The bathroom door opened and he was standing there, a towel around his waist. I knew he'd be hairy and have tattoos. He was. I suppose the arousal for him was that I wasn't—that I was younger than he was and clean cut, a novelist, although I don't think he believed me when I told him that. A successful one too, but I hadn't bothered to tell him that; I could tell that he was only interested in whether I'd take his cock. It didn't matter. He might have asked me what the titles were of my books, and I couldn't have given those to him without revealing my real name. He didn't look like a writer.

He looked like what he'd said he was—a long-distance semitrailer driver—one who hit the gym wherever he stopped for the night. He was dark, maybe some Hispanic in him, with black hair—thick here and there—around his pecs and down into the rim of the towel at his waist. He was tall, broad in the shoulders and across the muscular chest, slimmer in the hips. He had the biceps of a bodybuilder and thighs of a rugby player. Other than that he was rangy and wiry, tattoos up his arm and down his chest. He looked mean, which had been what had drawn me to him in Hal's bar. I wanted to feel it. He'd already made me feel it and he hadn't been inside me yet.

He'd slapped me around a bit, forcing me to my knees to suck him off, him creaming my face with his cum, before he went to take a shower. I hadn't had or opportunity to see much of anything but his cock and balls as he showed me what he wanted me to do with them. He wanted to show me from the get go who was going to be boss. I had chosen him because I wanted to be bossed. When he went to the shower, he said the blow job was fine and if I didn't want to get the stuffing fucked out of me I should go before he got out of the bathroom. I stayed.

He dropped the towel at the bathroom door. He was in erection and thick, if not abnormally long, or maybe it just appeared that he wasn't long because his bush was so thick. He smiled at me. I tried to smile back. I had wanted someone like him. And here he was. I'd gone for nearly a year without it. I had tried to reform. It hadn't worked. I still craved cock.

"I forgot your name," I said.

"Vince. It's Vince," he answered. "That was a first-rate blow job."

He strode over to the bed and stood next to it. Getting the hint, I turned onto my side and took his cock into my mouth again. Yes, he was longer than I originally thought. I'd been nervous the first time and hadn't tried to take it all in my throat. He reached down and fisted my cock and we moved full throttle into the pre-fuck jacking.

I was on my back, my hands reaching over my head to grip the brass rungs of the headboard. My pelvis was lifted on pillows, my legs were spread and bent. I was leveraging off my feet to meet the rhythm of his thrusts.

"Yes, Yes. Like that. You're huge. Pump me. Fuck me! Pull the cum out of me!" My back was arched. So was my head, my eyes focused on the brass headboard. He was between my knees, in deep, pistoning me hard. It was a rough fuck. It was what I'd come to Hal's Tavern to get. Vince was giving me what I'd come here for.

He was laughing, clutching my hips, pulling me hard into him as he thrust forward. Pumping me fast and hard.

"You really want it," he muttered.

Yes, I really want it or I wouldn't be here went screaming through my brain. I'd come here in high heat. I'd needed it bad.

I moved a hand to my cock and stroked myself. "I'm going to come," I called out, as if he was interested. He was only interested in getting a big piece of me for himself, for his own needs from days on the road without it. He certainly hadn't gotten tail any easier than he was getting it from me. I laid right down and spread my legs for him. And he wasn't paying for it; I even paid for the cabin—and for his drink while he was feeling me up at the bar. The guys he was drinking with when we left to come back to the cabin were leering and rolling their eyes and popping their tongues in their cheeks.

And then I did come. I had both hands palming his chest, running my fingers through the swirls of hair around his pecs, thumbing his nipples. He continued to pump me, fast and furiously. I lay back in surrender, my hands moved to palming his buttocks, his buttocks contracting and releasing with his thrusts. I held him to me as he fucked and fucked and fucked.

It was worth every penny I paid for it.

We lay on the bed, side by side, him dozing, me going over the fuck again in my mind, picking out what would inform my writing. I quietly rolled out of the bed and went to the window at the back of the cabin. It overlooked the secluded parking lot, where the men who came to Hal's Tavern and cabins parked so their cars wouldn't be seen from the road. I lit up a cigarette, smoked it, and killed the butt on the window sill. I was standing at the window, naked, my arms raised and pressed into the corners of the frame at the top, looking out into the parking lot but not really thinking about anything in particular.

Vince came up behind me, wrapped his arms around me, and nuzzled the hollow of my throat with his hairy face. He was bearded, but it wasn't long or unruly. It looked sexy on him. He palmed my lower belly and pulled my feet up on my toes. He was hard again.

"You're a great lay," he said. "I'd like to bottle you and take you on the road with me."

"You're a great driver," I answered.

"You do want it rough."

"Yes, I do want it rough."

"I'm gonna drive you again. Jut your ass back at me," he commanded in a hoarse voice, and when I did so, he palmed my lower belly and pulled me up cruelly, jerking me back into his groin as he thrust his cock up into me, penetrating my ass several inches. He was inside me again, easier this time as he'd already reamed me to his size. I let out a cry of surprise and pain. Holding me tight, he pulled back and thrust up into me again and again, making each thrust a separate, "take all of it" act. It was the rough fuck I'd come here to get.

"Relax and take it, bitch. Be my little bitch," he said in my ear. "I'm gonna drive you like I drive my truck—hard and fast." Continuing to control and move me with a hand on my belly, he cupped my chin with the other hand and pulled my head into the hollow of his throat. I was completely at his mercy. And he didn't have much mercy to give.

He'd already driven me like his truck. I loved it. I was a whore for it. It had been too long. I'd tried to be good too long.

I relaxed and he continued to thrust up inside me but slower, more in a rhythm, with less intensity. I turned my face to him and we kissed. He gave me tongue. I was surprised that a truck driver would do that.

When I turned my face back around to the parking lot, I saw that there were two guys back there, leaning into a car. They were using the hood of my car, my Jaguar. I recognized the guy who had the other guy bent over the hood of the car too. They had been kissing, I was sure, but they must have heard me cry out when the truck driver thrust up into my passage. They were looking, startled, up at the window I was in. The guy I recognized was Jim Thornton, one of our neighbors. His wife and my wife were in a Saturday morning kaffee klatch together. The Thorntons had a nice swimming pool. We were going there for a pool party the next Saturday afternoon. I tried to pull away from the window, but Vince held me there, concentrated on his cock slow-fucking up into my channel, moving smoothly now that he'd reamed me to his size for the day.

Jim Thornton had turned and seen me—seen us, Vince and me—in the window of the cabin. He turned away, but at the moment so did Vince, pulling me back into the room and over to the bed. He bent me over the bed, grabbed my wrists and forced my arms over my head, pressed to the surface of the bed. My chest was flat on the bed, as was my cheek. He started fucking me in earnest, in long, fast, deep, cruel strokes. It was what I'd wanted. It was why I'd come to Hal's Tavern and had brought a truck driver to this cabin.

I writhed under him. "Oh fuck! Oh, Shit. Do it, do it, do it. Fuck me to heaven!"

"Take it, take it, take it, bitch," the truck driver growled and fucked on.

He made me forget all about Jim Thornton—at least while the big bruiser had his dick inside me.

* * * *

There was no way I could go to the Thorntons' pool party on Saturday if Jim Thornton had seen me, naked, with another guy behind me, in the window of the cabin behind Hal's Tavern—and surely he must have seen us. And we needed to talk about this. I needed to get him to put it away. He'd been there too. I'd seen him kissing a guy in the parking lot. It wasn't good news for either of us.

I knew he didn't work days—he owned a couple of restaurants in town and rotated around at those at night. His wife, Bev, was a partner in a health spa and dermatology clinic across town, and she did work days. My wife, Ann, was a doctor in the oncology department at the university and worked days. I was a writer. I worked all of the time and, some thought, none of the time.

I decided I had to go over there and talk to him.

No one answered at the front door, so I walked around to the back, to the pool area—they had an extensive patio area in back with an oversized residential pool. The house rambled around in a curve between the pool and the street. A couple of additions had been added on as the family's wealth had increased. The restaurant business in this university town was lucrative. Thornton was barely thirty and quite probably was already a millionaire. A deck on the second floor of the additions extended out toward the pool area.

I stopped short of the patio, next to some foliage, which hid me from view of the pool area—or so I thought.

Jim Thornton was fucking a college-age guy on a pool bed. Both were naked. Two wet swim suits lay on the patio next to the pool bed. Thornton apparently had seduced the college kid in the pool—maybe fucked him there first—and then moved him to the pool bed. They were a beautiful couple, already moving in a coordinated rhythm in the throes of copulation, and my mind ran rampant on what had happened here already. The session with the truck driver had just made me hornier.

The college guy was tanned, but nothing like Jim Thornton was. He was slim hipped and broad chested, just as Jim was. They both were trim and nicely muscled. If anything, the young man was more muscular in the chest and thighs than Thornton was. His hole certainly was being stretched open by Thornton's cock, though. I was being given a good shot of the connection. I was mesmerized by the tan lines on Thornton. He was a deep brown except for where the edges of a skimpy Speedo would start, and then his groin triangle was much lighter in color. This contrast accentuated the slimness of his hips, the reddish-auburn of his pubic bush, the hairiness of his tight ball sac, and the length of his hard cock—which I only got a measure of when he pulled it nearly all of the way out of the college guy's hole before sliding it in to where his pubic hair was mingling with the curls of hair around the college kid's anal rim—then back out and back in in a steady cadence. By all accounts the college kid was melting to the steady deep penetrations.

The college guy was flat on his belly on the pool bed. His legs were off the sides of the bed, bent slightly, and the pads of his feet were pressed into the patio stone. His arms were dangling off the side of the bed as well, the knuckles of the hand I could see dragging on the stone. He was cheek to pool bed pad, his face turned toward me. There was a grimaced smile on his mouth and his eyes sparkled. He quite obviously was in ecstasy.

Jim was saddled on the young man's ass. His legs too were off the bed on either side, bent, the pads of his feet pressed into the patio stone, being used to provide leverage for his rise and fall on the young man's ass. He was leaning over the body under him, with the palms of his hands pressing down on the young man's shoulder blades. He was fucking the college guy in long slides, where I could see him withdraw the cock almost to the rim of the cockhead and then glide in again, deep. Rise and fall; rise and fall. On the slide in, the college guy was pushing his pelvis up slightly to meet the thrust with a counterthrust, obviously welcoming the cock.

I couldn't stay there. This certainly was no time to have a conversation with Jim Thornton about sex with men and what we'd seen and hadn't. But I didn't leave. I stood, glued to the spot in the foliage on the path around the side of the house to the pool. I wasn't even aware of having unzipped myself, taking my cock out, and stroking it while I watched Thornton fucking the college kid.

I had thought that they wouldn't be able to see me. But Thornton turned his face toward me and smiled. He could see me; he could see what I was doing. I pulled back in horror and embarrassment, stuffed my cock back into my shorts, and hurried home. At home, behind a closed bathroom door, and sitting on the toilet, I completed masturbating myself to visions of Thornton fucking the college kid transitioning, when I got really heated, into Thornton fucking me in the position that he'd fucked the college kid.

Later, when the phone rang, I sat and stared at it until it stopped. No message was left on the answering machine. When it rang again, I picked it up on the second ring.

"Greg, this is Jim. Jim Thornton."

I knew it was Jim Thornton. We had caller ID.

"Greg, we have to talk."

"I . . . we can't come to your pool party," I stammered out. "I'm sure you understand. That's what I came over to say."

He snorted. "You could have called me to say that. That's not what you came over for. You came over to get what I was giving Randy. And I'm not sure how you will explain not coming to the pool party to Ann." He gave a low laugh. "You certainly will come to the pool party and we'll both act like nothing has happened—and, yes, I saw you in the window at Hal's. Then we'll have a private little conversation, just you and me, all alone. You'll like it. I'll like it with you, I'm sure. I'll bet you're a real sweet lay."

"I don't think so, Jim. It's just too close—in the same neighborhood."

"And if we weren't in the same neighborhood—would you like to get what I was giving Randy? Remember, we both were at Hal's Tavern. There's not much of a secret about that between us."

I hesitated, but what the hell. "Yes, if there weren't complications, I'd want your cock. But we do live in the same neighborhood. Our wives are good friends. We couldn't keep it secret. I couldn't hold off from you when our families were together."

"All that is important is that you want me to fuck you. I'd like to be your good friend too, Greg. You're a gorgeous man—great bod. Lots of the interesting stuff happens in this neighborhood, Greg. And I don't think you have a choice. Ann doesn't know about you, does she? I wouldn't want to have to tell her. Bev and I have an open marriage. She knows and doesn't care. See you at the pool party. Oh, and wear something nice in a swim suit. I bet you'll look stunning. You're the best-looking man in the neighborhood."

Other than you, I thought, as I disconnected.

* * * *

"Are you coming down?" Ann called up the stairs. "We're already late."

"I don't think I'll go," I called down. "Go on without me. I'm at a crucial point on writing this chapter."

"And it will be there when you get back," she called out. "You've always got that excuse. It doesn't wash. Come on down." And then when I did, she said, "There, you were ready to go anyway, weren't you? Is that a new swimsuit?"

"Yes."

"A little daring, but it looks good on you; you've got the body for it, I'm delighted to say. You'll make me the envy of all of the women there. Maybe we should just stay home." She winked at me.

It's not the women I want to impress, I thought—and I'll bet that it's Bev Thornton who is the envy of all the women who will be at the party.

"You looked dowdy in the other one—like most of the men who will be at the party," she prattled on. "I like my man to stand out. You and Jim Thornton are the only men around here who have an acquaintance with the number thirty."

She was right. All of the men at the party were dowdy and aged except for Jim Thornton and me—and later, a couple of college students who showed up. One of those, Randy Hill, was the son of one of the older couples here—Alex Hill was a history professor at the university and his wife was an editor at the university press. Randy was the young man I'd seen Jim Thornton fucking on the pool bed—the same pool bed I was standing in front of when Bev introduced him to me—two days previously. I had made the connection as soon as Jim had mentioned his name. He was going to the university here, but he also worked as a waiter in one of Jim's restaurants.

Our neighborhood was within walking distance of the university and was an upscale area, so we all were professionals of some sort or the other and most were connected with the university. Ted Collier was a retired minister who had worked in campus ministry; Bob Holland was a doctor, working with Bev Thornton on cancer patients at the university hospital; Jeff Stevens was a judge. Clarence DuPont, from a minor branch of the notable family but able to play on the family name, chaired a political think tank loosely connected with the university, and Zach Childs owned a consortium of auto dealerships in the town.

What brought us all together at the pool was our wives, all of whom had professional jobs of their own, but whose main connection was that they got together at the judge's house every Saturday morning for a kaffee klatch, where they ran over and ran down the national and state political situation and the neighbors who weren't involved in the Saturday morning coffees. I wasn't a morning person. I was sleeping every Saturday morning while they were sipping coffee and gossiping. But then I'd rarely been in bed before 3:00 a.m. any morning.

Except for Jim Thornton and me—and the college guys who showed up later, having pulled in a university soccer game earlier in the day—most of the other men were in their fifties through their seventies and were wrinkled, gray, and paunchy. That didn't mean they didn't come to use the pool, which was known as the best one in the neighborhood. They all were in droopy boxers, though, except Jim and I, who were in Speedos. Well, to be fair, Zach Childs didn't look too bad. He went on camera, trying to sell cars, so he worked out and wasn't in bad shape for someone on the dark side of forty. He had a good chest and biceps and his waistline wasn't that bad when he sucked his gut in, which he was doing all day during the pool party when he thought anyone was looking his way.

Jim spent most of the time before the food was laid out in the pool, playing with the younger children—all grandchildren visiting their grandparents. He had handed out water guns and they were chasing each other—and him—around the shallow end of the pool with arcs of water. I stayed out of the pool, sitting at the side in a white resin plastic chair, with my T-shirt on, chatting with those who passed by and drinking a beer, but regretting that I was there—and, mostly, that I had worn a Speedo.