This Ain't the Summer of Love

He kept accepting Roger's tongue right up through the moment when Roger went rigid inside him and held still, except for the throbbing of his cock as it pumped him full of semen. And then, his ass full of cock and his mouth full of tongue, Brandon was cumming too.

Afterwards, lying side by side on their backs, Roger apparently noticed Brandon's state of discomfort.

"You okay?" he prompted.

"Yeah."

"You're... um... thinking about the kiss."

"Yeah."

"It's sexual attraction," Roger assured him. "Not romance."

"It just feels..."

"Gay?" Roger finished for him, softly, after a pause.. Brandon nodded, feeling shameful.

"Don't be so stuck on labels. If you need a term to define your sexual inclination, try 'submissive.'"

"Submissive?"

"You're a pleaser, Brandon. But you also seem to enjoy... letting go. Surrendering."

Brandon swallowed hard. His penis was hard again.

***

By the time he got home that evening, his mind was elsewhere.

"Brandon... did you shave your legs?" his mother exclaimed.

Brandon froze for a second, then remembered his answer. "Uh, yeah. I'm going to go out for intermural swimming this fall. Just, uh, getting used to it."

His mom looked skeptical, but his father just shrugged. "Like Michael Phelps?" he asked.

Brandon exhaled with relief. "Yeah, like Michael Phelps."

His father went back to his newspaper, and his mother just shook her head but didn't pursue it.

***

Two weeks went by. Brandon only missed a couple of weekday afternoons at Roger's house. Weekends, of course, they both had other plans; or at least, Roger never expressed any expectation that Brandon might visit on a Saturday or Sunday.

It was a Tuesday afternoon, after swimming, after the gin and tonic and a game of chess. They were in Roger's sun-splashed bedroom, and this afternoon, Brandon was riding his mentor, letting the older man lay back and relax while he did the work, balancing himself with his hands on Roger's slightly-furry stomach while he eased himself up and down on the thick cock that was up inside him, shoving his bowels up into his stomach.

Roger's hands, as always now, were slowly moving over every inch of Brandon's slender legs and torso that he could reach. He was shaving the young man at least twice a week now. It was easier now, and it had become foreplay; something that Roger did while becoming and remaining completely erect, their cocks occasionally colliding while he worked. Today Roger had gone ahead and penetrated Brandon right there on the bathroom vanity, cupping Brandon's ass while Brandon braced himself against the countertop, then wrapped his arms around Roger's neck and just went along for the ride. And so Roger had simply picked him up, still buried up inside him, and carried him to the bed.

Now he was just lying on his back, enjoying the show and the tactile sensations, watching the boy's slim pink erection bounce from side to side, running his hands down Brandon's smooth thighs. His thighs were two-toned, Brandon observed, not for the first time. He spent enough time sunning, as well as mowing, with his shirt off, that his upper body was all the same bronze color as his forearms; but the abrupt pale white tan line that began at his hipbones went halfway down his thighs before turning brown again.

"You're getting quite a farmers' tan there," Roger commented.

Brandon, who had been trying to find his prostate with the blunt instrument that was squishing around in him, stopped his riding for a second, and looked down at his legs. And shrugged. "Yeah, that's kind of an occupational hazard around here."

"You would look so much better with more of a swimsuit tan line," Roger mused.

Brandon furrowed his brow, but also felt his penis twitch. He could tell Roger was objectifying him, projecting an image onto him that he found... objectionable. But kind of exciting.

"Yeah, well, I guess it's a little late for that."

"Not really," Roger said. "You've always used sunscreen to prevent yourself from burning. You don't remember when we used baby oil to speed up the tanning process."

"Huh," Brandon replied. He already had a sense where this was going. Later, after Roger had filled him with semen and he had spurted his own contribution onto Roger's stomach, Roger led him into a spare bedroom he had never entered.

The walls were covered with framed black-and-white photographs of naked young men, posed artistically, relaxed, often shot from behind, looking over balcony railings or reclining on sofas. Their chests and backs and thighs dark from the sun, their buns shockingly white, the tan lines suggesting Speedo swimsuits or even high-waisted bikini bottoms.

Brandon knew without asking who they were, but he asked anyway. "Are these all your boyfriends?"

"Not boyfriends," Roger corrected. "Friends. Playmates." Brandon felt his penis stiffening again, already. He didn't have to ask. He was already picturing himself in one of those frames.

The next afternoon, Roger gave him a package, a gift to unwrap. It was a tiny swimsuit, a stretchy little bit of fabric, not a Speedo but a similar brand. He put it on, after letting Roger rub baby oil over his upper thighs and his lower torso. Then he went out to lie in the sun for a couple of hours while Roger returned to his study.

He thought about the young men in the photos in Roger's spare bedroom. He looked down at his swimsuit, the waistband stretched tightly across the oiled flesh of his stomach, around his hips at their widest point. He felt his cock stiffening, and he pushed it sideways to keep in inside the fabric. He bit his lip, and then tugged up on the sides of the suit, so that the narrow elastic bands arched high over his hipbones.

It took about a week for the tan on his lower belly and his upper thighs to catch up with the rest of his body. Of course, Brandon was never anywhere where anyone else could see the shocking evidence that he was sunning himself in a tiny little swimsuit, to even let them suspect that he was doing it to make himself more sexually desirable to a middle-aged man.

One afternoon the following week, it rained all afternoon. Brandon sat inside and read while Roger diligently finished his day's worth of writing. Later, in Roger's bed, Brandon took notice of how dark it was. He had never been with Roger in anything but full scandalous daylight.

As Roger laid him on his back, and hoisted his legs up over his shoulders, Brandon was transfixed by the contrast. In the near-twilight of the thunderstorm, the entire room seemed to exist in shades of black, white and gray, like the artistic photographs in the other room.

Roger's body was a medium, silver-gray. Brandon's own body was darker, almost gun metal. Except for that tiny, two- to three-inch band of white, between the tops of his thighs and his lower belly, arching up over his hipbones. His pale slender penis rose up from his cleanly-shaved pubis, while Roger's thicker cock disappeared down below the pallid orbs of his testicles, and pushed into him.

Roger seemed excited, or at least, more intense than usual. Brandon could surmise why. He had let Roger turn him into one of those naked young twinks, one of his sexual playthings. He had acquiesced to the transformation, to please Roger, and, yes, because the acquiescence, the submission, was incredibly arousing to himself.

As Roger looked down at him, studied him, confirming that he had adjusted to the penetration and it was now time to begin fucking in earnest, Brandon realized that he was excited, too. Very excited.

Too excited. Before he knew it was happening, Brandon felt his orgasm racking his body, making his penis jerk spasmically between their two sweaty stomachs, spitting silver streams of semen up his naked belly and chest.

Roger stopped thrusting and chuckled. Brandon's own chuckle was mixed with a whimper. The author held his weight on one hand and reached down with the other and scooped up a dollop of the sticky stuff, then offered his fingers to Brandon. Brandon had sampled his own semen out of curiosity before, and hadn't liked it; but since it was Roger offering, he opened his mouth and sucked the slimy substance off the older man's fingers.

He didn't like it this time, either. The bitter and sour taste buds in the back of his mouth protested; and the rest of his tongue rejected the texture on principle. But it was Roger, and Roger seemed to have been gratified by his acceptance. The older man was fucking him again now, even more vigorously, reaching one forearm around behind his back to clutch their upper bodies together.

Roger's mouth sought out Brandon's, and Brandon opened his lips, not so much willingly, but rather as if he had no choice in the matter. He wrapped his arms around the older man's shoulders, locked his ankles behind those taut thrusting thighs. We are making the beast with two backs, he thought, recalling his Shakespeare. That made Roger Othello, and he was Desdemona. The image should have stopped him in his tracks, but it didn't. When it came to satisfying Roger's lust, Brandon realized he would be a twink. He would be a woman.

The problem was, he was too far post-orgasm. In the absence of sexual arousal, his body was not accepting the onslaught as it usually did. Roger's thrusting felt more like an assault than a powerful internal massage; the friction in his anus felt sharp and unpleasant. His usual moans became groans.

Roger must have noticed, and understood. He stopped thrusting, and gently pulled himself out of the young man and laid back beside him.

"Sorry," Brandon gasped.

"Nonsense," Roger replied. "It happens. I loved making you cum so quickly."

"Yeah," Brandon nodded, agreeing that that had been pretty powerful.

He looked over at his older partner. Roger was lying on his side, up on one elbow, his slight belly drawn down toward the bed, the way it did when he lay this way. But normally when he lay this way, his cock was lying, spent, on his thigh. At the moment it was still standing upright, thick and veiny and glistening.

Brandon sat up, then shifted onto his knees. He was suddenly transfixed by Roger's phallus, which had so recently been shoving its way up inside him.

It wasn't like he had never taken Roger's penis into his mouth before. He certainly had; but it had always been foreplay. From the outset, Roger had made it clear what he wanted, physically, and that had been the penetration and sloppy friction inside Brandon's tight young ass.

Brandon nudged Roger to get him to roll over on his back, and then he moved himself between the older man's thighs. Roger's penis, which had never lost any of its thickness, was becoming longer and more rigid, reaching straight up his stomach from the two egg-sized testicles in his wrinkled lopsided scrotum.

He reached out with one hand, closed it gently around the shaft of the tool that gave him so much discomfort and pleasure, pulled up it upright. He half expected his mentor to stop him, to say, "That's okay, Brandon, you don't have to..." But instead, all he felt was the older man's hand in his hair, encouraging him, guiding him down, accepting what was his due.

Roger's cock was sticky, with drying lube and, Brandon realized with a nauseating thrill, the mucus from his own intestinal tract. There was no fecal matter that he could see, but the slight, sickeningly sweet aroma of something like spoiled meat filled his nostrils. And then it filled his mouth, as he licked up the underside of Roger's shaft with one slow motion, tongue flattened on either side of Roger's frenulum, gathering up the maximum amount of sticky goo; then as he parted his lips and slid them around the swollen knob.

This was so nasty, so wrong. But Roger wasn't stopping him. Roger seemed to expect it. Brandon thought about how he had never even had anal sex with his longtime girlfriend Megan. He would have liked to try it, but wasn't going to push. And at any rate, he would never have expected her to go down on him afterwards, to suck on the penis that had been in her fetid rectum. It was humiliating. It was disgusting. It was exhilarating.

And then Roger was tensing his hips, pulsing in his hand, and filling his mouth with the slimy texture and the metallic-and-chlorine taste of his semen.

Afterwards, Brandon leaned back against the pillow shams of Roger's bed, and listened to the steady rain that had followed the thunderstorm, while Roger ambled off downstairs, comfortably naked, to fix them both another drink.

When he returned, Brandon received the glass and took a tiny sip, simultaneously relieved and reluctant to eradicate the lingering taste in his mouth.

Roger was sipping his own drink and watching him intently, studying him, reading his mind. He felt a strange, sudden surge of something like... gratitude, as though he should be thanking his mentor for cumming in his mouth. He wasn't ready to get hard again, but the disturbing thought sparked some kind of arousal below his gut.

Brandon realized that Roger hadn't asked him to take that rectum-slickened member between his lips and suck it until he got six shots of semen added to the bitter cocktail in his mouth. But he had felt compelled to do it nonetheless.

"You like it?" Roger asked.

Brandon lowered his eyes and felt himself blushing. "Yes..."

Roger paused for a moment and then laughed. "The drink, Brandon," he said. "What did you think I was talking about?"

Brandon blushed harder.

"Sucking me after I'd been in your ass?"

Brandon just nodded. Then he ventured, "Did you?"

"Of course I did. I loved that you did it without being... asked."

Or told, Brandon thought, imagining how he might have swooned if Roger had been that dominant toward him.

"It's not about making you do what I want, you know," Roger was continuing "It's more, really, enjoying watching you figure out what you really want."

"And what do I really want?" Brandon asked, because he felt like Roger knew the answer to that question better than he did.

"You want to let go, don't you?" Roger offered. "You want to see what happens, when you take a risk, and surrender control."

***

"That was some storm this afternoon," Mike was saying.

The rain had passed and the skies had cleared, dropping the temperature and leaving a glorious mid-summer evening, perfect for playing frisbee. Instead, Brandon and his friend were sitting on the hood of Mike's car in the high school parking lot, watching the marching band -- or, more precisely, the girls in the flag corps -- practice.

"Yeah, it sure was," Brandon agreed.

"So where were you during it?"

"What?" Brandon had a flash of panic, realizing that he really had no story easily at hand.

"I mean, they sent us home early, so I ran by your house, but no one was home. I figure you weren't mowing."

"No, well..."

Mike wasn't being accusatory or anything, just puzzled. "Not the first time, buddy. You got somethin' going on in the afternoons?"

Brandon was floundering, imagining what his friend might be thinking, imagining, guessing. Guessing that he had been spending his afternoons this summer getting fucked in the ass.

"C'mon, you can tell me. You fuckin' one of those rich city women?"

Brandon grinned, grateful for the way out. Of course. Who would assume that his afternoons were occupied with being a fuckboy for a middle-aged man? That would require skipping right past the possibility of a classic, illicit heterosexual affair, one that had to be conducted clandestinely in the middle of the workday. Of course Mike would land there first. He decided to lean into it.

"Yeah. Busted."

"No shit!?" Mike exclaimed, impressed. "So, tell me... who is it?"

Brandon just shook his head.

"Ah, man, this is killin' me," Mike groaned. "I mean... oh, damn, she's married, isn't she?"

Brandon was starting to enjoy milking this. He just grinned and shrugged.

"You STUD!" Mike laughed, extending his closed hand for a fist-bump.

Brandon sipped his beer and thought to himself, this is probably a good thing. He should probably encourage Mike to let this little rumor circulate a bit. Make sure that his buddies were all thinking of him as a virile, ultra-hetero lothario who was banging older women.

If only Mike knew the truth, he shuddered. Hell, what if Mike could only just see him naked now, if for some reason they ended up in a public shower -- shaved bare, a bronze tan all the way up his thighs to his hipbones.

He imagined his friend would be shocked. Then it occurred to him... what if instead of being disgusted, Mike was aroused?

For the first time ever, he allowed himself to actually think of his best friend in sexual terms.

He gulped, and glanced down at his own crotch, terrified that he might be sporting an inexplicable boner in front of Mike. Nope. Nothing.

He felt a shiver of relief. Thank goodness. Evidence that he wasn't turning gay.

Maybe it had to be Roger. Maybe it just had to be a man who wanted him, who wanted to coax him along, take advantage of him. Use him. He took another swig of beer. Maybe that was okay.

***

Another quiet afternoon. The Miles Davis album had played itself out, and the turntable had gone silent. The whir of the air conditioning, the squeaking of the bedsprings, and Brandon's erratic, high-pitched were grunts the only sounds in Roger's spacious bedroom, while the parallelograms of sunlight from his sliding glass doors advanced across the floor toward the queen-sized bed where Brandon was on his knees and shoulders, face down, ass up, as the professor grasped him by the hips and plowed into him.

And then he wasn't face down any more. Suddenly he felt one of Roger's hands gathering up the hair on the back of his head into a fist, pulling him up and backwards, bending his neck and lifting first his chin and then even his shoulders off the bed.

Oh my, Brandon thought. He didn't find the action painful, but he did find it slightly threatening, and also erotic. Roger was often direct and forceful with him, but he had never done this before. Of course, Brandon hadn't had a haircut all summer; perhaps this was just the first time it had been long enough.

With his back arched this severely, Brandon did indeed feel the older man's cock filling him in a way that was new and different, pushing into him as deeply as ever but from a unique angle. He liked it. He also felt more helpless than usual. He liked that, too.

He heard the smack of Roger's right palm on his butt cheek a nanosecond before the shocking sting of it fully registered with him. Roger had spanked him before, too, but never quite that hard. He could feel the blood vessels and the nerve endings in his bottom pulsating with aftershocks. He was also sure that he was clenching harder, now, with his sphincter gripping the muscle-like shaft full of sensations that Roger was rifling up into him with.

His brain alive with the sudden awareness of different parts of his body, Brandon felt himself surrendering himself to an orgasm that had come upon him unexpectedly quickly. He tried to fight it off because he didn't want to become spent and then sore before his mentor had finished enjoying him, but it was no use.

Fortunately, the rhythmic contraction throughout Brandon's pelvic region was all it took to trigger the same reaction in the man on top of him, and almost as soon as he was aware that he was smearing the pool of his own semen into a sticky mess across his stomach and Roger's 600-thread-count sheets, he could also feel the older man throbbing inside him, adding another layer of his viscous ejaculate to the walls of his intestines.

Brandon became aware that it was only after Roger's orgasm had receded, that the author had released his grip on the fistful of his hair; allowed Brandon to go prone, and then followed him down, covering his entire back with his sweat-slickened chest. Brandon could feel the side of the shorter man's face on his shoulders, and the heavy swell of his belly in the small of his back. Brandon flexed his glute muscles, and felt how that was enough to lift his partner's pelvis and cause his dwindling penis to pull out of him.