Wild One

Theo's suitcase was sitting next to the reception desk. The salesman himself was sitting at a table in the dining room, facing a huge breakfast and chatting up Clarice, the breakfast waitress. She was eating up his smooth talk, but Martin knew it was all for naught. The salesman was just practicing for what was important to him—a sale of a product or getting his rocks off with a young man.

Martin walked out of the hotel and headed west, across the downtown area of Willow Grove, such as it was, and out into the woods at the end of the town, where there was a small lake, surrounded by trees, within walking distance. With every step, he felt better physically, everything returning to its right size and shape, not too sore. Thankfully, he was in tip top physical shape. Emotionally, he couldn't have felt better, but everything was jumbled up inside his brain. He needed to think about this. By the time he got to the lake and had some time to think he'd be just the same as yesterday. But of course he'd never be just the same as yesterday. He'd been the wild one, wild for a different meaning than could be applied to him now.

But regret it? Absolutely not. He already was thinking about the next time he would be lying under a man. Theo, the salesman, was leaving today. If he was going to be here another night, and he wanted to fuck Martin again, he would not have needed the excuse of wanting a pitcher of ice water brought to him at 8:00. Martin would have gone to his room willingly, lain on his back willingly, opened his legs for the man willingly, and taken the man's cock inside him willingly. For ten dollars he would have let the man do to him anything he wanted to do. Hell, Martin would let him do it just for experience and education.

At the lake, Martin stripped off his clothes and slipped into the waters of the lake. He swam, vigorously, across the lake and back and then languidly from side to side. He was floating on his back when the other young man arrived at the embankment of the lake and stripped his clothes off. His clothes were of garish colors. He was wearing some sort of deerskin boots that looked like he'd made them himself. Martin wanted a pair.

The young man was maybe a year older than Martin, berry brown, and a head taller than Martin—hard-bodied and muscled but slender. Martin now knew that Theo, the salesman, hadn't been hung. This young man was hung. He had dark, flashing eyes, and jet-black hair, which was long, unusual for Missouri in these days, and tied off in a ponytail running down his back. He was exotic, exciting. He, more than Martin, exemplified the term "wild one"—certainly now.

It was clear from the glances he cast toward the water that he knew Martin was in the lake and not far off shore. The exotic-looking young man folded and placed his clothes near to where Martin had left his clothes and he looked out into the lake occasionally and located where Martin was. He dove into the lake—recklessly dove rather than the tentative entrance Martin had made—having no idea how deep the water he was diving into was and not caring—or having swum here before and knowing everything there was to know about the lake. Martin preferred that he was just a wild one who didn't care, who took his chances, and who won through.

He swam laps around where Martin was dogpaddling in place. Yes, he quite clearly knew another young man was in the water.

"I'm Sandu," he said when he swam near Martin and went into a dogpaddle very near the other young man. The water of the lake was clear. Martin could see that Sandu looked down Martin's torso and could clearly discern that Martin was hard. His eyes came back up to meet Martin's and he smiled and gave a little nod downward. Martin instinctively looked down to see that the young man's cock was even thicker and longer than it had been before the youth dove into the pool. He too was in erection. He wanted Martin to see and mark that. Just in this way, the two of them had shared their preference, and both knew they had.

"I'm Martin. I live in Willow Grove."

"I don't. I live in the world. Race you across the lake and back." Sandu, quite naturally, won. Back not far off the bank, but in water deeper than they were tall, they dogpaddled near each other, murmuring to each other on whatever came to them, the topics of which Martin couldn't remember afterward. Sandu touched Martin "here" and "there" on the face and underwater, on the chest and nipples and "down there." Sandu's erection was pressing at Martin's thighs, and Martin couldn't help but take his breath in.

"Tell me, have you ever lain under a man of the world?" Sandu asked.

Martin thought he had. A traveling salesman was more a man of the world than any man who lived in Willow Grove. But he felt tongue tied. He didn't answer.

With a laugh, the exotic young man moved his cock between Martin's trembling thighs. "I wish to be inside you," the man of the world murmured. He cupped the back of Martin's neck and brought his face in for a tentative kiss—and then a deeper one. Mesmerized, Martin yielded all.

Holding Martin in a close embrace, Sandu paddled over to the bank of the lake. He moved Martin up to the soft, grass-covered verge on to his back and, still kneeling in the shallows of the water himself, he draped Martin's knees over his shoulders. He took Martin's cock in his mouth and gave him slow, deep head, while Martin moaned, ran his fingers through Sandu's black hair, and, eventually, pumped warm cum into the back of Sandu's throat.

Martin gave the exotic young man everything. He denied him nothing. Sandu took what he wanted as if by right—as if he knew Martin was his to take.

Exhilarated and still on fire, Martin rose from his back and walked to the mossy bank near where they had left their clothes. He dropped down on his back on the moss, feet toward the water, and spread and bent his legs, placing his feet flat on the ground.

Yes, he was showing he was open to the other sexy, exotic boy. He'd been fucked three times since this time the previous day, and fucking was high in his mind. This was clearly a "come and fuck me" signal.

Sandu came out of the water and slowly approached Martin, smiling and in massive erection. He came down at Martin's side, stretching out beside Martin's body, his torso raised, supported on an elbow, and hovered over Martin's chest. He'd snapped off a cattail as he climbed out of the water. He ran this over Martin's naked body, touching him here, gliding over his shimmering skin there. Martin moaned and panted lightly. He writhed languidly under Sandu's attentions and whispered, "Now, now. Do it now," even though he shuddered at the knowledge that Sandu was thicker and longer than Theo had been. He reached up and freed the Sandu's ponytail and his long, black hair cascaded to the young man's shoulder and beyond.

"You want me to fuck you, don't you?" Sandu murmured.

"Yes," Martin whispered back.

"You have been fucked before, yes?"

"Yes," Martin answered. He didn't say how many times or how recently.

"You saw me. You can take me, yes?"

"Yes." He had no idea whether he could or not, but he knew he wanted to try. In the event, he did take Sandu. Twice now, once later, in a gypsy caravan wagon.

Sandu lifted his legs over Martin's thigh and set his knees between Martin's thighs and ran his hands up Martin's raised arms, grasping his wrists, as Martin, panting and whispering, "Yes, yes, please," raised and rolled up his pelvis. Martin gasped as Sandu entered him with a cock that was thicker and longer than Martin had taken before and immediately set up the rhythm of the fuck, Martin gasping and groaning with each thrust.

"Can you . . . is it . . .?"

"Do it. Fuck me," Martin hissed.

Sandu fucked him and fucked him and fucked him.

Later, Sandu sat, cross-legged, on the moss and Martin was in his lap, facing Sandu. Martin's legs were wrapped around Sandu's hips, the heels of his feet pressed into Sandu's bare buttocks. And Sandu grasped Martin's orbs in his hands and pulled Martin's pelvis on and off his cock as Martin's torso arched back and his hands grabbed at clumps of moss. Martin ejaculated up the exotic older teen's belly as, instructed on how to do it, the muscles of Martin's channel walls milked Sandu's cock dry.

Pulling his torso up to Sandu's breast afterward and the two embracing close and kissing, Martin whispered, "Are you real? You are so exotic. So satisfying."

"No, I am a fairy, flitting about. Here today, gone tomorrow."

"Surely not gone tomorrow," Martin whispered.

"Yes, possibly gone tomorrow. I am Romany. I'm with the gypsies camped not far from here. We came here when we did and will move on when we will. I saw you and sensed that you needed this."

"So, all gypsies are fortune-tellers? You could tell just by looking at me that I needed to be fucked?"

"I could tell how you reacted to me. You were blatant in your need. You threw yourself at me. You needed cocking, didn't you?"

"Yes, I did." Martin didn't quibble about throwing himself at the exotic lover.

"But you are not too experienced. Delicious but not experienced."

"No, I'm not."

"But you want to be."

"Yes."

"I will take you to the camp, to my tatal—father, my unchiul—uncle, and my bunicul—grandfather. You don't mind being fucked by different experienced men in succession, do you?"

Besotted with Sandu and in still in high heat, Martin did not say no.

They were eating a meal—a stew served and eaten wherever colorfully dressed members of the extended gypsy family were perched—around the circle of yellow, with red and blue painted designed, gypsy caravan wagons in a clearing in a grove of oaks.

There was laughter and song—and dancing. A muscular, handsome man in his thirties with long black hair tied in a pony tail, the unchiul—uncle—played some exotic stringed instruments Martin had no idea what to identify as. Another muscular, raven-haired handsome man—the tatal, the father—danced in the circle lit by torchlight as dusk crept in. He danced with women. He danced with Sandu. He danced with Martin. The bunicul, the grandfather—old and leathery, but still muscular and handsome, a long ponytail of salt and pepper hair streaming down his back—sat off to the side, clapping to the rhythm of the stringed instrument and the dance and singing in a strong bass to the soprano of the women.

At the height of the dancing, music, and frivolity, the tatal picked Martin up in his arms and carried him into one of the wagons. He stripped Martin of his clothes and laid him on a narrow bed, kissing and fondling the young man's body all over, bringing Martin to a panting erection, which the man took in his mouth and drained. Martin gave no sign of resistance. The man tied Martin's wrists to the brass rung overhead of the headboard, unlaced and flared his britches to allow his horse-hung cock to flop out, let his hair loose to flow down his back, climbed between Martin's spread knees, penetrated him with the proud cock, and ravished the young man, changing their position from time to time to introduce a new approach to the passage by the cock. He was teaching Martin as well as royally fucking him. The gypsy wagon rocked on its suspension and the men outside indulged boisterously in lewd expressions and songs.

As the tatal finished, the unchiul arrived, unlaced and flared his britches, popped out another horse-hung cock, let his hair loose to flow down his back, climbed between Martin's spread knees, penetrated him with the proud cock, and took his turn ravishing the young man in yet different positions of the fuck, saddling himself on Martin's chest first and fucking his throat. The bunicul—the grandfather—took his turn then. The uncle hadn't sucked Martin off; the grandfather did so, relentlessly and expertly, before sticking it to the young man and fucking him as vigorously and inventively as his two sons had. Grandpa had the thickest shaft of all too.

Martin came away with the knowledge that the signal that a gypsy was going to fuck you was that they let their hair down.

The music and dancing continued outside the caravan wagon, as Sandu came in after the grandfather had departed and stretched beside Martin, kissing and fondling him and whispering love poetry to him. His hair was down. That meant he was going to fuck Martin again—and he did.

* * * *

Father Luke was whimpering and almost crying that Sunday, after mass, when he and Martin were alone in the sacristy and Martin was perched on the ledge by the sink, the hem of his altar boy robe gathered up around his waist, his undergarments on the floor below, and the heels of the deerskin boots Sandu had given him rubbing against the priest's bare buttocks. Father Luke's vestments were gathered around his waist as well, and his undergarments were puddled around his ankles, as his body leaned into Martin's and Martin held the priest's head into his chest. The priest's hips were swaying as he fucked the suddenly willing altar boy. Martin was a little surprised that the priest was hung and was able to get hard as a rock and could hold it for a fifteen-minute fuck.

It would be the last and only time, though, that Martin would give himself to the priest. Martin was too old, really, to be an altar boy anymore, and religion didn't grip him enough for him to continue coming to mass. He was fairly sure that Sunday mornings now would find him in bed with whatever man had paid to bed him on Saturday night.

It was just a pity fuck. Martin felt sorry for the priest.

That evening, as dusk set in, Martin was back beside the lake. They had driven in John Shield's Chevrolet Series 490 automobile past where the gypsy camp had been, but the Romany were gone. Sandu hadn't said good-bye and Martin hadn't expected him to.

Shield fucked Martin in the cramped backseat of the Chevrolet beside the lake, Martin reclining against the side of the car, his ankles on Shield's shoulders as the hotel owner knelt between the young man's thighs and penetrated slowly but relentlessly up into his passage. Martin held a ten-dollar bill in his hand. When Martin told the hotel owner he could have Martin for the night for ten dollars, Shield had jumped at the opportunity. He'd also told Shield it would be his first time, which pleased the hotel owner to no end, and he treated Martin like spun glass for the first coupling.

Shield was thicker and longer than Theo, the salesman, had been, but nowhere close to any of the gypsy men. After them, Martin thought he could take any man—and he was game to try almost any man. He was giving out samples now. He planned to make a business of it.

As Shield grunted his last grunt, tensed and relaxed his buttocks, and pumped the last spurt of his cum up into Martin's channel, he more or less collapsed on top of Martin.

They kissed and, pulling out of that, Shield apologetically said, "It's really cramped in the back of this car. I want to take you back to the hotel, to my rooms, and fuck you all night on a proper bed. I'll pay you ten dollars more."

"Sure, fine, anything you want, anywhere you want it for the night," Martin said, adding, "and if you still want to take me to that cabin near Jefferson City the week after this, that's just fine with me too."

"You know I'll want—"

"If you pay me ten dollars a day, you can fuck me all week there if you want."

Shield gave Martin a lustful look that made the young man think he might regret having made that offer, and, sure enough, when they got back to the hotel, Shield proved that he could manage five more athletic fucks in a night to the three standard ones that Theo had been up for, leaving Martin—as he had been after the gypsy men were finished with him—stretched out flat on the bed, limbs akimbo, eyes glazed, and mouth blowing bubbles, but a contented little smile on his face.

And purring. Martin was purring.