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Cross-Country with My Uncle Ch. 01

By: John Hill



My mother married young; I was born when she was only 18. Her younger brother was only 6 when I was born. We lived only three doors away from mom's folks, and my uncle was like a god to me. When I was 9, he was 15, and kayaking in the Pennsylvania mountains, and shooting rats at the Doylestown borough dump. He was the star on his high school baseball team, an enormously talented second baseman, and I often went to his games. But he also was the first trumpet at the statewide youth orchestra. He was an eagle scout, and he almost never needed to study, and yet wound up as valedictorian of his class, and got virtually perfect SATs. He was enormously popular, and always the center of a group of the 'right' kids at his house. He was president of his class until his senior year when he served as president of student government. He always dated the most popular and beautiful girls, who virtually hung all over him.

He won a baseball scholarship to Stanford, and during his college years I saw much less of him than when he was still at home. But for years and years we had always had a wonderful relationship. As a youth, he regularly babysat for me and my little sister, and we always loved it. And I always went to him when I needed an idea for a book to read for a report or a social studies project and he always had a great suggestion, just perfect. He always found time to play catch with me, and often when I had my own friends over, he'd sometimes show up and make a big fuss over me, tousling my hair or giving my some little present like a notebook or a keyring or a baseball. My friends were in total awe of him. As was I, for to me he was like a god striding the earth. It didn't hurt that he didn't have any brothers of his own and that I was his only nephew -- and that in fact I was named for him: He was Mike, and in the family I was Little Mikey. And of course he knew that I worshipped him.

But, really, how could I not? In addition to being wonderfully talented in every department he was impossibly handsome. He'd always been really good looking (an album full of photos from when he was a kid shows that he was always a cutie at every age), but as he grew to be an adolescent he really came into his own. He early grew to be six feet tall, and thanks to great genes and working out he developed a wonderful mesomorphic body, with broad shoulders, narrow hips, great legs, and his arm muscles had muscles on them. His abs were six-packed, and his pecs were imposing, large and defined. His eyes were, well the only name for it is azure; and he had long curling lashes. He had a Tom-Cruise nose, and a square chin, and, yes, killer dimples. His medium blond hair was in loose curls. And he was very hairy. Lots of young guys have very hairy legs and forearms, but he was remarkable in this respect. His limbs were thickly covered in golden hair, every year bleached almost white by early summer. But he was precocious in developing a mat of dark-blond, almost light brown chest hair, thickly covering his pecs, with a wide trail running down the center of his belly to his navel and on beyond.

During his college years he worked every summer, his first couple of years as a guide and horse wrangler at a dude ranch in Colorado; and in later years he got great summer jobs with software developers. He excelled in his computer engineering course of study, and he came to be a great favorite of his professors. Because he went to school clear across the country, I didn't see him often during his college years, but whenever he came home, he'd specially spend time alone with me, maybe taking me on a hike or taking me down to Philadelphia for a Phillies game. All my friends knew him and admired him. And during the school year he'd often drop me an email or send me an interesting web page he'd browsed, or a lunatic joke, or give me a phone call from time to time.

It wasn't surprising that he found it easy to befriend me. As a matter of fact, I was a great deal like him, and followed in his footsteps to a remarkable degree. Like him, I excelled in school, and was always at the top of my class. In the autumn I played wide receiver; forward in winter, and in spring, consciously emulating him, I fought for and easily won the second-base job. I didn't play the trumpet, but I too was selected for the state youth orchestra as first seat trombone. And like Mike, I was an eagle scout in the his old troop. I had classes with a lot of his old teachers, and of course they all remembered him, and repeatedly referred to him with friendly stories, and often asked how he was doing. Like Mike, I was an effortlessly popular kid, and like Mike I was best buddies with the most popular guys in town and enjoyed dating the most beautiful -- and interesting -- girls in my school.

Physically, I bore a very strong resemblance to Mike. By the time I was 15 I was an inch taller than him, and while I had the same general build as him, it took me a while to catch up with him in general muscular development: but I eventually would. In little ways, like our hands and ears, we were absolutely indistinguishable. But unlike Mike's deep azure eyes, mine were the color of cornflowers; and instead of curling medium blond hair, mine was straw-colored and floppy. And while as a highschooler, I wasn't yet as hirsuite as he, my arms and legs were almost as hairy as his, and prolific golden vellous hair prefigured the thick mats that would come in time to garnish my chest and belly, just like him.

When he graduated from Stanford as a computer engineer, he got a job he loved, with a big bonus and big salary at a software firm in Sunnyvale. And he continued dating Alice, his steady girl during his last year and a half at Stanford. He had brought Alice home a couple of times, and I was smitten by her: who wouldn't have been? She was a golden, fabulous California girl, with lots of brains and a wonderfully sweet personality. We hit it off immediately, and my girl Cassie even got more than a little jealous!

When Mike was 24, he and Alice were engaged to be married in her home town near San Jose, and Mike asked me to be his Best Man. After the wedding they were to move into a good-sized townhouse, and just before the wedding he flew back to Pennsylvania to pick up a truckload of furniture -- including several family heirlooms and antiques -- to furnish their new place. Mike invited me to go drive across country with him, sharing the driving and keeping him company. I needed to get out to California for his wedding anyway. And Mike had put in a good word for me with his old bosses as the dude ranch, and after the wedding I was to spend the rest of the summer working in Colorado. After the wedding I?d fly from San Jose to Denver, and one of the hands?d pick me up there.

For me, Mike was more than ever a god. A more perfect guy you couldn't imagine, and for me, on the brink of making college and career decisions, it was the best of opportunities to get his advice on a million things. And just to shoot the shit with him was like the best times in my life. But it wasn't a one-sided relationship. Yes, he basked in my admiration, my worship, but he had not only a deep-seated affection for me, I know he found me amusing and fun to be with. We shared was the same sense of humor and taste for irony. The hours spent with him were the most golden in my life.

We planned to leave on Friday, right after I got out of a long-scheduled dental checkup and cleaning, for what was planned as a five-day drive across the country. Because I was fully scheduled, Mike wound up packing up almost all the furniture into the rental truck himself. I only helped with a couple of awkward pieces at the end. Due to our late start, we only got as far as Clarion, PA, before we stopped for the night at a roadside motel. After a quick meal at one of the franchise joints down the road, we went back to the motel, and took our bags into the room, outfitted with two queen beds.

After all the furniture moving and driving, Mike opted for a warm bath instead of a shower. After a few minutes, he called to me from the tub and asked me to bring the atlas so we could plan our route the next day, because we had several options, not wanting simply to take I-80 all the way across country. So I joined him in the bathroom, taking a seat on the john, and we discussed the distances and routes. And I really enjoyed taking in his gorgeous body, so perfectly proportioned, so powerful, so extremely masculine. Of course I had often seen him in nothing but brief, tight athletic shorts, or a towel around his waist, or occasionally a brief view of him in the nude in some incidental situation, but this was different, really drinking in his perfect body, covered with hair, now wet and matted densely on his chest, his belly, his arms and his legs, with a lock of wet blond hair falling across his forehead, and the stubble of a two-day beard erupting from his chin.

His beautiful body was, discounting the amount of hair, similar to mine, but still thicker and more powerful about the shoulders, the chest, the biceps, the thighs, and most particularly his Popeye-like forearms, and his well-turned calves. Except for the fact that he had far more copious belly hair, his genitals were amazingly familiar-looking. His phallus seemed to be the image of mine, and likewise his large, pendulous balls, loose and low-hanging in the steamy bath were identical to mine.

It was a large tub and Mike had filled it only partly full. It's true that I was really enjoying the show, and, while at first diffident, I soon grew to be somewhat hard-eyed, and virtually stared at him in his glory. But it's also true that he seemed to be enjoying exhibiting his body to me, and from time to time he would idly rake his fingers through his thick chest hair, or casually run the bar of soap over and through his thick public hair and over his penis. He didn't get hard, but his cock subtly lengthened while I was in the room. As for me, I had a great deal of congestion in my shorts, and I was glad that I had the atlas to cover my crotch.

After a while, he got out of the tub, dripping, and because there really wasn't enough room in the small bathroom for him to towel off while I was there, I retired to the bedroom, and stripped off down to my shorts and climbed into one of the beds, glancing at the clock. It was 9.25.

In a minute or two, he re-entered the room, now with the towel around his waist, and with the hair on his chest, belly, legs, and arms still somewhat plastered to his body, but popping up in here and there as it dried. He walked over to the beds and pulled the covers on the other one all the way back and flopped down, prone, laying his head onto one arm. He said, Mikey, "Do me a favor. I'm still just a little stiff from all that furniture loading. Will you rub my shoulders a little?"

He didn't have to ask me twice. Within seconds, I was straddling his right thigh, and slowly kneading his shoulder. Of course I had often touched Mike, in the ordinary way, slapping him on the back, or cuffing him on shoulder or giving him a big hug when he came back to town, but this was different -- very different. For me just to touch his firm skin, his muscular shoulders was, well, electric. He obviously liked it -- no loved it! -- emitting little grunts of satisfaction. After a few minutes on the right shoulder, I turned to the left shoulder; and also worked down his upper arms, and then to the broad expanse of his back, and then to the mid-back, where it tapered to his trim waist. His grunts became a little more like moans, but no less frequent.


Then I began to work on his thickly forested and very well-defined lower legs, working up to his thighs, first left and then right. Somewhere in all this his towel had fallen open, and the grandeur and glory of his butt was exposed to my view -- and to my tender hands. It was a thing of wonder. Firm, rounded, and very well defined, but absolutely coated in fine dark blond hair, spreading almost up to his waist on the left and right. From either side, it tended to grow toward the midline of his body, forming almost a tangle in his crack; and in the small of his back it continued to spread, still dense, up to beyond his belt-line to a patch that I had often seen before when he went shirtless.

By this time, it was almost 10 by the little motel clock. But I must have spent almost 15 minutes on his amazing butt, tenderly stroking it, and working my fingers up and down his crack. As I did, he parted his legs somewhat, and my demurely inquisitive fingers discovered his scrotum, with its soft but firm contents. The region between his anus and his scrotum was very densely hairy, another tangle.

In all this time I hadn't said a word, but I had been strictly attentive to and rewarded by every little grunt and moan coming from my dear uncle's mouth. Now all I said was two words: "Turn over."

And he did. He rolled to his left, and his magnificent front came into view: On his fabulous face there was no easily read expression. His eyes were closed, and his mouth was set in a mild, somewhat ambiguous smile. But his emotional state was easily read in his phallus, for it was of walnut. Sticking up against his belly, I judged it to be very little short of 8 inches, virtually the same as mine when I was carrying wood (as I had been for the last 45 minutes!) It might have been a little thicker than mine, but mostly it looked exactly the same: In addition to the thick veins standing up on the front and sides, there were several smaller ones curling around the surface of the shaft. The glans was a perfect hood, flaring and now almost purple, and its surface taut and shiny.

But I did not say a word, but slipped off my shorts, and moved to his lower legs, spread well apart. I used my hands to ruffle though the hair of his calves, and then worked his thighs with deeper, deliberate kneading. Then I shifted to his side and massaged his right forearm, and, picked up his right hand, and, using both of mine, tenderly and firmly kneaded it for some short while. And then I went to his firm round bicep, and then dragged my fingers lightly through the thick curls of his right armpit, eliciting more sighs. Shifting, I did the same on his left side, and then, catching the red glowing numerals of the clock reporting 10.40, I planned to busy myself with his wonderful chest. 

But, alas, all not every plan is realized, and after furrowing my fingers through the amazing thatch here and there, as soon as I begin heading south, down the thick trail to his firm belly, I prematurely abandoned his chest in order to tease his now bobbing cock.

At first I just touched just the rim of his glans ever so slightly and "accidentally" with the side of my hand as I was tenderly rubbing his hairy belly, and then moved away toward his side; and then back for another trivial teasing touch, and another deliberate recession. I kept this up for almost quarter of an hour, with occasional excursions to touch, ever so delicately, with just the tip of a finger, or maybe two, his scrotum, never doing anything so crass as to heft one of his splendid balls. And this despite Mike's more and more urgent moans: but from him never so much as an actual word.

Finally, I teasingly grasped his phallus with my entire right hand, and I instantly felt something entirely and completely familiar: it was a though holding my own erection. I knew at once that his size and mine were virtually identical.

My first tender grasp grew firmer; then relaxed. Then firm again, and a slight upward motion, then release. Then I moved entirely away from his great member and idly teased him with some soft touches on his nipples, and running my finger down the thick trail of hair to his belly. And then again, another grasp of the phallus and a more or less complete stroke, and then release again. And then again. And then once more. At this point, I held off 2 seconds, then 5, then 10 before finally my uncle moans, "Mikey, don't stop, don't stop."

I didn't know how long I could keep this up without going a little crazy. So from then on, I concentrated all my attention on his phallus, and abandoned the idea of further teasing. After all, it had already been close to half an hour since I had first "accidentally" touched the rim of his glans with the edge of my hand.

But I did not even consider bringing him right off. Instead I found a dozen different ways to caress and worship his phallus with my fingers and hand, all without any lubrication other than the now copious pre-cum that issued forth. Every single square centimeter received solicitous attention, all in its due time, tracing the course of every vein, fluffing the little line of hair that ran, sparsely, along its ventral midline. I pulled his penis back to 90 degrees away from his body, and released it to snap briskly back against his belly. I traced tiny circles on his glans. And after another quarter hour, I finally grasped his shaft in my tender fingers and, slowly at first, and then subtly faster and harder, pulled him off. I matched his timing with my every stroke, and when he came, I knew it full seconds before the first eruption. With one very firm stroke, I brought him off, and a long rope of semen spread across his face. After having a great deal of experience with my own cock, I knew just how to bring off the second, third, and even fourth spurts, with total and complete satisfaction. By this time, his chest and belly hair was matted in sperm, and my hairy arms were also splattered with it, the seed of my dear, wonderful, godlike uncle Mike.

He looked at me intensely. Kiss me, he said. And I bent over his face, still covered in semen, and first licked it clean, the dimples, the wonderful golden eyebrows, the bristling chin. And then joined my lips to his in what was by far the most passionate kiss of my life, till then, or ever after. When finally we broke, Mike pulled my head onto his chest, where I nestled with my face buried in his fur. My left arm was sprawled across his right chest and arm, and he said, quietly,?You know, Mikey, I have always, always loved you dearly, and never more than this moment.? Tears ran from the corners of my eyes and onto his manly chest.

As for me, I had been as of hardrock maple for almost two hours, as I had ministered to my uncle, dragging my balls across his hairy thigh or his thatched belly as I had been working over him.

Though he was profoundly relaxed, and breathing deeply and steadily, he reached down to touch me. To my complete astonishment, within one second of his fingertips making contact with my glans, I erupted in the biggest orgasm I had ever had, my body convulsing as stream after stream of cum shot onto my uncle's chest, still sticky with his own sperm.

Gasping, panting, I fell into his arms exhausted, my face nuzzling in his big, firm, chest, my face pasted to his body with our cum, and within 30 seconds we were both asleep. 

And it wasn't even 11.30 on the first night of our five-day trip. -- 

To be continued.

Cross-Country with My Uncle Ch. 02



This wasn't the typical 'motel,' but a 'motor hotel,' and our room was on the third floor, and its easterly windows faced a large pasture; we had not pulled the drapes closed and morning sun filled the room and slanted across the bed -- and across me, still safely in the arms of my dear uncle, my face buried in his fuzzy chest. The raking rays brightly picked out his manly, but angelic face, and his powerful chest. I slowly and gently unfolded his powerful hairy arms, sat up, and enjoyed studying this portrait of masculine beauty. His tousled blond hair picked up the sun, and glinted, even the locks falling onto his forehead. His fontal ridge featured sun-bleached eyebrows, and his closed eyes yielded an excellent opportunity of appreciating his long lashes, also golden. His beard, now beginning a third day, was now a distinctly gilded stubble, very thick on his cheeks (so readily dimpled) and square chin. His powerful neck was punctuated by a prominent adams-apple, and curls of the dark-blond hair that so thickly covered his powerful pectorals impinged on the lowest part of his neck. (Even when he wore a crew collar tee shirt, these curls were always visible.) The hair ran in a dense but defined trail down the middle of his washboard belly to his navel, and there the trail widened into a dense tangle that merged into the his very thick dark blond, or almost light brown, pubic hair. His magnificent legs were splayed apart, emphasizing the boyishness of his waist and hips. Between his legs hung his balls, loose and large, but his penis was laying on his belly, erect, yes, but not oaken. His feet were those of an athlete, and the hair of his calves continued down onto them, only gradually thinning out toward his toes.

He stirred; and opening his beautiful eyes and smiling very widely, he looked right into my face and, without a word, reached up and putting his right hand behind my head, pulled me down to him for a profound kiss, thrilling me to my roots. Then we broke; and he rose up and rather suddenly, he effortlessly flipped me over onto my back, and pinning my arms almost behind my head with his hands as he straddled me, he leaned down and begin a long series of butterfly-like kisses on my face, my eyes, my ears, my nose, my chin, and then my neck. He said, "Relax, Mikey: Don't move," and his hands moved from my wrists to my neck and then body, caressingly, as he continued moving over my chest and then belly, and then, moving further down, he ran his tongue through my prolific public hair, and then kissed my rock-hard penis on one side and then another. I was in transports as he knelt between my wide-spread legs.

This was the beginning of an elaborate lovemaking to my penis. It was masturbation, yes; but much more than that. It was fellation, yes, but far more than that. It was delicate; it was firm; it was deliberate; it seemed capricious. He seemed never to let go of my erection with his two hands -- they seemed always clasping, grasping -- but somehow he was also kissing it, swirling the head with his knowing tongue, and then engulfing it in his mouth, with his wet lips moving up and down and his tongue ever busy. And then suction and release. Hands, then mouth, then hands again, then mouth again. And sometimes when my phallus was in his mouth, he delicately hefted my balls with his fingertips.

"Uncle Mike," I said, "I can't stop; I'm coming." He nodded, and I jetted again and again deep into his mouth: and with suction and firm, artful handwork he intensified the orgasm far beyond any I'd ever experienced before. As a real high school stud, at least in my high school, I'd dated several girls, and, by my count -- how could I have forgotten any of them! -- I'd been sucked by six of them. But frankly, most high school girls are no damn good at oral sex, and only my long-time high school love, Cassie, with my patient training, learned to be a fairly talented fellatrix. But Cassie was never anything like this! It was my godlike uncle, the idol of my life, fellating me! And it was the first time any male had ever come close to anything like this kind of intimacy.

Mike, my cum slightly leaking from his lips onto his bristly chin, moved up my body and, holding my face in both his hands, again gave me a deep and passionate kiss, his tongue and my cum invading my mouth. When we broke, my own cum dribbled out of the corners of my mouth, and at that point I was the happiest man in the universe.

I reached up and touched his cheek, and with both hands he stroked my forearm and said, "Get up, man, let's get some breakfast." 

Right over our bodies crusted with cum we pulled on tee shirts and gym shorts and our Nikes, and went down to the coffee shop, where we took a booth in the corner with a view of the highway. Mike sat opposite me, as often before, but we had entered a new world, a whole new sphere of existence. This time, under the table, he very deliberately and precisely positioned his hairy right leg so that it was just barely tangent with my hairy left leg, and his left ankle gently caressed my right, while he looked more deeply into my eyes than ever he had before. He said,"Mikey, though you know I have always loved you, this is something entirely different. I think we will always have something very special together for the rest of our lives." He maintained a constant slight contact with both my legs, when I extended my hand partway across the table, he gently placed two of his fingers on mine, for just a few seconds, as he held my eyes, giving me still another frisson of passion, though I felt I was already overcharged.

It was another beautiful early summer day, and soon we were back in the truck and on the road. But now it was different. Much of the time as we drove, his hand was on my thigh, or at least on my shoulder, or perhaps running through my hair; or my hand was on his, resting on the gear shift, or on his thigh, and often our legs were touching, but somehow, every minute we were somewhere tangent. It was easy in the roomy cab of the truck, with its generous bench seat. 

Of course we had everything in the world to talk about. School, work, women, sports, books, politics, music, you name it. Mike played keyboards and sometimes was featured on brass in a raunchy bar band that had a certain following in the Palo Alto area; I played bass and dobro in a little C & W band I got together with some guys at school. We'd gotten a few gigs in the area, and I loved it. Though our bands were very different, we both seemed to like some of the same Indie groups, and we both loved Brahms, Buxtehude, and Berlioz. Sometimes I wondered whether our tastes and preferences just happened to run in the same directions, or whether I was intensely influenced by Mike even more than I could have imagined, in matters great and small. But in any case, there was a great deal of commonality. But we both were men of opinion, and both natural leaders, used to having our own views attended to by our friends, classmates, and colleagues, so we had a certain space for contention; and when it came to matters of fact and taste, friendly dispute was one of our preferred manners interacting.

Midmorning passed very pleasantly in this fashion. But much of the time, our shorts were tented, especially when a hand on a muscular hairy thigh would move up and into the loose leg opening of the gym shorts of the other. Because we were riding higher than all but semis, no one in cars could see into the cab of the truck; and because we had chosen to avoid the interstates for smaller, two-lane more scenic routes, at least part of the time, essentially no one could see in. So it wasn't long until we had shed our tee shirts, exposing our chests and rock-hard abs; and the passenger, by turns Mike or I, had dropped his shorts too (keeping them around one ankle for a fast recovery), and spread his legs, so that his pole, in all its glory, stood free. And some of the time, the driver had his right hand gently but firmly grasping the other's phallus. 

And it was still just midday of the second day of the trip. 

-- To be continued. 



Cross-Country with My Uncle Ch. 03



Off a small road in north-central Indiana, we pulled into an obviously little-used lane between a wood lot and a pasture. And 500 feet down the lane there was a turnout to a rutted drive into the wood lot, where we turned in. We got from the cooler the last of the egg salad sandwiches and carrot sticks my mom had packed for us, and had a pleasant little picnic parked in the shady grove, with the cab doors open. After we finished, my uncle walked a few steps and, with a conventional modesty now you'd think superseded between us, he turned away, pulled down his gym shorts, and took a whiz.

Though I had been watching him all day long, something in me very strongly reacted to the sight of his powerful, muscled back, with its impressive lats, narrowing to a 31 inch waist, and with his shorts pulled down, his stunning fur-covered butt was exposed to my view. I walked over to him as he was shaking off, and taking his whiskery face in my hands, I gave him another deep kiss. He responded by grabbing me in a firm hug, bringing our chests together. After a passionate 15 seconds, I broke away, stooped to pick up his shorts that he'd stepped out of, and took his great hand in mine and lead him back to the capacious cab of the truck, with his cock, fast becoming the center of my universe, again raging. The fact that it was a little awkward in the cab didn't mean that my first cock-sucking experience wasn't wonderful, because it was. It might have seemed odd to have another man's cock in my mouth for the first time, but actually it seemed remarkably natural and totally wonderful, because it was my uncle's! As he reclined in a semi-sitting, semi-recumbent position on the bench, with one great leg on the floorboard, and one hooked over the seat top, his phallus had never seemed more rigid between his splayed legs; and his balls hung down almost but not quite touching the seat. But though I partly knelt on the floor and partly lay on the seat, actually it was easy, since my uncle made his manhood so open and available to me. Remembering everything he had done to me earlier, I tried to be as artful as he had been with his gentle genital kisses, his use of both hands, his tickling of my balls, the suction he'd used in knowing combination with handwork. The smoothness of his glans on my tongue was wonderful; the contrast delicious with the textured roughness of the shaft with its large veins and small ones, and with the hairs that my tongue found running up partway up the shaft on the dorsal midline. The smell was simply overpowering: it was the complete essence of maleness. And soon came the sweet-salty taste of pre-cum, slicking my lips. When his cock was in my mouth, then I could use (as he had done) my fingers gently to tease his scrotum and feel the heft of his mighty testicles.

It all seemed very natural to me, except for one thing. Though I had had his erect penis in my sensitive hands for much of an hour last night, and I learned every contour and detail of it -- and in any case it was almost exactly just like mine -- I was nevertheless surprised, even amazed at how huge it was in the mouth, and instantly I had a little more sympathy with my girlfriends back home. I tried to be as artful as I could; and remembering some of my amateurish girlfriends back home, I was very careful to make sure that no errant contact with a tooth ever spoiled the sensation. And, though it was my first time to suck a cock, as an experienced fellatee I knew how to extend the experience and make it last, especially since I could feel every twitch in my uncle's member. Though I tried to be deliberate as possible, eventually even with my strategy of easing off and coming on again strong to match his state, I knew that he could no longer hold off coming, which he did in four -- or was it five' -- great shuddering convulsions, during which I instinctively caught his rhythm; and I heightened each of them with a final firm and tight upward stroke with my hand as I was applying suction. His cum flooded my mouth, and though I wanted to savor and swallow it, much of it ran out onto my bristling chin. Though it was he, not I who had technically had the orgasm, I was so much in rhythm with him that I had a virtual one, almost as strong as anything I had hitherto experienced. And as I looked up into his azure eyes, he beamed down on me with the warmest benignity. He didn't have to say a single word. I knew.

To be continued.



Cross-Country with My Uncle Ch. 04



We stopped in Galena, Illinois that night, early enough to check into a motel, and quickly getting some directions from the desk clerk, went out for a brisk four-mile run around the pretty old town. We ran in just the same gym shorts we'd being'wearing' all day. My uncle was a regular jogger, and in great shape, but since I'd been in training for three sports all the year round, I found it was no problem to take the hills, and actually subtly eased up my pace to keep precisely even with Mike. We came back to the room, dripping. My hair was no longer floppy, but plastered to my head; and sweat ran down my hairy legs. Mike's chest and belly hair was matted to his body with sweat, and his leg hair, instead of standing in crisp curls, in places was also flattened where the rivulets of sweat coursed down. The room didn't have a bathtub, but it had a generous walk-in shower. We dropped our shorts, and stepped in together, and systematically soaped each other up. Though the shower was generous sized, we still filled it up, with our large bodies, especially since by that time we each had enormous erections, and any time we turned, we stood the risk of grazing our cocks against the smooth ceramic walls of the shower. I shampooed Mike's hair, and then he mine. As beautiful as he was, when wet he was still more handsome. His hair all down his forehead; his body hair darker and seemingly even more abundant; his face shiny and clean, or as shiny as it could be under a three-day growth of golden stubble.

We toweled briskly off and went into the bedroom and flopped on the beds, enjoying the air conditioning on our nude bodies. I rolled over onto my stomach, and propped up myself up on my elbows and just feasted my eyes on my gorgeous uncle. I said, 'Mike, you have no idea how I have always idolized you, every thing about you, since my earliest memories.....' but there he interrupted me .

'Mikey,' he said, 'hold it.' He rolled over to face me and, and then got up and and sat down right beside me, with his left hand on my firm, hairy butt. 'Roll over,' he commanded, and I did, looking up at him. 'Mikey,' you just don't get it, do you' It's I who admire you. In every way, you are a better man than I ever was at your age. I was a baseball star, yes; but you've lettered in three sports and you took your club to the state championship, hitting two triples and three home runs in the series. I was valedictorian, but you are acing all your AP courses, courses we didn't even have when I was your age, and you are leading your class. I was an eagle scout, but you made it three months earlier than I did. And your musicianship is far better than mine. You already have an inch on me already, and your shoulders are bigger than mine, and at the rate you're going, you'll soon put more on your chest, arms, and legs than I'll ever have. And, look at you, Mikey, you are a fucking Adonis, from your beautiful eyes, your model's cheekbones, your dimples and chin. And your body is youthful perfection, from your pecs to your abs, without a single ounce of fat anywhere; with your bellied biceps and big thighs. And don't think I didn't notice you cutting me slack on the hills out there this afternoon -- and your furry legs and forearms, and your bubble butt, completely covered in golden fur.

'But maybe most amazingly of all, Mikey, is that you are so completely unaware of how wonderful you are. You don't seem to know what a mirror is; whenever someone greets you on the street back home you act as if they've given you some gift, just to recognize your existence, when in reality all the world seeks to be near you and just to catch your eye. You never seem to notice that when you walk into a room everyone turns to stare.

'Yes, whenever I'm home, I like spending time with you; and when we are apart, I do like to keep up with you by phone or email, and know what's happening in your life. But it's not avuncular condescension, Mikey; it's that I'm truly awed by you, that I truly admire you and I love you in so many ways.'

While he was telling me this, all of which just amazed me, he had his left hand on my belly, just beneath my hard-as-rock dick. Two fingers were gently curved down toward my scrotum, but touching my phallus; the other three were buried in my almost-blond bush of thick public hair, and my cock lay upon them, as Mike slightly moved them. 

I was stunned by what he had said to me. He quietly said, 'Mike' (not 'Mikey,' this time), fuck me.' 

But I couldn't. Not just then. I said, 'Uncle, I'd do anything in the world for you, anything, just name it. But I'll never fuck you until you've fucked me good and proper, three times.' (And, I could have added, shown me how to do it. Actually, I had never experienced anything of the kind, and though of course I had heard stories for years, and even seen some scenes in videos with the guys home, I wasn't really sure how it worked. While I was sure I could figger it out, I definitely I felt that my idol, my uncle, should fuck me than vice-versa.)

So he said, 'OK, nephew, let's get started then.' But what he did next rather surprised me. Instead of taking me and seizing me or something of that sort, he began with a very elaborate foreplay. He said 'Spread your arms and your legs, and until I tell you, don't move.' On the big bed he again began kissing me all over. He started with my left hand, and kissed it all over, fingers, palm, and back of the hand, and then pressed it to his face with his hand. Then he released it, and did the same with my right hand, but this time he slowly caressed my forearm, on its back, where my golden hair was thickest, and then on its inner side, where the veins were more prominent; and so with my left forearm, and there he kissed very delicately the inside of my elbow, and then worshipped my left bicep, and nuzzled my left armpit. Though we were fresh from the shower, already I was exuding a strong aroma from my pits that I could readily smell, but he lapped up my rich sweat. And so with my right elbow, bicep, and axilla. Then he straddled my waist, such that my erect phallus was caught between the cheeks of his butt, resting in the thick tangle of hair there, and supporting himself on his hands, he leaned down and kissed my face all over, from my hairline and ears to my chin. And then he worked his way down my now bristly neck -- I hadn't shaved since just before going to the dentist now 2 days ago -- and to my chest. I had known that making love to my girlfriend's breasts and nipples could drive them crazy, but I'd never known or even suspected that I could be driven to the edge of ecstasy by the same methods: but Mike knew, and he did cause me to tremble and buck.

He scuttled backward, now straddling my thighs and then lower legs as he ruffled through the dense but still fine and golden vellous hair on my chest. Then he came to the mature, or thick and heavy terminal hair that was developing in a notable line several inches above and leading to my navel, beyond which it then spread in a dense and widening band across my lower abs, merging with my heavy growth of dark gold public hair. 

For a moment I lost contact with him as he repositioned himself near my feet, and begin the same worship of my lower limbs. I was thinking, This is fucking me' But he knew what he was doing, and he told me to spread my legs again, and once more he knelt between them and began a new lovemaking to my phallus, at an entirely new level. This time he had commercial lubrication, and it was an entirely different experience. Though he was very careful to be deliberate, and every stroke was planned, from short, gentle ones to start with, moving on to firmer and longer ones, after about six or at most seven minutes, I knew in his miraculous hands I couldn't last much longer: And maybe four strokes before I knew I'd explode, he stopped entirely, and retreated and didn't touch me anywhere. Slowly but definitely I edged away from certain orgasm, and the pounding in my chest slowly subsided, and my breath came now more regularly instead of in gasps, and my tumescence eased slightly from the highest state of urgency to a plateau just below that condition, but to a state in which I knew I could endure.

After 30 seconds, he touched me again, but ever so slightly: the hair on his left forearm brushed the hair on my right calf. And then nothing for another 20 seconds. From this tiny start, he slowly and gradually re-engaged. He moved to finger slight strokes on my calf, and then the same on my left calf; and then to the front of my thigh, just above the knee, and then back to my right leg, to the inside of my thigh, and then to and then to the upper part of the inside of my thigh, quite close to my crotch. But while I was returning to a high pitch of excitement, it was a more general and peripheral excitement, instead of being concentrated in my genitals as before. My confidence grew both in him and in myself that I knew then that I would not suddenly explode, and he would not cause me to, without a specific determination on his part.

He pulled me to the edge of the bed, and taking charge of my powerful body he swung me around so that my legs fell off the side of the bed. He gently grasped my ankles and pulled them up and set them against my fuzzy butt, and then he knelt down and generously applying the lubricant on his fingers he massaged the area between my scrotum and anus, where the hidden root of the phallus lies, in my case like his, a dense tangle of dark blond hair. And as he massaged, first one, and then two of his slippery fingers entered my body, tentatively at first, and then more firmly, seeking and exploring. It was a totally new experience for me, a little frightening, and also very exciting. Finally, he had two fingers all the way up to the last knuckle, when he removed them, and added more lubricant. During all this I lay back with my eyes closed, but all my other senses heightened. Every tiny touch of every hair was almost electric to me. My penis was once again raging, though it hadn't been touched in minutes.

Mike then quietly and definitely said, haul your legs up over your body, and grab each of them behind your knees. This was very easy for me, for I was very flexible, and Mike easily parted my legs.

Mike stood at the bed, and adding still more lubricant to his penis, he poked slightly at my anus with the very tip of his phallus. Thanks to the lubricant, and his preparation of me, and the shape of the hood of his phallus -- and the stoutness of the erection behind it -- the first half-inch penetrated surprisingly easily. There Mike held for 15 seconds, withdrew slightly, and gently and firmly resumed his motion, and this time I gasped as the entire head of his cock passed my sphincter. I was amazed at how sensitive my rectum was and how distinctly I felt the well-defined flared ridge of his corona just enter my body. I felt distended, engorged, totally filled -- and so far only one inch of Mike's manhood was joined with me. Slowly, slowly, he introduced another quarter inch, and then another, and then withdrew; his coronal ridge again passing my sphincter. A new attack resulted in two inches of penetration, and I felt as if I had somehow been completed, becoming a new man. Slowly, Mike withdrew, but only an inch; and resumed, this time penetrating three inches. Another withdrawal, another penetration, this time four inches; and then an almost complete withdrawal, right to the point at which the flare of his glans was catching on the circle of my sphincter, and with slow deliberation he sank his entire shaft into my body, so that his balls were pressed against my butt. Knowing it was my magnificent uncle, my pole star for years, united with me in the most profound way that two men can be, I was raised to still a new level of exhilaration, never hitherto met, a joy, a sublimity beyond all my experience on earth.

I opened my eyes, and locked with those of my uncle, only a few inches away. Slowly he pumped, withdrew, pumped again, withdrew, with a rhythm that I could only call masterly in its control. Eventually I saw a flicker of question cross his face, and I nodded slightly, but he caught my every nuance. And then he grasped my phallus, now as distended and urgent as it had been before he had strategically ceased touching it, and with three more mighty pumps of his shaft, and three synchronized twisting slippery but firm pumps with his hand on my own shaft, we both exploded: he deep within my body; and I up my belly and chest and into my face: first once, then twice, then twice more, responding to his masterful strokes on my phallus.

Without withdrawing, he leaned over to my face and kissed it everywhere, spreading my cum everywhere: in my hair, on my nose, on my chin, dripping from my jawline; and likewise it was in his three-day beard and in his hair, now wet with sweat.

Slowly pulling out, quarter-inch by quarter-inch, until we were no long united, he bodily picked me up and rotated me onto the bed, and then collapsed along side me, flinging his arm across my body, and nestling his head this time on my chest.

And this was the evening of my second night on the road with my uncle. -- To be continued. 



Cross-Country with My Uncle Ch. 05



Mike dialed Alice's number, and getting her machine, left a message. We went out to grab some supper, and, getting back to the room, we stripped down for bed, planning to get up early the next day: We had a long haul, planning to make it all the way to Cheyenne. We crawled into the queen bed, leg to leg, shoulder to shoulder, and divided up this morning's New York Times. The phone rang. Mike kicked off the covers and reached over and picked up the phone: Of course it was Alice, no surprise there, but what was truly amazing was the instant effect it had on Mike. His killer smile covered his face, his shoulders raised, and under two seconds his penis begin to expand. With each beat of his heart more and more blood pumped in and distended it, and well under a minute it was fully erect and pulsing. Mike had called Alice from the coffee shop earlier this morning, so updating didn't take very long, but then the conversation seemed to take a different turn:

Mike said, 'Not a stitch, actually. I was in bed.'

--'Yeah, now that you mention it, it is. Rockhard and throbbing. And you?'

--'Omigod. Omigod.' And his hand went to his cock, and his nipples peeked from under his thick mat of hair.

--'Yeah' (as he slowly stroked himself), 'I am, I am. Yeah, it is.'

--'And Allie, what are you doing?'

During this conversation (could only hear Mike's half of it, but I had a clear idea of what Alice was saying to him) I had grabbed a fistful of lube, and positioned myself on my elbows between Mike's spread legs, and I gently pried his fingers from his erection, substituting my own slick fingers, and I made a fist. Our eyes met, and Mike smiled and nodded. I began very slow and subtle strokes, but Mike made an unambiguous gesture with his hand, and I picked up speed somewhat.

--'Alice, O Alice!' he said. 'Say that again! Say it again!'

From the fat veiny base of his shaft I moved slicked my hand to the very tip of his glans, and slipped my fist completely off, and then forced my fist slowly and deliberately back onto the shaft and down to the root; while pulling his member away from his belly and twisting somewhat on the stroke; and then and again; and again; and again; and again.

Five more strokes, pulling slowly but very firmly, and he shuddered, and gasped into the phone, and my face and hair were filled with his semen. But Mike then gently but unmistakably brushed my hand away and gasped into the phone, 

--'Alice, my Angel, my Heart.'

He panted, made kissing sounds into the phone, and said 'Talk to you tomorrow,' and replaced the handpiece.

Then he looked down at me, still between his hairy legs, and he seized me by the upper arms and pulled me up to him, such that I lay right on his belly and chest, and he held my head in his hands, and kissed me deeply. 'God, do I love you, man.' 

He nibbled on my ear and whispered, 'Jack off for me, Mikey.'

I crawled off of him and stood right beside the bed. He shoved a pile of pillows to the middle of the bed, and he leaned back for the show. He interlaced his fingers behind his head, so that his pits were exposed too, and extended his legs partially off the bed, so that I was standing between his calves.

I stood, my legs as wide apart as the space between my uncle's legs permitted, and with my erection almost parallel to my belly, I grabbed my low-hanging balls and let them rest in my left palm. With my right hand I stroked my chest and went down to my belly, running my fingers through my belly hair and my pubes; and then I grasped by phallus, once again recalling with satisfaction how much like it felt like I was holding my uncle. My hands were still slick from the lube, and my balls slid around in my left hand, and my shaft slipped easily in my right. You would have thought I'd be good for a long, slow show, but that was not the case. While I had been jacking my uncle, my dick was of like iron; and studying him in all his glory, with his hairy abs and chest thickly thatched in light brown, and his golden beard garnishing his ravishingly handsome face, with his broad smile and crinkly dimples, I was already almost to bust even before I started. I took it slow, but I didn't make it to the fifteenth stroke before I exploded all over Mike's chest and belly.

Again, he reached out to me, and pulled me to him. I crawled over him, my balls dragging in his now spunky belly hair, and lay beside him, with my head on his shoulder, enfolded by his arms, and that's how my second day on the road with my uncle ended. 


-- To be continued.



Cross-Country with My Uncle Ch. 06



The next morning, I awoke spooned with my uncle, my back and rear tight against his firm but plush chest and belly, one of his wonderful arms draped around my waist; and my head lay upon the bicep of his other, folded arm. Leaving his left arm on my stomach where it was, he pulled the other one away, and leaned upon his elbow, and tenderly kissed my ear, and whispered, 'Good morning, Little Mikey.' He had another way both of waking me and calming me and deeply gratifying me. Pulling away a little, and maneouvring, he reached over for the bottle of lube and applied a generous amount to his left hand, and he began to apply it to my anus as he had before, first on one finger, then two. And then to his penis, like mine, fully erect. I had known that, from the first moment I swam into consciousness and that the close firmness of his erection pressed against my backside was one of the many reasons for my bliss at being in his arms.

Very gently, he pressed the tip of his slick phallus against my anus, and I felt it ease in, first just a fraction of an inch, and then gradually, very slowly, another fraction and then another. And then withdrawing a little, and then reaching another, deeper mark. But it was a slow, slow, subtle action. By now my hairy legs were tangled with his, and his hands were free to caress my back and the back of my neck and my cheek and ear. I became increasingly filled as his flesh became mine. He moved slowly but relentlessly, taking us both to higher and higher plateau, on and on, and then finally I felt his penis give a great jerk as he shuddered; and then another and another; and then a great exhalation, and relaxation. We lay there, conjoined for a long, long moment, and then he withdrew, leaving me almost feeling abandoned. But of course I was not abandoned, for he couldn't have been closer or more attentive. He rolled me over, not caring about the cream oozing out of my anus onto the sheet, and said with a smile, 'OK, Mikey, that's two.'

But he wasn't nearly done. Again he knelt between my legs and surveyed my cock, swollen near to bursting. Yes, we were planning to get on the road early, but he wasn't going to rush anything; at least that was his design. He said, 'Get up and spread your legs,' and obeying him, I stood beside the bed. did. He got up and stood behind me, and began to caress and kiss my flaring shoulders and upper arms; and then gradually and gracefully coming into a squat, he kissed my fuzzy butt, and with his hands, smeared all over the backs and insides of my thighs the cum that was leaking from where he had so lovingly deposited it.

He rose, and enfolded me in his arms, pulling me firmly to his body, so that we were spooned again, the touch of his chest and belly hair onto my back sending me to a new level of excitement (if that were possible!), and his legs caressing mine. Reaching around me, both his hands were on my chest, and his now bearded chin was on my right shoulder, and he nibbled at my ear and breathed into it, as his hands worked their way down to my belly, ruffling the trail of hair above and below my navel, and he grasped my throbbing and engorged member with his right hand, while in his left hand he cupped my testicles. I began to feel something new and hard between my legs, and then pressing upwards between my cheeks.

As he murmured 'Mikey, Mikey, Mikey, I love you, I love you, I love you,' into my ear, he began to stroke. As he stroked with his right, now well-lubed hand, his left wandered from my balls up my abs to my chest, and chin, and back down. After few more minutes of firm and knowing strokes, I was beyond the point of no return, and my body stiffened, my knees almost buckled, and I shot stream after stream of cum into the air. The last jet my uncle caught with his hand and massaged it into my belly, but I was spent, exhausted, but amazed that, enfolded in my uncle's arms, totally tangent from his chin on my shoulder to his feet planted right beside mine, that I had endured his ministrations that long.

My knees hadn't really buckled, and I was still standing, and I turned around to hold my uncle in the tightest and most intense embrace we had ever exchanged, with my right arm over his left shoulder, and my left arm circling his body on his right; and he symmetrically reciprocating. We stood there a long minute before we broke and hit the shower again.

Despite this pleasant wake-up interlude, we were still on the road before 6.15, and we had a long ride in front of us, from the rolling hills of Iowa, across the length of Nebraska -- over 450 of the 800 miles to Cheyenne would be in the Cornhusker State -- and across about 50 miles of Wyoming. We didn't stop for almost two hours, by which time we had, as before, shed our tee shirts, leaving us in only brief running shorts and our Nikes. We talked about a wide variety of things, but mostly, oddly, about Unix systems. When Mike had gotten his big signing bonus, he bought really nice presents for his parents and his sister. And for me he had gotten virtually the best laptop in the market. It cost thousands, but it was totally amazing; it had everything you could have, and Mike had worked some sort of magic and installed both Unix and a Windows system, so that it could function as either a Unix machine or a Windows machine. There are lots of advantages to this but it's not without a lot of complications, and so Mike gave me like a regular tutorial.

When finally we stopped, while we were pumping the gas, I did notice for the first time what Mike had said, and yes, people were swiveling around to get a view of me. All right, I was a well-developed, 6' 1' blond, blue-eyed young guy in nothing but short shorts and shoes and with lots of golden hair on my arms and legs, and some on my chest and abs. But I compared myself to Mike, who was even better developed, and with his profoundly hairy chest and belly, and who had such an easy grace in everything he did, and I felt that when he was around, all eyes -- certainly mine -- were on him. And when we got back in the cab of the truck, I was regretting that the trip was half over, and I didn't care how odd it looked to passing motorists, I sat right beside him as he drove, leg to leg and thigh to thigh, and shoulder to shoulder. I tugged off his shorts, and kept my hand on his thigh and my fingers in his pubic hair the rest of the morning. At first of course he was totally aroused, but he grew used to it, and after a long interval, his erection gradually subsided, and I was even able to hold his phallus in my hand, large and heavy, but not erect. I knew I could, if I wanted, make him totally stiff again, but really what I wanted was just this new kind of extreme togetherness of a sort I knew I would desperately miss when this trip was over.

Curiously, even in this state of extreme intimacy, we talked about mundane affairs: relatives, the Phillies, his colleagues at work, and of course, the impending wedding.

We had to get a bit more decent when we went through the drive-in Subway line for lunch in Lincoln. (Anyway Mike pulled up his shorts, and I sat on the 'passenger' side instead of in the middle of the bench seat.) It was in a little strip mall just at the exit nearest the University of Nebraska. Mike was still driving, and as we begin to pull out onto commercial drive that led to the I-80 ramp, I saw a kid with a sign that said 'Laramie.' He wasn't big: I doubt he was more than 5'7', if that; and he wasn't very impressive, with a baggy U of Wyoming shirt on (with its Cowboy astride a bucking horse), a rather ratty baseball cap covering much of his face, and in front of him, a backpack with a skateboard sticking out of it. But the scene appealed to my sense of decency, and I said to Mike, 'Hey, Laramie is less than 50 miles beyond Cheyenne; you wanna pick him up?' Mike shrugged assent and pulled the truck over, and I opened the passenger door, jumped out, and the kid sprinted the few feet to the truck and jumped in, flashing the biggest grin in the world. I grabbed his stuff and tossed it behind the seat.

In just a few minutes, we were somewhat acquainted. He was 'Steve,' or as it later turned out, Stephen Rutland Manners. He was a 20-year-old rising junior at Wyoming. 

'What are you studying?' I asked. 

'I'm getting one of Wyoming's fine arts degrees. I'm studying both photography and music, but I'm not counting on any of that helping me find work,' he grinned.

'And what are you doing in Lincoln?' Mike inquired.

'Oh, visiting my boyfriend,' he said with an unembarrassed smile. Turns out Steve is on Wyoming's gymnastic team, and he met 'Joe' when his team competed against Nebraska's, and they really hit it off.

Seated between us, he looked small, except for his surprisingly big legs, which had been hidden behind the 'Laramie' sign and the backpack. But glancing to his right seeing me; and to his left and seeing Mike, both shirtless of course, he said, 'Hey, what am I doing so over-dressed' And he took off his cap, and pulled his baggy Wyoming shirt over his head. What a difference that made! He may have been short, but he was extremely well built, with powerful shoulders way disproportionate to his stature, and really impressive guns, and his chest and abs were impossibly well developed and defined: the compleat gymnast.

And taking off his cap revealed a strikingly good-looking face. A cute nose, a round chin with the hint of a dimple right in the middle of it, large light blue eyes, and the biggest smile this side of Texas. When he smiled, which was often, he displayed brilliantly white teeth which were set off by his deep dark tan. He was tanned all over, but especially on his hands and arms and face and the front of his thighs and his shoulders. He had medium short spiky black hair, tipped in gold, and except for rather long and wide sideburns, he was clean-shaven. He had a good deal hair on his forearms and legs, and a nice patch in the middle of his chest, from which descended a continuous band down his stomach and belly, thickening around his navel, and disappearing into his shorts. In fine, he was the total hottie.

'Music major, huh?' said Mike. 'Voice,' Steve said, diffidently. 'Like I said, I don't expect it to lead to any kind of a career, but I've always liked singing, so I figger, what the hell.'

'My nephew and I like singing too,' Mike said. Actually Mike had a rich baritone, and for the last few years, I had began to sound exactly like him. On the phone, when he calls home, and says 'Hi, it's Mike,' nobody knows whether it's him or me. He explained that we both were in bands. (He didn't say that he'd sung in Stanford's glee club for all four years.) I'd always loved singing with Mike. And I loved his raunchy bar ballads. I asked him to sing David Allen Coe's hilarious 'I Just Wanna Fuck You One More Time,' and he did. But first I reached behind the seat and rummaged in my own duffle and got our my harmonica to accompany him. It was a good one that Mike had given me many years ago. Most people just think of harmonicas as just toys, or at best something to accompany plaintive western songs or maybe a Dylan oldie. Actually, they are sophisticated musical instruments, and in properly trained hands you can play 'O mio Babbino Caro' or 'Una Furtiva Lacrima' as easily as 'Friends in Low Places.' Played correctly, you can get four octaves on a 12-hole chromatic harp.

For the next two hours we sang non-stop. Mike and I knew a lot of songs, but Steve seemed to know every song in the world, from Elvis and the Beatles to Trent Reznor. He had a beautiful clear tenor, and he had a terrific range. Mike or I sometimes took the lead, sometimes we harmonized, and sometimes I accompanied on the harp or Mike whistled. (My uncle could have been a serious concert whistler.) Sometimes Steve knew the words, but Mike and I knew the tune but only part of the lyric. Steve would 'line' us, quickly giving us the lyric in pauses between each full phrase. We had a great time and laughed a lot. After we had sung Top Forty crap up through Pearl Jam and Savage Garden and even a few old hokey Tin Pan Alley things, we actually showed off for each other with a few art songs. I knew a couple of not-too-challenging baritone songs -- I wouldn't call 'em arias exactly -- from opera, and a few of the typical Italian 'street songs' that everyone loves so well. Mike had one showpiece Strauss Lied that was always a stunner. And Steve sang Spirto Gentil, Nessun Dorma and a few other tenor chestnuts. 

The truck seat was plenty generous for two. For three guys with big shoulders, it was snug. Our arms were always brushing one another; and our big thighs were virtually always touching. It made sense for me to get my arm out of the way and it wound up partly on Steve's shoulder. During the music-making Steve often really got into it, and bobbed and moved with the rhythm; and he would sometimes snap his fingers or slap his thighs, and he'd drum on our thighs, too. A week ago I'd have reacted pretty harshly to this gratuitous touching; but now I was strangely complacent. No, not complacent, actually I quite enjoyed it. Mike didn't seem to object either.

After a pause, Mike said, 'You're hitching back to Laramie. Did you hitch to Lincoln?' Surprising us, Steve said, 'No, I biked.' 

'What' You biked?' I said. 

'Well, it wasn't that big a deal. Once you get to Cheyenne, it's mostly rather flat. It's the wind that can kill you. Coupla days I had annoying crosswind out of the south, but the other two days I had a fairly stiff tail wind and I made 140 miles each day with no trouble.' With his big legs I wouldn't have expected him to have much trouble anyway, but it did explain his deep dark tan.

'So where's your bike now?' I asked. 

'I traded it to Joe,' Steve mildly explained, 'for that neat skateboard.' It might have been a nice skateboard, but it was pretty beat up, and wouldn't have fetched $10 at a yard sale.

'What'd you trade him for the board?' I asked. 

'Oh, it was a road bike.' Turns out he had gotten a new handmade bike with a Vanguard titatium frame, and considered his Trek 2200 to be simply redundant. We didn't know it then, but we would find out later, that that was Steve all over. Money didn't mean a fucking thing to him, and he was the most generous guy I've ever known.

'So tell us how you met 'Joe,' Mike said.

And he did. He didn't leave out any details, for he was a great story-teller. (I won't repeat the details here: That's a story for another time.) But as he went through the particulars of their first meeting, and how they went back to his room together, and what ensued the rest of that night and the rest of that weekend, both Mike and I had to 'adjust' our crotches rather obviously. In fact, our little running shorts stood no chance of containing our cocks, which quite patently stuck out over the waistbands, the heads swollen and empurpled. As Steve gave chapter and verse of what Joe looked like and what they, two totally toned and totally flexible (then 19 year old) gymnasts, did together, he slipped his shorts down and kicked them off, revealing a cock that was ready for action. Considering that he probably wasn't 5' 7', he was well-endowed. He probably was pretty close to seven inches long; his shaft was thick and very veiny; and his cockhead was proportionately even more flared than mine or Mike's. The well-defined trail of black hair running below his navel lost itself in his pubic hair. I didn't then get a good view of his balls, but I would later.

Nobody could have missed the state that Mike and I were in, and certainly Steve didn't. With a big smile he said, 'Raise up,' and I used my arms and legs to raise my butt a little up off the truck seat and with one swift motion Steve gracefully pulled my shorts down to my ankles, and I kicked them off. Since Mike was driving, it was only a little more awkward for Steve to disencumber him.

Steve sat down again, slouching a little, so that his genitals were a little freer than if he was sitting straight up.

'Ready for the next chapter?' he grinned. And as he began to relate his and Joe's next date in complete detail, he grasped Mike's phallus with his left hand, and mine in his right. As he told the story, leaving nothing out, he slowly wanked us in synchrony. It was only mid-afternoon and we had hours in front of us, so there was no reason to hurry. In fact, he proved to be a master at alternating the slow and irregular stroke with interludes of the firm and steady, depending on the part of the story he was telling. During this, Mike had his right arm on Steve's shoulder and across his back, and my left arm was arranged the same way, and in fact Mike's big hand covered and caressed mine, as I stroked Steve's neck.

When he begin to get to the climax of the story, he got up, turned to face us, and squatted in the cramped space between the bench and the dash. Though in a truck that space is much bigger than in a car, nevertheless I could never have done that. But with his remarkable grace and flexibility, he did it effortlessly. The reason he did it, however, was to get a much better purchase on the two huge erections Mike and I were sporting. From that angle he was able to manipulate them with great expertise and finesse, especially in the 'pulling' strokes. Meanwhile, Mike's right hand sought my left hand, and our fingers were tightly interlaced. A dozen of Steve's strokes, each with pauses between them, and then -- he really knew what he was doing! -- two very firm climactic strokes and Mike and I both erupted at the same instant, on the same stroke. How Steve arranged that I don't know, but he did. And of course his followup strokes emptied us and satisfied us completely. There was spunk all over Steve, our legs, and the truck cab.

Steve sat back down, but I pulled his right leg over mine, and Mike pulled his left arm over his own shoulder. I seized hold of his phallus with my left hand, and began to jack him. It wasn't working as well as I'd hoped, since, well, in part my left hand is not my jacking hand, and the angle wasn't the best. But Mike took care of that. He said, 'Mikey, reach back into my duffle and find my toilet kit and grab that lube.' I did, and squeezed a generous supply into Mike's right hand, and even though he was driving, Mike had no problems giving Steve an artful, unhurried handjob as we cruised over endless Nebraska, while I reached over and held Steve's balls with my right hand. When Mike was good and ready, he brought off Steve -- in a cataclysm! -- and I swear his semen hit the truck roof, not once, but in two of his great spurts. They always say 'Good things come in small packages,' but in Steve's case we should say 'Great things come in small packages'!

We were frankly all mentally exhausted by now, and we simply rested silent for a few miles, but this Steve's way of relaxing was to have one hand curled over my thigh and one over Mike's. That was fine with us.

And this was midafternoon on the third day of my trip.

To be continued.



Cross-Country with My Uncle Ch. 07



Mikey, a studly 18-year old finds himself intimate for the first time with Mike, his namesake 24-year old uncle whom he's idolized all his life during a cross-country drive. Steve is the 20-year old collegiate gymnast who hitches a ride with them.

We had been in the truck for hours and hours and were ready for some stretching. We stopped at a big rest stop, and after answering the call of nature, Mike went to the back of the truck and rummaged through the cardboard box of miscellaneous stuff he'd cleaned out of his closet back home and grabbed his old football. The three of us (in just our running shorts) ran a few laps around the picnic area, first at a very easy jog and then a couple circuits in a flatout run. We tossed the football around, and gradually increased the length of our passes. Mike had a great arm. He would tell me to run a long pattern and hook right just beyond a trashcan, say, and when I did, all I had to do was just reach my arms out and there suddenly was a football in them. He could have beat out any quarterback in my league back home! And it felt so goddamn good to have some activity.

As we approached the main parking area, I said to Steve, "Show us a little of your tumblin' stuff, man." 

Steve smiled an ok, and in a newly-mown flat area, he begin a few warm-up manoeuvres, and then turned to us and said, "Don't get your hopes up, guys, this isn't the Olympics." But what he did just fuckin' astonished us. He did part of his floor exercise routine, with flips, saltos, and a salto with a twist, in the layout position, high above our heads. Then he did more or less the same things, only backwards, this time with a salto in the pike position, and both times he nailed his landing. By this time he'd gathered a substantial crowd, who whooped, clapped, and asked for more. It's not the sort of thing you see every day, especially in a rest stop performed by a guy in nothing but a little running short and shoes. He grinned modestly (really!), and made another pass, this time with different amazing saltos; and then he threw himself to the grass, and did one of those impossible-to-believe-until-you-see-it things, starting from a sitting position with his legs an absolutely 180-degree line. He put down his arms and raised his entire body on his fingertips (yes!), and slowly closed his legs and then slowly swung his body between his arms into a hand-stand, with perfect control, his ropy forearms bulging, his perfect abs working, his upper arms and back flexing under his perfect control. It was his piece de resistance on his team, and it met with huge whoops and shouts there in the rest stop along the highway! From his handstand he did a couple of flair-like flourishes with his legs, and then with a mighty flexion of his trunk muscles, sprang into the air, and nailed his dismount, and with a big grin took a tight little bow to ongoing hollering and applause.

As we walked back to the truck, with him in the middle, he put one arm on each of our shoulders and we were so proud to be there with him. Secretly I was thinking, hell yes, it was unfuckingbelieveable, but know what, he could have gotten huge applause just doing anything, just doing a couple of jumping jacks, if it showed off his incredible ripped body.

Back in the truck, we settled down for another three hours on the road. It was late June, and the days were very long, but the last two hours on the road would be in dusk or darkness, and nothing to do but talk. Hell, there hadn't been much to see all day long in Nebraska anyway. 

The conversation took a sort of loopy turn, as we told funny stories from our past. I'd heard most -- but not quite all -- of Mike's, but I loved hearing them again. As he told em they were always funny as shit, and some of them were regular set pieces, like the time he and his date were in a state park not too far from Palo Alto and had a late-night nude picnic on a blanket on a playing field, followed by a had a really good fucking and sucking session, under the stars. The park had been closed for hours, and they'd snucked in past a broken chain that was supposed to secure a little-used back entrance that Mike had spotted earlier in the week. When at last they had to head home, they found that the keys were supposedly in Mike's jeans, and Mike's jeans were, with all the picnic gear, and the rest of their clothes and even their shoes in the trunk of the locked car, a car a friend going out of town for the weekend had lent him. As Mike explained it, when your mind is on fuckin little practical things just don't register, and as he gathered up the stuff to stow in the trunk to get it out of the way, he had no idea of what kind of trouble he was getting into. Anyway, it wasn't his car, and he didn't know that you could lock the car by just depressing the button on the door and slamming it, something that his date had just unconsciously done, just as she had accidentally leaned against the open trunk. So intent on fucking this little beauty -- it was their first (and would be their only) date -- that he didn't think anything of it when he heard the fatal click of the truck lid. It turned out that the girl was a very talented lay with a real taste for cock, and their fuck and suck session was ball-breaking awesome. But when it was time to go and the realities of the situation dawned on them, she was less friendly. A whole lot less friendly. They wouldn't get home until about 10.30 the next morning, with a lot to explain to a county mounty. The way he told it, well, we almost puked with laughter.

I had a couple of stories, not quite so funny as Mike's, but pretty hot, and Steve told a couple. We were having a great time.

Steve said, "Guys, how about a change of plan? I was headed back to Laramie, but it was just to pick up a few things. I don't need to be anywhere for a few more days. Why don't we stop in Cheyenne and we can stay at my folks' place. They are in Europe for three more weeks." It sounded fine to us, great really, particularly since it was 50 miles closer and our original destination anyway. But also we didn't quite want to part with Steve.

Steve directed us to an exit off I-80, just west of Cheyenne, then to a outlying road that steadily climbed for a few miles, and then, past a gate in a fence to a long lane between two pastures, and eventually to a gigantic house situated on the highest rise for miles around. It was nothing like one of these new McMansion things you see. It was a gigantic log house. Actually, it looked more like a lodge at a national park than a private dwelling, though there were garages and outbuildings like a poolhouse and guest house, and a barn, and the grounds around the house were beautifully kept, mostly with dry-tolerant plants, but there was a lush perennial garden too that obviously was well-watered. We later learned the house had been built in the early twentieth century by an ex-governor of the state, but it had been extensively remodeled and updated and expanded by Steve's folks.

He said that his folks were on a six-weeks trip to Europe, and that the only staff on the property while they were gone was a gardener-caretaker who lived in a cabin down by the main road with his wife, the housekeeper. Steve's brother would be coming in within the next few days from Penn, where he was finishing his third year at Wharton. We entered by the back door near the kitchen, and stowed our gear in a bedroom upstairs. Steve told us to pick from several guest rooms he showed us, but we took a single room with a king bed. Steve took note of that. 

On the way upstairs we passed the foyer, and on a rustic table there were several photographs. There was some quality about them that put them way out of the ordinary. One was of an elderly couple with rather leathery faces displaying both wisdom and affection; one of a middle-aged couple, both of them quite remarkably good-looking; a portrait of Steve, with his patented wide grin and drop-dead masculine beauty; and a picture of -- well, not quite Steve, but almost: another strikingly handsome youth who could almost be his double, only with fair hair: It was easy to guess that had to be his brother.

Steve showed us around the house, with its great room -- you'd have to call it a "saloon"; its baronial dining room, and various more comfortable rooms like the a tv-entertainment room (in effect the boys' living room), a double study for his dad, and his mom's morning room, with a long row of windows facing the south; and a big comfortable room they just called the living room. Though everything was perfect, nothing was overly fussy. Even the main rooms downstairs were were decorated mostly with furniture in rustic styles, though punctuated from time to time by something surprising, like a large Spanish colonial vargueno or carved chest. There were bronzes here and there that could have been Remingtons. His mom's morning room was different. Instead of the Bohkaras, Kirmans, and Navajos that were typical of the rest of the house, the gleaming hardwood floors in that room was covered with a gigantic Chinese silk rug that must have cost a fortune. The sofas and curtains were cheery florals. On the walls were what appeared to be prints by Picasso and Matisse, and what certainly looked to me like an original Rousseau. There was money here, and plenty of it.

In the basement was a complete photography studio. Steve had said that along with music, he was studying photography, and in this he followed his father, who had been a serious amateur photographer for years. All over the house were examples of his father's work, from outdoor Ansel Adams influenced work to studies of flowers and animals; but portraiture was his favorite genre.

I asked if he'd mind shooting a couple of rolls of Mike. He said, "Absolutely!" and Mike shrugged his okay.

Actually, there was fairly little set-up needed. Lights were already in place, in front of a plain ivory-colored backdrop. Steve told Mike where to stand, and Steve took some readings off a meter and adjusted several lights, and studied the effect and added one more light, and made some more readings, and then he was satisfied. 

He loaded three separate cameras and put them on a worktable, and told Mike how to stand, with his legs spread somewhat, and a hip cocked just a little, and his right arm bent at the elbow, so that the bicep bellied up. Steve held up his hand and told Mike to look at it, and he began snapping. After every snap or two he'd tell Mike to shift this way or that, or to smile more broadly. And he came over to tug another lock of Mike's golden hair over his forehead. He told Mike to turn around and shot him from the back to get a view of his broad back and shoulders. Then he told Mike to turn back around, and hold up his right arm, bent at the elbow, over his head so that his fist was more or less above his left ear, and to smile broadly, and hold it. When Mike did this, his tee shirt rode up, slightly exposing his hairy belly. I had been watching the whole procedure with great interest, but as soon as Mike's matted belly came into view I helplessly sprang a boner. Mike saw my shorts tented out, and within seconds his were too. Steve said, "Hold it." And set down his camera to think a second. He said, "Mikey, you're making him do that. You go over behind that screen and stay there until I tell you to come out." And he picked up a weeks old copy of the Economist that was laying on a worktable and handed it to Mike to read. Mike dutifully begin paging through and started an article on the unfavorable demographic prospects of Norway, and his erection subsided.

After a few minutes, Steve took the magazine away and began posing Mike again. He told Mike slowly to pull his tee shirt off, and in the process Steve snapped off about four shots. Mike tossed the shirt out of frame and stood there in his glory, with his big chest, covered with dark-blond hair, his well-defined abs, with the track of fur running down the middle, spreading over his lower belly.

Steve told Mike to move this way and that, and turn around, flex this muscle or that, etc., and then told him to take off his little running shorts. Mike did so, again documented by four shots by Steve, and he kicked off his shoes, leaving him in a perfect state of nature. Mike's penis was somewhat distended, but not erect; and he was an object of classic beauty, something that should have been in the Uffizi.

Steve grabbed Mike's shorts off the floor, and, surprisingly, pulled them on over his own.

Working quickly, Steve took a dozen shots of Mike in this state, with his pendulous balls and his dick deeply impressive even though flaccid. One of my favorites in years to come had him sitting on the floor, with his big legs, covered in sun-bleached golden hair, crossed at the ankle, but they did not occlude the view of his penis, his balls almost touching the floor, and his luxuriant pubic hair. Steve pulled a cane-bottom ladderback chair from near the wall behind him into the shooting field, and told Mike to stand up again and put one foot on the seat bottom. He approached very near to Mike and took several closeup studies of his genitals, and as he did Mike began to stiffen, with each heartbeat his arteries pumping him up to new levels of rigidity until he was like a rock again. And he would stay that way for the rest of his shoot, with his phallus towering over his balls, and almost cleaving to his furry belly. Steve caught the process in a number of quickly snapped photos, and hurriedly grabbed another camera. 

And there was no point to my concealing myself behind the screen any longer. And there was no reason for Steve to be wearing two pairs of shorts! He had pulled on Mike's in an effort to tame, or at least conceal, his own erection in order not to distract Mike during the early part of the shooting, when Mike was supposed to be flaccid. So Steve pulled off his shirt, and kicked off both pairs of shorts, and continued the shoot nude, except for his shoes. Every time I glanced at him, I impressed with his obvious expertise as he quickly shifted from point to point to shoot, and even more, I was amazed at Steve's bodily perfection. His big arms and legs, with their generous amounts of dark hair were unbelieveable, but it was his chest and belly that were as if carved of marble -- or would seem so if not garnished by the hair distributed in the center of his chest and running straight down to his belly before losing itself in his pubic bush. As he moved around, his erect cock bobbed here and there and his balls swung freely. I had already pulled off my tee shirt and shorts, and kicked away my shoes.

Steve systematically began what amounted to an atlas of Mike. He took scores of shots of him from the front and rear, and side; and then begin detailed studies of his hands, his forearms, his upper arm, his neck, his left ear, his right ear, his chin, and right down to his feet. But he spent the most time documenting his trunk. He shot closeups of his furry pecs, and then pulled out to include his upper abs in the frame, and then documented his abs generally, and with special studies of his fuzzy navel, and of course his penis and cockhead featured in these. In order to document his incredibly sexy lower belly, so lean and powerful-looking, with its hair covering extending from a single line below the navel to a broader and broader spread, and his pubic hair, he had to ask me to squat down in front of Mike (but out of the frame) and grasp his phallus and pull it down out of frame, a task that I relished, to say the least.

Steve didn't ignore Mike's backside, with studies of his shoulders, and his butt thickly covered in golden hair, and his thighs and calves. He told Mike to put his left foot up on the chair seat, and he shot between his legs from the rear to focus on his amazing testicles, suspended in air.

Now Steve told me to enter the shooting area, and Mike and I had a number of shots together. In some we were side by side, with his arm over my shoulder; or Mike sat on the chair, looking up at me, and I stood beside him gazing down at him with admiration and awe. In other cases, Mike was at the center, and I stood behind him, with my arms encircling his trunk. In several Mike is kissing me, holding my face in his hands, our heavily-stubbled chins touching; and below, our cocks tangent. And in quite a few I am holding his phallus, or he is holding mine. 

Steve told me to pull the leather daybed from over by the wall into the shooting field, and he told Mike to lay down and to jack off, as Steve circled and shot from this angle and that. He shot a sequence of 42 photographs, from the first time Mike touched his phallus until the final shot of cum covering his belly and chest and face, running down his side and off his jaw (just below the ear).

Steve had reloaded his cameras several times so far, and now he reloaded again. It was my turn now. I did not consider myself nearly as interesting a subject as my uncle, but being photographed in front of him was truly hot. In any case, there was no opportunity to do any artsy pictures of me since I was ragingly erect, and no tedious articles from the Economist was going to change that. So all my photos were sexually raw, with no possible pretense to being art for art's sake. But Steve documented my body in much the same detail as he had Mike, with big shots, close-ups, detailed studies. My rear and fuzzy butt, my shoulders and arms, my forearms and hands, my legs, face, everything was photographed. And most of all my chest and abs and belly and cock. Of course Steve asked Mike to hold down my dick so that my lower abdomen could be shot separately. It wasn't easy for Mike to effect this task and the veins in my cock seemed to enlarge and pop out as my phallus resisted.

Steve then told me to lay on the daybed, still sticky with Mike's semen, and, just like Mike, jack off, while he snapped another 40 or so shots until I too had bucked and shot my load, and was dripping cum from my chest and face and even my hair.

Poor Steve! He was the only one who hadn't had relief, and so Mike and I took care of that. Mike lay down on the floor, and spread his legs, and told Steve to sit between them, facing away from him. He then pulled Steve's shoulders back so that his upper body was in effect reclining on Mike's body, though his butt was still on the floor between Mike's legs. Mike then systematically caressed Steve's shoulders, his chest, and worked his hand down Steve's washboard abs as far as he could reach, running his fingers through the trail of hair.

Meanwhile, I knelt between Steve's legs, and began to give his genitals the attention they begged for and deserved. Mike's phallus was rockhard, veiny, and his flared cockhead was so distended that it was virtually shiny.

I grasped it with my hands and despite the high emotional pitch I was in, the act sent a gigantic thrill through me. Though I had just shot off a few minutes ago, I was already again as hard as ever I had been. I began my handwork, and then, slowly and deliberately, I took first the cockhead and then the top of the shaft into my mouth and worked it with my tongue as artfully as I could imagine. And then removing both hands -- they found occupation in gently caressing Steve's balls -- I took more and more of the shaft in my mouth. It felt quite different from Mike's. I have to say that as much as I idolize my uncle, and consider him absolutely perfection, there is something to be said for a slightly smaller phallus when it's a matter of fellation, and Steve's was a great size for sucking, permitting much more mobility and even artistry -- and it was more comfortable. In addition, the 'accidents' of his cock were slightly different: a little less hair on the bottom of his shaft than my uncle's, a somewhat different arrangement of the most prominent veins, at least as discovered by my mouth and tongue, and his coronal ridge was perhaps sharper than Mike's. Also his smell was subtly different. It was just as intensely masculine as Mike's, but somehow fresher, not quite so complex and rich. I tried to move with care and deliberation, and I alternated mouth music with hand work, and even took a break by giving careful attention to his testicles, taking first one, and then the other gently, ever so gently, in my mouth. And then returning to my principal care, his wonderful cock. Mike all this time was kissing Steve's hair, or caressing his face or body with both his hands. 




Cross-Country with My Uncle Ch. 07



Steve was in transports. Suddenly my uncle said urgently, "Mikey, hold up. Right now." It was an order, and of course I obeyed. Mike could tell that Steve hadn't long to go. So Mike told me, "Let's trade places," and we did. As rigid as Steve's cock was, the rest of his body was perfectly compliant as we more or less manhandled him in the process of Mike and me changing places. Soon it was I who was caressing Steve's chest and neck and face, and whispering in his ear, and it was Mike fellating him, and working him with his hands. Mike aimed to be more deliberate and make the process last and last and last, but Steve could not hold out forever under Mike's attentions, and he grew rigid all over and had a minor paroxysm, spraying his jizm up to his face -- and even onto mine! He almost fainted, or so it seemed.

After maybe two minutes of deep respiration, during which he murmured "Thank you, thank you, thank you," over and over again, he was sufficiently recovered to get back up. Amazingly, he still had a few more ideas for concluding the shoot.

He directed Mike to lay supine on the floor. His cock was fully erect, though almost, but not quite, parallel to his belly. Steve told me to stand over Mike's midparts, more or less facing his face but at a 45 degree angle, so that my right foot was slightly closer to Mike's upper body than the other, so that would have a good angle to shoot the scene. Steve brought lubrication and with fairly little ceremony, slathered it all over Mike's great tool; and then, more carefully perhaps, worked a glob of onto, and even into, my anus.

He stepped back to his shooting position, and told me to slowly, slowly, squat onto Mike. And as I got within a foot, he directed me to reach down and grab Mike's well-lubricated dick and then guide it into my anus as I continued my squat. As soon as I got Mike's cockhead precisely located, I squatted just another fraction of an inch and Mike entered me very slightly. I inhaled slightly, and Steve told me to reach down to the floor and with the spread tips of my fingers to stabilize myself in the squat. Steve was very busy clicking away, mostly at the middle distance, so that the entire scene could be incorporated in a single frame. 

Steve told me to meet Mike's eyes, a very easy request to accede to. From my perch above him, I gazed down at his beautiful face, and we locked eyes, keeping them locked together for the remainder of this special act. Thanks to my flexibility and training, I was able to manoeuvre fairly well without any prospect of cramping, and by using my fingertips to stabilize myself I had quite positive control. So I then began literally to fuck myself on Mike's big dick, slowly lowering myself. What he had done to me twice before, I now could do to myself, moving down and then up, resting, and then down onto his shaft still further, and then rising off of it, nearly to the point at which we were separated -- but not quite. And then sinking down such that his shaft penetrated me as deeply as he had ever done before. And then using my thigh muscles, rising again, and then slowly sinking again, and again, and again.

Steve said, "OK, I've got all the shots I need of this: Mikey, turn [from the 45 degree angle] to face your uncle directly," and Mike knew what to do. He seized my trembling cock that had been bouncing against my belly during all this and gave it five firm strokes and I was done! I spewed my cum all over him, and at almost the same moment, I felt his cock deep within me give one, two, three powerful twitches, and he stiffened beneath me, exhaling "Oh, Mikey! Oh, Mikey!" And then he grinned and said, "OK, Mikey, that's three times I've fucked you. Next time, it's you!"

The photo shoot was done. This last scenario was the only really hardcore part of the shoot, and in later years I would never stop regretting this. But it was getting very late. By now it was almost two am, and we had another long day planned for tomorrow.

To be continued.



Cross-Country with My Uncle Ch. 08



Mikey, a studly 18-year old finds himself intimate for the first time with Mike, his namesake 24-year old uncle whom he's idolized all his life during a cross-country drive. Steve is the 20-year old collegiate gymnast who hitches a ride with them.

Upstairs, Mike and I climbed into the big king bed in the guest room, frankly exhausted. And moments later, just as Mike was getting ready to click off the bedside lamp, Steve, like us totally nude, entered the room and said, "Guys, can I sleep with you?" With the brightest of smiles we kicked back the covers and reached out and pulled him in.

Three things I already knew about Steve, who was just like a puppy: He was very loving; he was very needy of love; and he was very loveable. An excellent combination, really!

We made room between us, and he smiled seraphically as he crawled in, and snuggled between Mike and me, and, like a puppy, rolled over to have his belly rubbed. And that's exactly what we did. Mike took his face in his hands, and kissed it all over. And I stroked his amazing abs, and recalled his flips and leaps of earlier today. In a moment or two, Mike said, "Roll over," and Steve did. Mike took charge of his shoulders and neck, stroking and petting and kissing. I took charge of his legs and butt, kissing and petting and stroking. Neither his butt nor his legs were as hairy as ours, but they were nicely furnished with dark hair that mostly lay flat, rather than tending to curl as ours did. It was really quite wonderful just to lay there and stroke this sweet-natured boy. On Mike's command, Steve just lay there, and for some 15 minutes, we just all three enjoyed our closeness. Then Mike once more told Steve to roll over, and of course he did. This time, after having nodded to me to take charge of Steve's beautiful, throbbing phallus Mike finally turned off the light. Mike put his face right beside Steve's, and gently, slowly kissed his cheeks, his nose, eyelids, his lips, his cute round chin, and gently held Steve's left hand in both of his.

As for me, I kissed Steve's mighty thighs, which grew fuzzier toward his groin, and then kissed his balls and held his phallus in my hands, and kissed it about fifty times in different places. I put my lips over his cockhead, and swirled my tongue over it again and again and again. But then I lay back, and relaxed, and slowly, sweetly, masturbated him in the dark. Of course even in the darkest dark, I could feel every pulse coursing through his dick, every throb, and even as relaxed and drowsy as I was, I could easily condition my strokes to his state. He lasted about 6 minutes until I brought him off, and he suffered the 'little death,' flexing and then stiffening, and deeply, deeply sighing and murmuring "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

His seed was on my arms and chest and face as well as his, and I licked it off my arm, strangely delighting me. All three of us, lay together in the big bed like so many tired puppies, all tangled together.

And so ended the third day on the road with my uncle. 

When I awoke, we were still a tangle of arms and legs. I was on my back, and Steve was on his stomach, his arms around my chest, and his head on my shoulder, his face very near mine. I was surely breathing in his exhalations, and he mine. Mike in turn was on his side, right beside Steve, with his left leg thrown over Steve's right leg, and his left arm thrown around Steve's back. I lay there dreamily, with a massive erection.

Steve woke next, shaking Mike awake too. We all went onto the balcony and standing side by side by side, peed out into the shrubs a floor below. Mike took the center position, I was on the left, and Steve on the right. . It wasn't any easier because of the fact that all three of us to a larger degree or smaller had boners, mine the worst, and when I got my stream started, it arced far into the air.

Steve said, "There are two things that I want. I'll tell you the second, after the first." 

Mike said, "Well, what's number one?" 

And Steve replied, "I want you both again, together, and right now." This time, he knew what he wanted, and he took the lead. Grabbing Mike's right hand and my left, he led us back to the big bed, and he said to me, "Mikey, prop those pillows up against the headboard, and lay back on them, and spread your legs." He positioned himself right between my legs, on his hands and knees, and grasped my cock with his right hand. "And Mike, you get on your knees behind me."

It obvious what he wanted. He leaned down and began fellating me in a most skilled fashion. There was something magical about whatever it was he was doing. There was constant contact, constant motion, but it was so delicate that I often wasn't sure if there really was contact or some trick of my senses. I was incredibly relaxed. No, not relaxed, I was in kind of a state of paralysis, unable to move, or more specifically unable to will myself to move. I was as though floating above the world, displaced. I think the correct word for this is 'ecstasy,' meaning 'standing outside of oneself.' 

Meanwhile, though I was only vaguely aware of this at the time, Mike had begun to fuck him, but so gently that he did not really shake Steve enough to affect his magic. Evidently, with his hands on Steve's hips, Mike had held him more or less immobile, while he eased his phallus slowly in and out. In my mind's eye (when I thought of it at all), I saw Mike's round and perfect glutei maximi covered in dark blond hair slowly and steadily flexing. Eventually I heard Mike give a great "oomph" sound, and this time Steve's body did tremble, enough to disturb the rhythm he had established, but not enough to cause him to remove his mouth from me. It was only a few seconds later, however, that I, too, exploded, flooding Steve's mouth. My orgasmic shudders interrupted my trance-like state, but only briefly, as I fell again into kind of a swoon.

Mike, however, was as efficient as he was considerate. He bodily flipped Steve onto his back, right between my legs. I reached out for his arms and grabbed his held both his forearms in my hands and pulled them over his head; he grasped mine in his, completing a double link. Mike softly petted Steve's belly and with his left hand, and ran his fingers through his pubic hair; and with his right hand, Mike seized Steve's rock-hard veiny cock near the base. With two dozen wickedly efficient firm pulsing strokes brought him to his own climax, shooting his cum into Mike's face and hair. Steve lay beside me, panting, but with an ear-to-ear grin on his beautiful face.

And Mike smiled, "And number two?"

To be continued.



Cross-Country with My Uncle Ch. 09



Mikey, a studly 18-year old finds himself intimate for the first time with Mike, his namesake 24-year old uncle whom he's idolized all his life during a cross-country drive. Steve is the 20-year old collegiate gymnast who hitches a ride with them.

As he lay between my legs, Steve and I were still grasping each other's arms. His arms were extended over his head to meet mine, as I reached down to hold his. He let loose of my left arm and reached over and took Mike's right hand in his, and squeezed both Mike's hand and my right arm. He said, "The other thing I want is that I can't stand to part from you guys yet. Can I ride with you as far as you go today?"

Big bright smiles broke out on our faces as we shouted our approval. "Yee-haw, Steve! That's so cool!" Mike said. "I never thought that would be possible: that's great news!" as he playfully stroked Steve's belly and ran his fingers through his pubic hair, matted though it was with his spunk. And I reached down to the beautiful face resting in my crotch and stroked it, and said, "That's awesome, man!"

Suddenly everything had changed profoundly. We had been in a very bittersweet mood at having to part from Steve and almost certainly never seeing him again, even as he lay between us. At this extreme point when parting had been so near, another 24 hours together seemed like an endless reprieve. Steve explained that he had another three or four days before he picked up his brother Mark at the airport and their summer together on the ranch began.

"The ranch?" I asked. 

"I'll tell you all about it in the truck," he promised.

Meanwhile, Mike asked if he could make a call, and of course Steve nodded. Mike picked up the bedside phone and dialed Alice's number. Since it was about 7.30 in California, he knew she's be waking up. Again, it was almost like magic. As soon as she answered the phone, Mike's penis begin to expand and lengthen, and it was almost as if her words were caressing his body. In no time his cock was erect again.

"Yes, I miss you like crazy too, Allie," he said into the phone. "But it won't be long now. I'll be seeing you in less than two days." 

After listening to her a moment, his smile ratcheted up another kilowatt. "Well," he said, looking down at his now throbbing cock, "it's anxious to see you too!" 

"No," he said, "I'm not wearing anything at all. What are you wearing?" It appears this was a regular routine with them, and as Alice's voice cooed from the earpiece, Steve immediately got the idea, and sat up and, with two hands on Mike, slowly jacked him as he lay back and closed his eyes and held up his end of the phone sex.

And then, under Steve's expert hands, Mike gasped "Ah, ah, AAHH, O Alice!" He panted. He continued, "Yes, of course you know I'm a sloppy mess," as he opened his eyes and looked down at the ropes of semen in his belly and chest hair. "See you tomorrow night," he said into the phone," making childish but cute kissing noises, and hanging up.

Mike sat up, and kissed Steve right on the nose, and ruffled his hair with his big hands.

Though Steve's folks house was very large, the upstairs was fairly simply organized. The big staircase led into an upstairs hall that ran east and west, and off the hall were four guest rooms, each with its own bath. His parents' suite occupied the entire east end of the house. And the opposite end of the hall opened onto Steve and Mark's suite, which was in fact roughly identical to his parents' in layout. 

Mark was 14 months older than Steve. They had been more or less inseparable most of their lives. They couldn't have been closer without being twins. And their gigantic suite reflected their preferences. Of course they could have had large, separate rooms, or even adjoining rooms, but they preferred to live together. Their suite consisted of an enormous room, with French windows on the north, west, and south sides, and a gallery or balcony surrounding the whole. The doors to their bath and their dressing room were on the east wall, on either side of the door from the main hallway. The room had everything a privileged kid could want. In some respects it looked as if someone had ordered the entire contents of a high-end consumer-electronics catalog. Jesus, maybe they did! But like the rest of the house, it was neat without being in any respect fussy. The brothers did not divide the room into two halves. Instead there were two desks side by side in one corner, and in another corner was devoted to electronic games, a big collection of media and players. The two queen beds were side by side, only 18 inches apart.

But what was most striking about the room - it would have been remarkable anywhere! -- was that over the two beds were life-sized photographs of the boys, obviously the work of their father. The one over the left bed showed Steve and Mark absolutely nude - neither had on even a wrist watch - side by side, with gigantic, unbelievably winning grins on their faces. Steve had his arm on Mark's shoulder, and Mark had his arm draped over Steve's. The one over the right bed was similar, but it showed Mark with his legs somewhat wide apart, and his hands on his hips; and Steve to the right and slightly to the rear. He had his arm right arm around Mark's neck, with his left hand lay lightly on Mark's trunk.

Mark and Steve could have looked like identical twins, except for their coloring. Mark's hair was light - in the black and white photograph it was hard to say exactly whether it was a darkish blond or a very light brown color, but in any case it sharply contrasted with Steve's dark hair. But otherwise, they were nearly identical in size and shape. The youths depicted were incredibly beautiful, specimens of perfect development. It was easy to assume (as we later found to be true) that Mark, too, was a gymnast, with the characteristically outsized shoulders, huge arms, ropy forearms, big thighs, and most obviously in these studies, hyperdeveloped trunk muscles.

The photographs really were exactly life size. Steve was shown at about 5'7", as was Mark. And depicted was every single detail of their bodies down to every last hair. I suppose that their dad could have airbrushed away any little mole or acne scar, but, to tell the truth, by now I had inspected every hidden corner of Steve's body, and he was perfect.

There were several ways in which these pictures could be read. Clearly they were art objects of the highest quality, beautiful examples of the photographer's craft, beautifully conceived and designed and executed. The images amounted to modern-day kouros. They also betokened enormous family love and pride: the parents for their sons, whom they evidently adored, the brothers for each other. And though there was not any explicit eroticism depicted - no suggestion of erections or leering or improper touching, of course -- the pictures were very powerfully erotic.

Mike and I were amazed and stunned by the beauty of the pictures, and our hearts were warmed by the obvious love for each other that the boys displayed. And my cock stiffened immediately. Even Mike, who had already this morning had two orgasms, found his penis once again erect. As we studied the pictures, we compared the two brothers. There couldn't have been a quarter inch difference in height between them. And their bodies were developed so similarly that it would have been difficult to distinguish between them were it not for the difference in body hair. Mark had rather more hair from his chest clear down to his belly, but it was notably lighter. Except around the navel, where it was unmistakably thicker than Steve's, Steve's darker body hair showed up in the black and white portrait somewhat more dramatically than did Mark's, especially his pubic and belly hair. Their penises were relaxed - one might even say extended - but not expanded or even close to being erect. And their balls were low-hangers.

Steve shyly grinned, "You like 'em? There are more down here." He led us the entire length of the hallway and we entered his parents' suite. There above the kingsized bed were two more life-sized studies. They were similar in quality to the others, but rather different in feel. In one, Steve and Mark were standing side by side, nude of course, but instead of looking into the camera they were facing one another, with Mark's right arm on Steve's left shoulder, and laughing as if they'd just heard the funniest story in the world. In the other, they were in a close embrace, enfolding each other in their powerful arms, with Steve's head on Mark's shoulder. You could only see Steve's face in profile and Mark's was mostly hidden. The picture generated a very, very strong emotional response. A small legend at the bottom of each picture "Hae gemmae," which from somewhere I dredged up the translation from the Latin: "These are my jewels."

And of course Mike and I wanted to know all about Mark. "Of course," Steve said. "We'll have plenty of time today in the truck." 

Walking back through the bedroom to get to the boys' bathroom, we paused again to stare at the photographs, and again Mike and I sprang boners, and looking at us, so did Steve. Steve and I had come only once each this morning, but Mike had come both in Steve's butt and in Steve's hands. But, stalwart as ever, he seemed ready to go again.

The boys' bathroom was totally luxurious. It was large, and provided with windows across its length. Since there was nothing but range land and mountains to the south, there was little or no need for privacy, especially on the second floor. There were twin basins, a urinal - the crapper was in a separate room that communicated both with their bedroom and with the main part of the bath -- a big, walk-in shower, with 8 or 10 nozzles located at various heights and angles. The 'tub,' if you could call it that, was actually located out on the deck or balcony, surrounded by a glass enclosure that you could slide open. It wasn't a 'hot tub' or 'spa' or something like that, meant to remain filled; but rather gigantic Jacuzzi, easily able to accommodate two - or for that matter, three or four, if friendly.

We opted for the big shower, and we all three walked in, and took turns soaping one another and shampooing each other's hair. We luxuriated in the shower for long minutes, enjoying the intimacy of the moment, slipping and sliding our hands on the others' bodies. Mike, especially, looked so different all wet, with his thick chest and belly hair flattened against his firm body. Steve's and my hair looked darker and thicker and more prominent, too, especially on our arms and legs, but the effect wasn't nearly as dramatic in our case as in Mike's. Just looking at Mike made the erection I was carrying still more urgent, and leaning against the wall, and staring at him, I began to pump. In turn, looking at me at work, Steve began himself with his right hand, putting his left on my shoulder; and of course Mike joined in, speading his legs wide for stability and holding on to my other shoulder. Maybe unsurprisingly, Steve finished first, his cum spraying on Mike's belly (and his working hand); but I was only seconds behind him. Mike understandably was not quite so far along, and I stood behind him and reached in front and took over for him. Under my management, he was a goner in another sixty seconds.

We washed all the cum off each other, and just as I was about to step toward the entrance - the shower didn't have a door - it only had an opening in the partial wall that divided it from the rest of the room, like a locker room shower -- Mike said, "Man, I guess I need a shave. I can't go home looking like this." I hadn't shaved since just before going to the dentist four days ago; for Mike, even more heavily bearded, it had been six days, since back in California, and his cheeks and chin were now golden with the thick growth. Steve said, "Here, stand right under this hot spray right on your face for a while," and he turned his attention to me. I had two days' less growth, and in any case my beard didn't come in quite as thickly as Mike's did. (Though it would later in years to come.) Steve reached into a little built-in alcove and selected some pleasant-smelling gel, and rubbed it into my face. He put a new blade into a heavy, gold-colored razor and told me to wait a little while longer, while my beard softened further. In a minute or two he carefully began working on my cheeks and neck. The neck wasn't so hard, but I had to cooperate by puffing out my cheeks so that he could shave in the creases where my dimples always appeared. 

Reaching up - remember, I was 6 inches taller than he was, despite the fact that he was significantly more muscular than I was and impossibly ripped - he pushed my head and face under the close-by nozzle and, once the remaining foam was gone, he inspected his work. He then loaded another new blade into the razor and turned to Mike, and repeated the process. During the shaving Mike, like me, had put his hands on Steve's hips for stability - and just to enjoy the touch. When Steve had washed his face, Mike turned to me and said, "How's it look?" Where before we had both had something between stubble and seriously incipient beards, now we both had dark gold goatees. When we'd gotten out and dried ourselves on the thick white cotton towels, I stood side by side by Mike and we looked into the long mirror. We had always had a strong facial resemblance - or at least since I hit my main pubertal growth spurt - but now we looked strikingly more alike than ever with the twin goatees. Of course they couldn't last - Mike's wedding was just a few more days away, but it was really fun to share something else brand new with my uncle.

To be continued.



Cross-Country with My Uncle Ch. 10



Mikey, a studly 18-year old finds himself intimate for the first time with Mike, his namesake 24-year old uncle whom he's idolized all his life during a cross-country drive. Steve is the 20-year old collegiate gymnast who hitches a ride with them.

Steve had emptied out his backpack and put in a clean tee shirt and shorts, his little toilet kit, and he was ready to roll, almost. He also stuck in a big envelope.

Outside, he asked Mike to back the truck up to the garage, and he gestured to a large outbuilding close by. It had a conventional door on one end, and four overhead doors on each long side of the building. Steve and I entered through the side, and walked through what seemed to be a sports store. It was a sizeable room filled with skis, golf bags, canoes, baseball equipment, scuba gear, and so forth on shelves and racks. The next room to the left was set up as a gym. Not just with some weight machines, it had a floor exercise mat, a pommel horse, and parallel bars. Rings hung from the ceiling.

Passing through we entered into the garage proper, where there was a pair of Chevy trucks, a Mercedes S600 -- his Mom's car -- and a cobalt blue metallic Boxster with Wyoming "SRM" plates. I didn't see what was in the other half of the garage. Steve opened the overhead in front of the Boxster and got a foldable tow bar from a rack. As Mike manoeuvred the truck, Steve crawled under the Boxster and attached the bar and then secured it to the truck's hitch. He explained that he rarely drove the Porsche. Going to campus and back he usually drove an old Honda, just as his Mom mostly drove one of the Chevys.

Almost immediately we pulled away, and we were on the road. Our goal was Lovelock, Nevada, 865 miles away. Fortunately, it was 865 very scenic miles. At Cheyenne, we finally left the Great Plains behind us, and there would be mountains and ridges and basins the rest of the way to California. As usual, as soon as we hit the road, we pulled off our shirts.

Steve, sitting by the passenger window said, "So tell me more about you guys. What was it like growing up in Pennsylvania?"

So I began. I explained that our family lived in near New Hope, Pennsylvania, in Bucks County. My father was an architect. He's a partner in a New York City firm founded by my grandfather (Mike's father). He works two days a week in the City, taking the train from nearby Princeton Junction, New Jersey. The rest of the time he works in his studio at home. He and my mom have been happily married for just over 18 years. I was born "prematurely," my mother just 18 at the time; and my father was barely 20 and an architectural student at Cornell. My grandparents were not thrilled with the idea of their daughter "having to get married," but they did rather like my father. By the time my father had finished his B. Arch., my grandfather had founded a new firm with some partners from his old firm, and he hired my father (his son). My father eventually became a partner himself, and he and my grandfather (his father-in-law) get along very well. "They are almost like father and son, wouldn't you say, Mike?"

"Well, Mikey, that's an interesting subject. I would have thought by now you would have known, or suspected, or maybe just intuited it, but your dad and mine have been more than just friends, since before you were actually born. Your mom told me many years ago. My dad has had an ongoing relationship with your dad since just after your folks were married, starting when your father was only 20. To you, like most people, it looks like a father-and-son relationship, but in reality it is far more complicated than that."

That really got me to thinking. What Mike said was certainly congruent with everything I knew, but until this moment I would never had put one and one together. It's true that they both worked in the City Monday and Tuesday, sharing their little Upper East Side condo when they are in town. And they couldn't be more affectionate. It's also true that Grandad built Mom and Dad a house on a lot he owned three doors from his house, but that seemed perfectly normal.

In confusion, I left this subject, and turned to something I thought I knew a lot better, Mike. Mike, I explained, at six years older than I, could always do everything in the world far, far better than I ever could. Growing up, as far as I was concerned, he lived life on an entirely different plane. He was like a superhero, hell, I thought he could leap tall buildings at a single bound and stop speeding locomotives. I frankly and unabashedly idolized him. He could have easily abused me, mocking my worship, taunting me for my inadequacies, but quite the contrary, he was like an beneficent Olympian god in my little world.

I went on: Since we lived only three houses apart, I saw him very often until he went away to college. He came to our house -- his sister's -- very frequently, maybe to have dinner when his parents were in the City, or to babysit me and my little sister, or just on some errand, or, it seemed to me, just to drop by to see me and hear what my Cub scout pack was doing or how my piano lessons were going (I studied piano before taking up the trombone), or whatever. But far more often I was at my his house (my grandparents' place of course). Occasionally I'd spend the night if my parents were in New York or Philadelphia, and when I was little I'd sometimes sleep in Mike's bed with him. It would be a big treat for me: he was so big, so strong, so talented, so extremely handsome, had so many friends, and, best of all, was so goddamn sweet and indulgent to me. Though I was deeply cherished by my parents, they didn't put up with any crap, and they had certain expectations of me. Not that it was ever an issue because frankly I was the kind of kid who always seem to go with the program, and everything in my life has sorta come easy. I dunno. So far anyway.

But Mike was completely indulgent, and I could crawl all over him and he didn't seem to mind; he swung me around; he got down on the floor with me; he'd even play those insanely stupid card games like battle that little kids like and most adults hate; but best of all he'd teach me stuff, like the best strategies in Monopoly or the secret tricks in electronic games of the day, or how to make a whistle out of a willow twig, or the best way to climb that old maple in the back yard. And watching sports on tv with him was like a post-graduate course in sport strategy and history.

It was a sad time for me when he went off to college so far away; but he came home for holidays and vacations, he always found ways to spend some time with me.

As for me, while he was away at school, I would actually hang out in his room, reading on his bed, etc. As I grew older and bigger, I'd 'borrow' an old shirt from his closet, or a pair of shorts, or some of his old undershorts to wear myself. I loved them much better than anything I had. "Did you ever miss any of that stuff, Mike?"

"I didn't care, Mikey. Probably I guess I just assumed that Mom had tossed my old stuff out, something. On a couple of occasions when I thought I'd seen you in something pretty damn familiar, though, some ratty old shorts or some well-worn sweatshirt, it just made me smile a little. And anyway, I've given you plenty of stuff like that."

I continued: "There was always a lot of touching and closeness -- you know, the rough-housing stuff -- that sort of thing. And yes, when I was younger, I did occasionally sleep over in Mike's bed with him. But it was all very, uh, chaste. It always, always thrilled me to be close to Mike, and much more actually to be in real contact with him, but it never crossed my conscious mind that there was any possibility of any other kind of contact.

"But," turning directly to Mike, I said, "I hope this isn't going to gross you out, there was an important exception. Let me explain first, though.

"I started beating off regularly at age 12, to climax. By 13, I 'got my rocks,'" my first ejaculate. "And from that day to this there has virtually never been a day in which I haven't beat off at least once; most often twice, and when the opportunties present themselves, three, four, or five times a day -- or even more. Even now, except on a day when I know I've got a big date where I'm sure to score, it's at least a twice a day thing. And in the last five years I've had a lot of practice. I've done it alone, or around a campfire with a dozen kids; in the shower after a big game or hard practice with all my teammates; with stroke books, or just sexy ads in magazines, and god knows with videos, and computer porn.

"I've been dating and fucking since before I was 14, and a lot of my jackoff sessions featured my current hot number or somebody who clearly wanted to jump my bones. I guess it's nothing less than the truth to say that there always seemed to be a few girls lining up to get as close to me as they could. But in addition to all that, I often would think of some teammate or some guy I saw at the pool or something like that; but far, far more often, in fact on a very regular basis, I jacked myself thinking about you, Mike. Visualizing you fucking one of your girlfriends, with (I assumed) a gigantic cock going in and out, or better, one of your girlfriends sucking you, caressing your hot body; or still better, you pleasuring yourself; or, a thousand times at least, I bet, it was you and me together.

"So while I never even dreamed of touching you in reality, I have fantasized about you, or you and me, most days of my life in the last five years."

I went on. "And sometimes some special image would stick in my mind. You with your big shoulders and hairy chest and belly and with your curly blond hair, reaching up to grab a pass in a backyard football game, shirtless and with short, tight shorts. Or maybe a quiet moment, like when you and I would be at the ball park, side by side, leg to leg, both shirtless, sharing a bag of peanuts while the Phillies go down in flames, and you with your big arm over my shoulder. Those images would stick in my mind, and for months I'd beat off to them."

Mike didn't seem grossed out at all. In fact, he reached over and put his hand on my arm and gave me a really big smile.

"Mikey," he said, "Let me tell you a little secret. It's true that I have always loved you more than anything. You've always been such a great kid. I've never once seen you when you didn't light up like a fucking christmas tree when you saw me. You were so easy to please: Not to please, but, it seemed to me, to send you to fucking Mars, with just the slightest effort on my part. Ruffling your hair, giving you a little stick of gum, for god's sake.

"But in addition to that, you were the cutest little thing from day one. But as you grew you became a very impressive kid. You were a real boy's boy. In Little League, always hitting the clutch double, or in middle school football, somehow grabbing that wobbly pass and hanging on to it, or in Scouts being willing to scrabble up the rocky cliff when none of the other kids wanted to try. And of course you played the piano and later the 'bone like an angel. You've always been a natural leader, extremely popular with kids of both sexes, and teachers and coaches. And goddamn it, Mikey, when you got your sudden growth spurt, you grew into being the hottest-looking kid around. By then I was already at school, but when I'd come back home a few months later you'd have shot up another four inches and put on another fifteen pounds. And from being a little boy, you got this manly face, those broad shoulders, those hairy arms and legs, you became a really serious sex object. And in the couple of years you've put on more muscle, and become, well, fucking beautiful. And of course you act like you don't have a clue about the effect you have on others.

"So, Mikey, I hope this doesn't gross YOU out, but in the last few years, I've had to calm myself down and watch out that I don't pop a log when I get close to you. Yes, I've been more or less constantly in a relationship with one girl after another since I was 14, and I'm totally crazy in love with Alice. To tell you the god's truth, I'd die for her. But I've had a certain amount of more varied experience too. You are not the first guy I've ever been with, Mikey, not by a very long shot. And I can tell you that I've often fantasized about you and that body of yours and your floppy yellow hair and absurdly handsome face.

"But," he continued, "maybe you are wondering about last Friday night in that motel in Clarion. That wasn't you, Mikey. It was me. I set that all up. I called you into the bathroom, with that atlas thing; I wanted to you rub my shoulder, but it wasn't because it was stiff. Another part of me was stiff.

(By this point in Mike's recital, a certain part of me was very stiff also!)

"Actually, as soon as I asked you on this trip, weeks ago, I was hoping it would turn out this way. And now, Mike, I think we have something really wonderful together that we can always count on, like money in the bank.

"Now this part will probably really surprise you. Until last Friday night - maybe not until just a minute ago - you may not have known how I felt about you, sexually. But Alice has known for months. She's quite a special woman, is Allie. Seeing us together back home she figgered it out all on her own, as I said, long before you did, maybe even before I really, truly understood myself. And she's fine with it. She and I have a very profound relationship and a very special sympathy. Over the last month we've talked a lot about it and she's told me that there'll always be room in our relationship for you. Hell, she loves you too!" In fact, last Saturday morning at the motel coffee shop when I called her, I told her what had happened the night before. I'd hoping for it, and she'd been expecting it, but of course until we knew how you'd react to my little ploy, we couldn't be sure. There was a chance I'd have to come on a little more directly than I did, and of course a chance that even though you wanted it (we were pretty sure you did at some level), you might not be able to handle it."

I was stunned by what I had learned in the last five minutes. Stunned, but totally elated. Both my past, my present, and my future seemed to be, in reality, far, far better than I had ever dreamed of hoping. My heart was pounding; but it was singing too.

Of course it took me a while to sort all this out. And it took a lot more explaining to Steve before he had the entire picture. And Mike had to do most of the explaining, since I was still in kind of a daze. A delighted daze.

When he had heard the whole story, he was all smiles. He grinned from ear to ear and said, "You lucky guys! You dumbfuck lucky guys! What a deal!"

But Steve owed us some stories too.

To be continued.



Cross-Country with My Uncle Ch. 11



Mikey, a studly 18-year old finds himself intimate for the first time with Mike, his namesake 24-year old uncle whom he's idolized all his life during a cross-country drive. Steve is the 20-year old collegiate gymnast who hitches a ride with them.

"So what about this ranch?" I asked. 

"Well," Steve said, "I better start at the beginning. My mom's folks own a ranch. Technically, I suppose, you'd have to say they own two ranches, but they are side by side and these days operated as one. They located in Carbon County. Rawlins is the county seat; we went through there about two hours after we left home. The spread's south of Saratoga in a beautiful well-watered valley between the south end of the Medicine Bows and the Park Range. My grandma's is a cattle ranch. My granddad's ranch raises cattle and these days they also grow some sugar beets. My grandparents grew up right there, neighbors; and they married one another about a little over sixty years ago. They both were only children, after they both inherited, they merged the two operations. The homeplace is on my granddad's ranch, where my mom and her brother grew up. My uncle died in Vietnam, leaving only my mom, Nell (really "Cornelia"). She went to Smith in the east, and was involved in the anti-war movement. That's how she met my dad, who was at Columbia at the time, though he grew up in Montana.

My brother and I grew up on the ranch, too. Or at least until we were 11 and 12. We moved to Cheyenne then, partly for schooling, and partly because of my dad's business. My mom's folks staked him, and he bought a small bank there. He now owns four banks in county seats around Wyoming. They are small, but they are well-run and profitable and actually stuffed with deposits - you'd be surprised at how much cash some of these ranchers have in the bank. Some day they'll probably be sold to some big chain and there'll be some real money there."

(Later, we learned the whole story. Back about 1915, Steve's great-grandad, seeing what was happening around Wyoming, didn't want to have a lot of outsiders coming in and drilling and digging on his land. So he went out and managed to buy up the mineral rights for his ranch, and, while he was at it, he bought the mineral rights for several of his neighbors' ranches too, so they wouldn't be bothered. Decades pass. His son, Steve's granddad, now turns out to be the biggest holder of subsurface rights in Carbon County, and a lot of his neighbors' ranches are now owned by big out of state corporations. By the 1970's these gas and oil rights were incredibly valuable, and he's been collecting on both leases and royalties. Mark and he are each beneficiaries of big trust funds, and one day they will inherit it all. For the present, however, Steve is happy with his tee shirts and an old Honda and he hardly touches the income. We learned about the Boxster a little later.)

"Anyway, Mark and I grew up on the ranch. We learned to help with the haying and help with calving, and the usual sort of ranch chores, milking our milch cows. When we were really little we had our own ponies, and we got horses as soon as we could sit them. Still have our own horses in fact. Every year as soon as school was out, we'd go back to the ranch for the entire summer, and we're still doing that. It's incredibly beautiful out there, like a paradise. We're fairly passable ranch hands, and can mend fences and all sorts of crappy stuff like that, and we're damn good at handling cattle.

"Big thing for us in the late summer is rodeo. Me and Mark, we've been a calf roping team for years, and we're pretty good. It takes a lot of practice and teamwork, and the more you work together the better you get. That's why a lot of the teams are brothers or cousins, guys who work together season after season. Our other event's totally different. Bareback riding. Thing about it is that, it's really close to gymnastics. It's all a matter of balance and timing and practice." (And, he didn't add, but it was perfectly obvious, really good abs). "Course you have to know your horses, too. We've both won a few events, at least at the county level.

"Me and Mark, we always work together if we can, no matter what the job is. And the last two summers especially, since Mark's been at Wharton. It's the first time we've ever been apart, and, frankly, it's killing us both.

"Why did you guys go to different schools then?" I asked.

At this Steve, who always seemed to have a smile on his face, clouded up noticeably.

"Well, Mark was accepted to Wharton, and in his freshman year there, we got some really bad luck. My grandpa had a serious stroke and he'll never get better, and in fact he can't last too much longer. My grandma's heart condition worsened, and it keeps her mostly bedridden these days. And," here Steve began softly to sob, "my mom was diagnosed with a kind of bone marrow cancer. It doesn't hurt; it doesn't even restrict your activity; it only kills you."

I enfolded him in my arms, and he began to weep uncontrollably, shaking all over. I cradled his head on my chest, and bent my head down and kissed his hair, and stroked his arm. Neither Mike nor I knew what to say; or more properly, we both knew not to say anything.

After a while, his sobs subsided, and he very tenderly acknowledge my comforting pets with a few awkward touches of his own, and he shyly and softly kissed my cheek. But it was a while before he could go on with the story.

"So for sure she's going to die. All three of them are going to die," and again he fell helplessly into sobbing again, as hard as before.

There was nothing to do but continue to hold the darling boy, and maybe kiss his ear a little.

Eventually he regained his composure and again resumed his story.

"So there was no way that I was going to leave them to go east. I had been admitted to Penn, just like Mark; but instead I enrolled at Wyoming. Laramie is only about an hour from the ranch and maybe 45 minutes from the house, and I can be either place any time they need me. Actually, they don't "need" me for anything. My grandparents have a ranch manager and ranch hands and caretakers and nurses and whatever, and my mom has all the care she needs - as I said her day to day life is not really affected much. But while they don't "need" me, I know they want me around, they love to see me, and I want to be around for them too. Really, I'm trying to be around for Mark too, since he isn't here. Because he'd already started at Penn, Mom and Dad didn't want him to change. So what happened is that we've been split up for the last three years, except for holidays and the summers.

"God, I look forward to the summers and Mark coming back! I know you'll think it's silly, but when I'm at home, I always sleep in his bed. Of course for the last three years I've slept in it about ten times more than he has, but for me it's always "his" bed. I don't think I could really sleep in my bed alone.

"Actually, even when he's home, I sleep in his bed, because these days now that we've been apart so much, we always sleep together whenever we can. But we've done that most of our lives."

This seemed like an important and very interesting subject, but by now everybody was so exhausted that we just lapsed into silence for a while. This day wasn't turning out the way we had all expected.

Close to Evanston, Wyoming, we stopped at a gas station. Once again, we three guys kinda brightened the place up, and again, heads turned. It was partly us, I guess, and partly the Boxster we were hauling. Anyway, we got plenty of attention. After filling up, we went into the Albertson's next door, and got some stuff for sandwiches and some fruit, and once we were across the line in Utah we found a turn-off to a ranch-to-market road, and from that took a long lane that presumably led to a ranch somewhere, but it didn't look as if it had had any traffic on it for months. It crossed a little draw and there was a little grove of cottonwoods, and there we parked. Over a somewhat dusty but flat area under the trees, we spread a couple of the extra the blanket-like furniture covers that came with the rental truck, and had our lunch. It was simple and it didn't take much time, but the situation was very pleasant.

Lying on our backs we could look up through the canopy of the cottonwoods and see an occasional puffy cumulous cloud drifting across, somehow emphasizing the sky's incredible blueness. It must have been about 78 degrees there in the grove and there was the slightest breeze from the west. Because the furniture covers, even two together, were not large, we'd had to arrange ourselves in sort of a triangle so that we all fit. Staring at the sky, I used Mikey's thigh as a pillow, and Steve's hair occasionally brushed against my calf as he looked upward. Looking over to Mike's face to make some idle remark, my cheek was resting in the thick golden hair of his thigh. It was an idea of heaven. Glancing up to him, I saw his beautiful face above his magnificently furred belly and chest, and, I was right there with my face on the thigh of the man I had idolized all my life! And just barely shifting my gaze I saw the unbelieveably cut body of my new friend, with his head right against my own leg. A new friend, yes, but our friendship seemed so intimate and intense and well-founded upon real sympathy, that I felt as though it was a relationship that would continue on and on and on, some way or other, I knew not how. 

Glancing back up at my uncle, while I saw his face, I also saw up the leg of his shorts and his cockhead, which was barely covered by it. No longer was I interested in the passing clouds; I became fixated on my uncle's sex. He noticed my glance - no it was more like a stare - at once, and his penis responded by first chubbing up, and then, as it begin to fully expand, it strained against the little running short in a way that was obviously uncomfortable. I reached over toward his shorts and gave them a little tug and he raised his butt off the blanket so that I could slip them off. Steve of course watched this little by-play, and he ran his hand up into the leg of my short to touch my throbbing penis, and I immediately raised my butt and he wriggled the shorts off. Mike, in turn, scooted his big shoulders just a couple of inches closer to Steve's leg, and then reached over and freed Steve's cock, totally erect now.

So there we were. I had my head on Mike's thigh, face toward his groin; Steve schooched back and rolled a little onto his side, planted his head on my thigh; and Mike worked his way over to Steve's leg. I had my hand on Mike's phallus, Mike on Steve's, and Steve on mine. We were remarkably at peace, in the little grove, and in no particular hurry. I didn't begin to jack my uncle off. Instead, I was in a really great situation to examine, tickle, admire, and fondle his big hairy balls. I held them in my hand, gently let them come back to rest on his upper thigh, and then described tiny letters on them with the tip of one finger: I * L * O * V * E * Y * O * U * M * I * K * E. Of course I doubt he understood the message literally, but I'm sure he understood it emotionally. 

Meanwhile Steve had raised himself on one elbow and again had my cock in his mouth. This time he wasn't situated so well to use whatever magic he had back in the bed in the guest room yesterday morning, when he fellated me so gently and mysteriously that I wasn't even sure what was happening (other than that I was in a kind of paradise) but he had other arts, other ways of driving me fucking crazy with his tongue and lips. Under his influence, I wanted to do to Mike exactly what Steve was doing to me, and so I suspended the worship of his testicles and moved over and covered his phallus with my mouth. And whenever Steve spiraled his tongue over my glans, I did the same to Mike; when Steve licked my shaft like a Popsicle, so I did to Mike; when Steve used his hand and lips together, so likewise did I to Mike. I thought it was a tribute to both Steve and to Mike. I couldn't tell exactly what Mike was doing to Steve, but it obviously was similar.

At a certain point, Mike released Steve, and said, "Hold it, guys." I think he was very close to popping. He laid back a moment, resting his head on the blanket, and we did the same. Then with a brief circular gesture of his hand, he indicated his plan. With a fair amount of rearrangement - basically each of us rotated, so that our feet were where our heads had been - everything was as it had been before, except I was returning to Steve his love to me; and Mike was doing to me what I had been doing to him; and so with Steve and Mike. After the shift we started slowly and deliberately again, but somewhere somebody picked up the tempo, and the change instantly propagated through the whole tiny loving circuit. Soon I couldn't last another moment under Mike's insistence, and I released Steve from my mouth, but not my hand, and with two or three specially intense strokes, I brought Steve off in a gusher, his cum spraying over both Mike and me in gout after gout. At almost the same instant, I exploded into Mike's mouth, and I soon saw Mike grow more rigid, tremble again and again, and collapse, as Steve smiled, cum leaking from his lips. I was the only one without cum in his mouth, but I leaned over and gave Steve a deep, deep kiss that lasted most of a minute; and when I collapsed again, I had the now familiar taste of Mike on my lips and tongue.

Once again we lay there in repose, joy in our souls, love in our hearts. But after a while we realized that the road called again. We put back on our shorts, and packed up the lunch things, and begin wondering how the fuck we were going to get the truck with the Porsche in tow turned around. We drove on several hundred yards further, and eventually we came to a rather derelict cattle loading ramp. It was situated in a hardpacked area off the lane easily big enough to pull the truck and the Porsche around in a big loop, and so we headed back, and soon were on I-80 again.

And it was early afternoon on the fourth day of our trip.

To be continued.



Cross-Country with My Uncle Ch. 12



Mikey, a studly 18-year old finds himself intimate for the first time with Mike, his namesake 24-year old uncle whom he's idolized all his life during a cross-country drive. Steve is the 20-year old collegiate gymnast who hitches a ride with them.

As I-80 threaded its way through the Rockies and made its descent into the basin of the Great Salt Lake, we were totally engrossed in the beauty of the landscape. Neither Steve nor I had been this route before. It wasn't until we entered Salt Lake City, a rather dreary place despite its setting against western escarpments of the spectacularly beautiful Wasatches we'd being crossing, that conversation began to take a more focused shape. Mike asked Steve, who was sitting in the middle this time, to tell us more about Mark. 

He began thoughtfully:

"Well, it's hard to know exactly what to say. All of my life, until he went east to school, it seems he's rarely been more than a few feet - or at most a few minutes - away. We grew up on the ranch, where of course we were the only kids. The local school in Saratoga wasn't a one-room school - it actually had four rooms, but it might as well have been a one-room school because it only had one teacher and all the kids from first grade to sixth were taught in the same room. There were only 16 of us, and these days it's closed entirely. As you saw, our Cheyenne house is also out in the country, and our 'high school' - it goes from grade 7 to 12 - was fairly small, but surprisingly good. Nevertheless it was the kind of place where chemistry and physics were taught only alternate years, and shit like that, so that Mark and I were often in the same classes.

"Anyway, I thought Mark was just wonderful. He's only 14 months older than I am, but that's significant. When we were young kids he always was able to throw a ball further, read easier, do harder math problems, etc., and he was usually an inch or so taller than I was. Just generally he was bigger and more competent. When you are kids, a year makes a difference, and I thought he was just fucking wonderful.

"Because there weren't many kids around, and our closeness in age, and the fact that we went to such a small school, we always shared the same friends, too. That continued when we went to school near Cheyenne. His friends were my friends and vice versa.

"He always was willing to teach me and show me how to do stuff. So I usually was reading his books, and if I ever had a question with fractions, say, he'd always know what to do.

"And of course he started puberty a year sooner than I did. For a while, that was strange, instead of him being maybe an inch taller than me, he was like three inches taller, though naturally before long I more or less caught up. And of course during those years his dick grew noticeably bigger than mine, and he began to show hair down there before I did. But he was just paving the way for me, and I came to understand that I'd catch up. Not catch up with him, but rather follow where he led.

"It's not as if I didn't know every detail of the changes he was going through, because we were always completely intimate with one another. We'd always bathed together, showered together, slept together in the same bed. We exchanged backrubs, and even as little kids once we learned (from a classmate, actually) how to masturbate, we did that in the bed (or hid in the closet) together, and it was easy to discover that it was fun to do each other. Of course Mark 'came' before I could, still just another reason to admire him.

"Under the influence of those raging hormones, by mid adolescence we learned what came natural about kissing each other's cocks and sucking 'em, and of course we got very, very good at it, one on the other, and even sixty-nining. And god did I think he was handsome! And the more we were flooded with sex hormones, the handsomer he seemed. Actually, I think the handsomer he actually got. We'd beat off together in front of our mirrors, and blow each other and look at the reflections in the mirrors. And it wasn't an occasional thing. No matter how tired we were, almost never went to sleep without jacking each other, or something.

"It wasn't till a few years later that we learned about fucking each other. Somehow that didn't seem as 'natural' as handjobs and blowjobs, but once we tried it, we discovered there are about a million different ways to have fun that way.

"And that's how it started; and that's how it is today. Whenever we are together, we almost always sleep in the same bed, and enjoy each other in all the old familiar ways. It's really miserable his being 2000 miles away most of he school year. He's an incredibly sweet-natured guy. Everybody loves him.

"Even when we were still out on the ranch, our parents made sure that we had chances to get together with friends, sleepovers and camping trips and stuff like that, but for the most part away from school we were more or less together all the time. On the ranch, we were, frankly, little kings. Our grandparents and our parents lavished us with love and non-stop affection; the housekeeper and ranch hands seemed to love us to death and indulge us in any way they could. At the same time our parents and grandparents expected us to do chores. Not that they didn't have plenty of hands to do anything that needed to be done, they just thought that it would be good for us on the one hand, and anyway, one day we would inherit everything and we ought to know how the ranch worked.

"As we grew, we became more competent, and we progressed from stuff like feeding the chickens that you can do when you're just four or five years old to mucking out the barn and eventually driving the baler. Along the way we learned to ride and rope, and my grandpa, my dad, and the hands taught us a lot about horses and cattle. So Mark and I spent a lot of time together out in the pastures and on the range, looking for a strayed cow her calf and stuff. Even when we moved to our Cheyenne house, we always spent our summers on the ranch, and lots of weekends too, especially during in calving season in the spring and roundup in the fall.

"Thrown together so much alone, we always seemed to be team, and cooperated. I can't think of a time in which we got really mad at one another, and certainly we never had a fight. I dunno exactly why, because I hear stories from classmates and friends in which brothers are fierce rivals and competitors. In our case, there wasn't much (or anything) to compete for. We were like swamped with love and affection no matter where we turned, and it always seemed like we had everything that we could want before we even could know we wanted it. We got ponies as soon as we could sit em, and horses as soon as we could manage them, and cars as soon as we were legal, and so forth. Our parents seemed to think we could do no wrong, and you know what, we never did. We always seemed to want to please our folks as much as we could. And anyway it was easy. Schoolwork has always been easy for us, and our teachers just seem to love us. What can I say.

"We were just naturally good riders,it seemed, and with practice we became really good at calf roping. The bareback stuff came later, after we'd become proficient gymnasts. Our father had been a gymnast in high school later at Columbia. When we were little he taught us the rudiments of tumbling, and how not to be afraid to take a chance while on the mat. And he got us familiar with the apparatus (though really using the apparatus that really doesn't come until later). The main thing is that that we stayed with it and continued to be very flexible, and with time developed some reasonable skills. Luckily, our high school (as I said, grades 7 through 12) though small, had a good gymnastics teacher. He was a math teacher but had been a collegiate gymnast and taught gymnastics as a side thing. He was really a very good coach, and our school, even though it was small, always fielded a team who could whip butt around the Cheyenne area.

"Anyway, both Mark and I were pretty good. My dad built us a gym of our own (I think, Mikey, you may have seen it this morning), and when we practiced at home, he coached us. Our parents were hugely proud of us and almost never missed a competition, even if it were miles away. 

"Gymnastics is mainly made up of individual skills, but Mark and I worked up some sorta fancy exhibition routines that people liked. In any case, we really enjoyed it (and do to this day), and of course there were a lot of good sort of by products from it, too. For one, it really helps in bareback riding. But it also kinda helps to develop the body real nice. Mark and me, we were never going to see 5'8", not by a long shot, but nevertheless we were considered very studly in our highschool and very datable.

"Actually, we dated a lot. It was just another one of those things that came easily to us. And we got a lot of action, too. We very often double-dated. And quite a lot of times we would wind up four in the same bed somewhere. A surprising number of the nicest girls in our school thought that it was really hot to double-date with Mark and me. 

"I have to say I thought for sure that it was hot to double with Mark. He was always just a little bit more advanced than I was when it came to women. He fucked at least a year earlier than I did, he got sucked by a date earlier than I did, and when we doubled, I would mostly follow his lead and do whatever he was doing. I thought it was really superhot to be in the same bed with him and look over and see some girl stroking him and sucking his dick. Actually I think I may have liked watching his date suck him even more than I liked my date sucking me, even at the same time. It was great to share times like that.

"Of course our school was small, and so there was just so far that we could go without crossing some sort of invisible line and making headline high school news, so while our double-dates got whispered about respectfully, Mark and I never did anything more than watch each other, or make sure that we were lying side by side, with our legs and arms touching or something. We never, say, otherwise touched each other or kissed each other even on the hottest double dates. We saved that for times when we were alone.

"So as you can imagine, it was a real loss when Mark went off to Penn. Sure he came home a few times each school year, and I go out to see him a couple of times during school breaks back in Cheyenne, but we missed each other a lot, even with phone calls and emails and stuff like that.

"My senior year in high school, I continued to date girls a lot. But I did miss those double dates, and even more I missed my brother's cock up my butt or my brother's mouth on my cock. It wasn't until I started at Wyoming and met Joe (whom I told you about that) I had my first boyfriend. Like me, Mark dates women, but he has also had some really hot boyfriends at Penn. Some of those Wharton kids are really hot, hot, hot.

"What do our parents think? I'm not sure. Mark and I never talk about our own relationship, we never joke about it, we never hint about it. Of course everyone in the household, servants and as well as our parents know that we sleep in the same bed, shower together, date together, and so forth, and that we are as totally affectionate as we can possibly be. In any case, our parents seem to think we walk on water, we've never given them the slightest reason to be concerned about us, and anyway, they are both completely original thinkers with open minds.

By the time Steve had gotten to this point, with all the stuff about him and Mark doubling and sleeping together, Mike and I were pretty hot ourselves. Once again, our engorged cockheads were poking over the elastic waistbands of our little running shorts. And in the telling of the story of him and Mark, Steve had pulled down his shorts and placed Mike's hand on his throbbing erection. It was late afternoon, but it was still bright, even though the sun was fairly low in the western sky. We were across the line in Nevada, and Mike, who was driving, glanced up and saw a sign saying "Montello exit, 1 mile." He pulled into right lane and just after the sign saying "Montello, 40 miles," and he took the ramp. I-80 was moderately traveled, cars and trucks coming by every minute or so. But it didn't look as if anybody ever traveled on unnumbered "Pilot Road," a sort of back way to the remote and isolated desert town of Montello.

Mike drove the car about 200 feet from exit and pulled off the side of the unpaved road, just to the left of a clumb of creosote bushes. Mike could have pulled the truck (and trailing Porsche) under the overpass so that we would be screened from the expressway: but he didn't. He could have parked to the right of the creosotes so that views from the expressway would be blocked: but he didn't. 

Instead he drove up to a redrock outcrop. Redrock is a sandstone that weathers in flat lamellae, and this particular outcrop, not unusually, was an extensive table-like formation only about 20 inches off the desert floor hardpan.

He went to the back of the truck and got the blankets we'd used at lunch, and spread them on the redrock to the right of the truck, that is, closest to the highway. It was a deliberate decision on his part.

He seemed full of ideas. He told Steve, who was buck naked without his little shorts, but with his impressive erection, to sit near one corner of the blanket, near the edge of the redrock table. He gave me instructions, and I obeyed, kicking off my shorts and kneeling in front of Steve, between his open legs. I leaned over Steve, supporting my body on my hands and knees and leaning down to kiss Steve all about the face. Steve reached out and held my face in his hands, and returned my kisses. Mike looked with satisfaction upon the scene and said, "Mike, sit up. Steve, grab your ankles and put them on Mikey's shoulders." He reached in between us and slathered my veiny cock with lube from root to tip. And, for good measure, he put a dab on Steve's rear. 

It wasn't hard to picture what Mike had in mind, but this was a first time for me. I had never fucked anyone up the rear before. I'd had had enough compliant girlfriends who would have done anything that I said, but somehow it had never occurred to me to suggest it, and certainly not to require it. But in the last three days I'd been united with my uncle three times in this way, to my intense satisfaction, and I was ready to try doing it myself.

Recalling just exactly what Mike had done the first time he'd fucked me, back in Galena, I poked the very tip of my glans onto Steve's tight anus. Sure that I was situated exactly correctly by the touch of the wrinkles of his rosebud on my hypersensitive cockhead, I pushed quite definitely and was surprised as how easily I entered his body. Under good control but uncertain as to exactly what this would all be like, I continued pushing another inch or a little less until my entire cockhead had passed his sphincter, and somehow there was some sort of relaxation going on. Not wishing to pull out and lose contact, I pushed a bit more, and more of my cock disappeared. Steve said, "Oh, Mikey, Oh, Mikey!" I withdrew until the rim of my corona caught on the ring of his spincter, and then pushed again, and still more of my cock vanished as though by magic. I was puzzled and pleased in that this was not at all like vaginal intercourse, for I was gripped very tightly.

With my sizable penis, I've been told by several girlfriends that I fill them up in a way their previous boyfriends did not. Maybe that's so and maybe it's just flattery. It's easy to believe that sort of thing if you want to, and I always did. I know damn well I always have sent my member all the way up girls' vagina to the very end, to the very door of their uterus, but none of them had really gripped me with such force as Steve was doing. Now that it was well established, I took my eyes off our fleshly connection, and looked down into Steve's face. It was, frankly radiant, with another of those big as all outdoors smiles of his. And he and I looked deep into one another's eyes.

I felt a hand on Steve's right ankle, which had been resting on my left shoulder, and then his other hand on my right shoulder, where Steve's left ankle lay. It was Mike, who caressed my neck, my cheek, and my shoulder again, and Steve's feet and ankles and calves. He gently pressed with both hands, and lowered my upper body so that Steve's face and mine were right together and I could easily kiss his dear sweet lips. Fortunately Steve was wonderfully flexible or this would have been impossible, but Steve seemed to be comfortable though folded like a Parker house roll, but with his butt well off the blanket, for the point of our union was of course at my groin level, and I myself was on my knees and elbows, but also folded or flexed at my hips, with my butt now the highest point on my body.

It was there that I next felt Mike's gentle touch, applying a cool dab of lubrication to my anus. And the immediate sequel was the introduction, suavely and leisurely, of his mighty cock, slick with lube. In a moment or two he had sent his phallus home, right to the root, and I felt his dangling balls sway against my body, just as my balls lay on Steve's butt. Mike was standing on the desert hardpan, while we were on the redrock shelf. He was supporting himself in part with his hands on my hips, but he was in complete control and had adequate freedom of motion to fill me with delight as he slowly pistoned my rear. I was swimming in, drowning in sensations. I was being fucked by my wonderful uncle, a pleasure that while not entirely new to me, still had the high excitement of novelty, and while it should be commanding all my attention - and it really was! - at the same time I was fucking my dear friend Steve.

And it was the first time I had ever had anything so intensely grip my cock, and so on top of a maximum of excitement and joy comes another jolt, kicking me into the realm of hyper excitement, a realm I did not know, could not have suspected, even to exist.

And all of this was taking place 200 feet from a fairly busy expressway. We may have been seen by the drivers of dozens of cars and trucks, if they chanced to look our way. In point there wasn't much else out there in the desert and most passersby probably did see us, at least those in the west-bound lanes; but if they did, and had time to resolve what was going on (hell, in the middle of it all I had a hard enough time figgering out what was going on), by then they were many hundreds of feet beyond the only exit for 25 miles, and there was no turning back to make sure what they were seeing.

As awkward was my posture, I was nevertheless in sensory overload, with my uncle's heavily furred belly against my butt, his magisterial cock pumping in my rear in a stately tempo, his heavy balls swaying against me, his hairy legs gripping mine, his big hands on my hips. And me with my cock buried to its hilt in the flesh of my new but very dear friend. It's true that I had a very limited scope of action, but it was just enough. Anyway, I was so strung out with hyperstimulation that, suddenly over any limit of toleration, a thrill ran up and down my legs and my cock gave a huge jolt, and I was done, my seed now deep within Steve. My uncle was still pumping, but I was a dead soldier. In a moment or two, I felt a short series of extra-hard pumps and a banging of my uncle's testicles against me, and he, too, was done. He withdrew, and gave my hairy butt some fond caresses, even as his semen leaked down onto Steve.

Once Mike had withdrawn, I pulled away from Steve, who was then able to unfold himself, and lowering his legs around me. Now kneeling between his legs, I reached down and gripped his phallus down near its root, and with the last inch of the shaft and the cockhead in my mouth I worked him for all he was worth. Meanwhile, interestingly, but messily, Mike had stuck just one of his long fingers up my butt, now lubricated with his own slick, and he moved it in and out slightly.




Cross-Country with My Uncle Ch. 12



It was only a very few more minutes before Steve stiffened and his body gave a series of involuntary spasms and my grateful mouth was filled with his now familiar cream.

With no ceremony whatsoever, other than Mike's offering Steve his right hand to pull him upright, and his offering me his left, we rolled up the blankets, slipped on our shorts, and got back in the truck; and soon we had rejoined the cars and trucks passing on I-80, some of whose occupants were still puzzling at what they had seen, or thought they had seen, or maybe had seen. In point of fact, miles down the road, but before full dark, occasionally we would be overtaken by a car whose driver had probably stopped for gas in Proctor or Oasis, and whose occupants recalled the distinctive rental truck trailing the midnight blue Porsche parked out on the desert near the highway, and they slowed up and stared up into the cab of the truck in wonderment.



Cross-Country with My Uncle Ch. 13



Part 13. During a cross-country drive together, Mikey, a studly 18-year old finds himself intimate for the first time with Mike, his namesake 24-year old uncle whom he's idolized all his life. Steve is the 20-year old collegiate gymnast who hitches a ride with them.

"So," Steve asked, "Mikey, tell me: What do you know about this dude ranch? And what kinda experience do you have with horses?"

"Well," I began, "To answer both your questions: Not much and not much, really. The last two summers before this one I spent time at a horse camp in the Adirondacks. Of course it's in the east, but it's all western riding. The first year I was there six weeks, and all you really do is get a fair amount of experience riding and taking basic care of the animals. The second year was ten weeks and I got a lot more experience in dealing with different horses, some easy, some pretty tough. We rode every day, rain or shine, bellied horses through rivers, learned to gallop, and of course every day morning and night we worked with the horses. I'm no farrier, but I can now spot a hot hoof or hot knee when I see it. I don't make a claim to being any kind of a horseman, but I kinda got it in my blood, and I really like working with horses. Mike, you went to the same camp back when you were a teenager, too, and it seemed to set you up pretty well for work on the ranch, didn't it?"

"Yeah," he said, "it did. I learned enough about horses to do the job, especially since on the ranch you work under the supervision of some really classy wranglers who know what they're doing. Actually, what I learned on the ranch was more about the guests than horses. People, they're fuckin' crazy, especially compared to horses."

Steve said, "And where is this dude ranch? Didn't you say it was like in southern Colorado somewhere?"

"Naw," Mike answered, it's on the Western Slope, what, about 40 miles north of Hot Sulphur Springs not far from a little town called Rand. It's really beautiful there!"

"Yee-haw!" Steve whooped. "You gotta be kiddin' me! Forty miles north of Hot Sulphur Springs! Mikey, hand me that atlas!"

I did and in the waning light of a long summer's day he confirmed his assumption. Mike and I had been thinking of it as being somewhat isolated on the Western Slope, a good two and a half hours from downtown Denver (which it was). But what we had not realized is that Steve's family's ranch was also west of the Medicine Bows. Though in different states, the dude ranch, the H Bar Z, was only about 90 miles of back road from Steve's ranch. 

Steve showed me on the map, and he said "Don't you see, Mikey, the rest of the summer we'll be under two hours apart! You can come up to our place and meet Mark and my folks, we can get together, hell, every weekend or whenever you can get off! I can drive down to pick you up! Boy, this changes everything!"

He grabbed me in his big arms and reached up and gave me a big smacky kiss right on my mouth, and he, well, he kind of did a little jig right where he was sitting.

Then in his best Steven Tyler voice he goes:

I go crazy, crazy, baby,

I go craaaa-zeee,

(modifying the lyric, he continues)

You turn me on, I get a bone,

Yeah you drive me 

Craaaa-zeee, craaa-zee, craaa-zee for you baby!

I was stunned. I could hardly believe it. I had been trying to think of some way to keep in touch with Steve, maybe somehow getting a few days off and getting to Denver and then to Cheyenne and then to the Steve's family's ranch, but it had seemed like it was going to be a pretty complicated damn big deal. But, like Steve said, this changed everything! All summer long he'd be no further away than two hours. Hey, even on an afternoon off I could get up to his ranch, if I could borrow a car or truck or something from one of the hands!

Steve continued, "Hey, I'll lend you a car and you can drive up any day you have off. You can take the Boxster or the Honda, I don't care. And call the dude ranch and tell 'em not to pick you up at Denver International next week. As soon as Mike's wedding is over, you fly back, I'll meet you at the airport and you can come up until you're due at the dude ranch, and I'll deliver you!"

It was one of those few rare occasions in a lifetime wherein the whole course of one's life seems to take a sudden, irreversible change in direction. It seemed that way potentially in real time; and now in retrospect it has turned out to be so. Instead of our parting tomorrow morning, perhaps forever, who knew, our relationship would have a chance to grow and develop and deepen! It took me a couple of seconds longer to grasp what Steve had realized the moment he heard the words "Hot Sulphur Springs," but not merely the accidents of the situation but the profound meaning of it all percolated through me, and I joined Steve in another exultant chorus:

I go crazy, crazy, baby,

I go craaaa-zeee,

You turn me on, I get a bone,

Yeah you drive me 

Craaaa-zeee, craaa-zee, craaa-zee for you baby!

My uncle Mike looked over with an indulgent grin and said simply, "You lucky fucks! You lucky fucks!" and touseled first my hair and then Steve's.

That set us off on another round of non-stop singing, for simple joy. But this time, no Dwight Yoakamy blues were permitted, no REM "Everybody Hurts" kinda shit, but one exultant anthem after another, "We are the champions," and we hit the Wallflowers, Cake, and George Strait.

It didn't look like we were going to make it to Lovelock after all. At Battle Mountain, Nevada, Mike pulled off the road. It was almost 9 pm. We walked into the lobby of the surprisingly comfortable-looking motor hotel there. The night clerk was a nice-looking kid who couldn't have been more than 20. I wouldn't say he 'cruised' us exactly, but he did unmistakably size us up, especially since the three of us were still in nothing but our running shorts, and we had asked for one room with a king bed. He said, "By the way, I'm on duty until six am, so don't hesitate to call if you need anything. I'm Scotty."

Our room was on the second floor and it was really rather spacious, with a nice big bath, and the kingsized bed. Mike said, "God, I'm starving, I could eat a cow. I'll go pick up something and bring it back." There were only a couple of choices in Battle Mountain at that hour, and he said he'd walk across the parking lot to a nearby chicken joint. It's not what we would have preferred maybe, but at that place and that hour that was what was open.

As soon as the door had closed behind him, Steve said, "Look, you and I are going to have all summer, but this is going to be my last night with Mike. Let's make it a night he'll remember!" I agreed and we quickly made a some sketchy plans, and Steve ran downstairs to get something we'd need from the back of the truck.

When Mike opened the door and walked in past the bathroom and into the main part of the room, he never had a chance. Steve and I sprang from the bathroom and from behind, put a pillowcase over his head, and by arrangement I grabbed his right arm, and Steve his left. He dropped the chicken and struggled mightily, but taken by surprise by two big guys with a plan, like I said, he never had a chance. We easily man-handled him over to the big bed where I had already ropes from the truck tied to the bed posts at the head of the bed. They were soft cotton ropes, chosen by Mike back in Pennsylvania so as not to chafe the furniture we were carrying in the back. And without too much difficulty we secured Mike's arms.

Of course he knew it was only us, but he wasn't giving up easy and he thrashed around, but it was hopeless, and we secured him very well. We next cut the lights off and replaced the pillowcase with a tee-shirt, neatly folded and tied as a blindfold. And using a bit of the rope we bound a folded sock over Mike's mouth. Nothing uncomfortable, but a clear indication that we wanted no speech from him. And then turned the lights back on again.

I tugged off Mike's shorts and shoes, leaving him entirely nude, and Steve and I quickly secured his legs. While he was gone, we had tied quite long ropes to Mike's duffle and mine, and these ropes we now tied to my uncle's ankles. The ropes were maybe six feet long each and these we wound around the duffles somewhat to shorten them. The bags weren't particularly heavy or bulky, but they served the purpose. Steve took one and I took the other and we placed them on either side of the bottom of the bed, so that Mike was completely spread-eagled. In fact, his legs were extraordinarily wide-spread, closer to 90 degrees than the sort of typical 60 degree angle one might imagine.

We stepped back to inspect our work and we were pleased. The powerful body of my uncle was rendered entirely helpless, and he was completely at our mercy. And it was a most remarkably handsome body, too. His rather massive chest muscles, covered in dark golden hair; his trim, but well-muscled and hairy abdomem, leading right down to the well-defined sulcus that marked the end of his trunk and where his massive thigh muscles began; his large and defined calves, like his thighs and big arms, covered in sun-bleached curly hair. He was still testing his bonds somewhat, but by then he knew resistence was hopeless, and in any case he knew as well as we that the whole enterprise was designed to afford him the most exquisite delight we could arrange.

We started slow, Steve on Mike's left and I on his right. Maintaining silence as we would during almost all of this long execise, and taking the most infinite care, Steve and I, using just a fingertip each, begin to touch Mike here and there, with the tiniest and gentlest of strokes, just a fingertip, and for just a second or two, strokes that hardly ran three-quarters of an inch, if that. And to start, only in peripheral areas: a tiny touch on his right ankle, just above his ropes; a touch on the back of his left hand. Blindfolded, he never knew where the next teasing, loving touch would fall. But though these touches were tiny, and peripheral, they had a very powerful effect on Mike, and as soon as we had begun them, his penis began to grow, slowly extending, the veins filling and becoming more prominent. The process was beautiful to watch, as each pump of his heart sent more of his life's blood to his phallus, converting him from a defeated man to a sex god, though in bonds. The penis engorged more and more, lengthening, lengthening, and growing fatter and fatter, and by stages straightening, rising, rising, rising, until it flopped onto his belly, from which it continued to stiffen, even redden, the veins growing more and more distinct until they rose notably above the surface of the cock as it rose from his belly to tremble an inch above his thick belly hair, the cockhead hovering above his navel. And as it expanded, his glans lost first its fine wrinkles, and then its velvety matte finish disappeared as it took on a high gloss as it reached its maximum expansion, surely a thing of beauty, with its wonderfully defined shape, and, we knew, its capacity for exquisite sensation.

This time, Mike's balls were not low-hanging and pendulous, for he was carrying them much closer to his body. Because of their very large size, they were very prominent, but his scrotum was a somewhat more confining pouch than it had been on other occasions. They looked wonderful, the very essence of male power.

Steve and I hugely enjoyed our work, and we were in no hurry whatsoever. We continued with these random touches, tiny, and subtle; perhaps alternating them with a tiny, gentle tug on a bit of body hair, on a calf or thigh. Very gentle, just enough to give a tiny stimulus to our victim and our beneficiary.

Gradually, we moved from the most peripheral attacks to a few, rare, touches on something more central: a touch on an inside middle thigh, perhaps; or a surprise touch on Mike's golden goatee, just below the point of his chin; or the tiniest touch of a single curl of his left armpit hair, so subtle that he could not really be sure he had been touched at all. But we didn't come anywhere near his sex organs.

From these tiny touches, we expanded slightly and gradually. To a two-finger stroke, of slightly longer duration, and something close to, but not really a kiss. Bringing our mouths close to his body and exhaling upon it. These wicked tricks we could do even with his phallus, if we didn't come too close.

During all this Mike was not relaxed and enjoying himself! He was in a state of energy and tension, and when these touches came from out of the blue - being blindfolded he never could know where the next tiny, loving attack was going to fall! - he would react with a shiver or a gasp. His capacity for reacting amazed us, for he never seemed to accept our ministrations with quiescence. And his cock seemed to grow stronger and stiffer and more insistent all the time.

Finally, at a hand signal I gave to Steve, we upped the ante. I took his right nipple between my lips at the exact split second that Steve did the same with his left nipple. Mike almost jerked off the bed, but while he writhed his arms and his legs, his chest merely expanded as he gasped. We were merciless. With our tongues and lips we teased, we kissed, we sucked; we took the straining erect nipples between our teeth, ever so gently, and sweetly, carefully worked them, even as our tongues worked the nibs extending past our incisors into our mouths.

Not wishing to render them sore with too much stimulation, after a full workout we moved on. Now we finally moved to true strokes of the hand, and starting with his feet, we made a tour d'horizon of his body, I still on the right, and Steve on Mike's left, working more or less in parallel. When we got to Mike's mid-thighs, however, we suspended our work, and pulled back. Mike couldn't have known where next we would attack, but it turned out to be merely on his hands. Here, for once he could in some measure communicate, and as we massaged his hands he struggled to grasp our hands in his, and, we consenting, he held our hands in his, and with his thumbs he gently stroked ours.

Then, suddenly, he kind of cheated! He managed to get his right hand up onto my wrist and forearm, and by the feel of my crisp, dense hair there, he suddenly knew that it was me on his right, and thus Steve on his left! At my signal, we broke away completely and disengaged. We made sounds as if we might be changing sides, but actually we didn't. Once again, Mike couldn't know who was where, and we resumed our enterprise, again stroking and now even rubbing Mike, and widening our range. We worked his big forearms, his powerful upper arms and shoulders, and now we had but his trunk to go.

For this we decided on something different. From somewhere we'd gotten a couple of common combs, and we used these in parallel to comb through Mike's chest hair, and then, working from the side toward the middle, to comb the hair on his abs and belly toward the center line. Not wishing to touch his cock yet, we had to give this up down around his navel, for his cock stood suspended in space just a short distance above it, and then, finally, to comb through his pubic hair, from the sides anyway. Throughout the comb work, the tiny tips of the rubber combs evidently were a major new kind of stimulus to Mike, and he trembled and again strained against his bonds.

Smoothing him all over with comprehensive stroking with our full palms, except for the region of his genitals, we gave special attention to his pits, his neck, the inside of his elbow and a few other places we had neglected.

Finally we were ready to attack Mike's totally engorged and throbbing phallus. We couldn't quite decide how, though. Steve came up with an idea. He rummaged through his backpack and found the mate to the crew sock that was bound over Mike's mouth, and held it up to me. Working as always in complete silence and together, we held it above his cock like a sheath, and then suddenly brought the first inch over his cockhead. The soft confining sock infinitely stimulating his now aching cock, the coronal ridge expanding the sock so that it was patently obvious through the soft white knit. Slowly, ever so slowly, Steve on the left and I on the right, we tugged the sock quarter inch by quarter inch over Mike's great penis. As it passed down, the inflamed hood of Mike's cock, parted the soft, soft gripping orlon, and as it slooooowly slid past, and newly gripped the corona, we could hear choked moans from Mike, despite his gag. He had been so primed for so long, and for so long denied any touch on his aching cock, that probably a kick from a running shoe would have been welcome, but this, this was unbearable! For fun, we pulled the sock up an inch or two, and then continued sheathing his great organ; and then reversed directions still yet again. Finally - surely it had taken two minutes! - the sock was entirely sheathing his phallus, which distended it, filled it. We pulled it down still further till the flaring cockhead was filling up the toe of the sock, with more gathered at the root of his phallus.

With Mike's cock in this rather absurd situation, we decided to work on Mike's mighty balls. Dicks are one thing; balls another. Dicks are resilient, powerful, thrusting, exploring. Balls, though, instinctively need protection, and arguably the whole power of the male body is designed to defend them. So when I knelt between Mike's wide-spread legs, and gently hefted his left ball in my fingertips, he flinched mightily, and struggled against his bonds once more. He knew, of course, that our whole purpose was to give him all the pleasure we possibly could; and that there was no one in the world, Alice presumably excepted, to whom he could trust his balls in more confidence than to us. But nevertheless there was a tension, a war, between the two concepts, an urgent visceral compulsion to protect, and an intellectually-based confidence that it is not only safe, but fun to submit. This tension only heightened Mike's infinitely sensitive reactions to my tender attentions, as I stroked the hairy scrotum with my fingers; and cupped the balls in my hands, and kissed them and licked them, balls that were identical to mine in every respect. They were, of course, too big to get in my mouth, but that made them only the more suitable subjects for stroking and petting.

Meanwhile, with an idea of symmetry, Steve removed Mike's gag, and breaking for once our silence, commanded him brusquely, "Keep quiet." With his gymnast's grace and agility, he got up on the bed, put one foot to either side of Mike's head, and, steadying himself with a hand on the bed, lowered himself into a squat, so that his balls dangled over Mike's mouth. And lowering himself still more, he dragged them right onto Mike's lips. Mike instantly knew what to do, and he took the left one gently between his lips, and opening his mouth still wider, and carefully covering his teeth with his lips, took it into his mouth, balanced it upon his tongue, caressing it with his tongue, just as simultanteously I am kissing and licking his balls. Steve rose ever so slightly and his left ball emerged from Mike's lips, and Steve then presented his right ball. It was a remarkable thing to watch from between Mike's legs! Steve repeated with his left ball and finally once more with his right before he departed. Doubtlessly he considered whether Mike might like to indulge in some anilingus, but thought that that decision was better left to a Mike in full possession of his own free will than to a Mike in bondage.

At our next move perhaps Mike thought we at last were going to show him mercy; but he would find that he was very wrong. We slowly, slowly, slowly tugged the sock off his massive erection, and as every quarter-inch rode across the edge of his flared cockhead, he involuntarily gasped, and gasped again. I grasped his phallus low, around its fat and veiny base, my big hand unable to circle it entirely. And I left room for Steve's smaller fist to seize the upper portion. Together we gave him a stroke or two, but it was really just a novelty. Removing our hands, Steve and I whispered together. I expressed lube onto my hands, getting them both really slippery. According to the plan we'd hastily put together, I would use both hands to stroke him, for a total of four dozen strokes, if we thought he could take it. But to make sure that he didn't foil our plans, I'd wait ten full seconds between each and every stroke. It was wicked, it was teasing. In the words of the old, old song, "You gotta be cruel to be kind," and we were.




Cross-Country with My Uncle Ch. 13



Meanwhile, Steve moved to Mike's chest, and very sloppily, licked his chest hair away in every direction from his nipples, leaving them clean and open; and then, wickedly teased first the one, and then the other with his lips, and tongue, and, gently, with his teeth.

Eventually, I had completed the thirtieth stroke, each very firm, very slippery, one designed to get the most mileage, starting at the root and pulling up, and at the same time pulling the cock away from the belly (and generally in the direction of his knees), and often enough, giving a bit of a swirl or slight twist, too, on approaching the cockhead, and it looked as if my sturdy, studly uncle was in good shape, and so the next eighteen strokes I administered in groups of three, with 15-second intervals between the sets. He probably thought that he was headed, finally, toward release, but he was wrong. On the 48th stroke, without explanation, without apology, without mercy, I left him to deal by himself with his great massive erection, unable to touch or rub anything, and Steve abandoned his tits.

It was now time finally, for supper. When Mike had entered the room, he'd been carrying a big bag of fried chicken. It had fallen on the floor in the first second of our surprise attack and there it had lain for the last hour and a half. By now it was somewhere between barely tepid and room temperature, but it was still aromatic. I brought a piece and moved it near to Mike's face and he immediately reacted with a deep sniff.

I held a piece to his lips and he took a large bite out of it, chewed it well, and swallowed. Steve had popped the tab on one of the cans of coke Mike'd brought, and he put a straw into it and let Mike sip.

Then with my teeth I ripped off another piece of the chicken, and held it in my fingers over Mike's mouth, and slowly lowered, as he took it in. Realizing that he had gotten to my fingers, he licked them, and opened his mouth for more.

I ripped off another piece of the chicken flesh, and this time held it in my mouth, and again slowly lowered it. In something reminiscent of the famous scene in "Lady and the Tramp" when he got to the end of the chicken strip he found my lips, and we kissed.

Again I ripped off a piece of chicken with my teeth to feed him. This time I mangled it a bit with my teeth, and again lowered it to him, and fed him mouth to mouth, and again, we kissed. Steve again offered him the straw from the coke and he greedily sucked. And now I pulled still yet another strip off a chicken part, and this time didn't merely mangle it along the way, I actually chewed my end of it, and as before, fed my helpless uncle mouth to mouth, and again, I was rewarded with a kiss.

The next strip I ripped from the chicken I fairly masticated, and deposited it directly from my lips into his, again receiving a kiss. And in the next iteration it was only an aromatic mash that I exchange with Mike in the course of a deep kiss.

And the next time, there was no chicken at all, but, holding his helpless head in my hands I explored every secret part of his mouth with my hungry tongue. Of course even blindfolded he had known it was me, from the first time our lips met, and his lips had wandered to my now four-day old beard. (Steve was of course cleanshaven.)

Then it was a matter of my holding the chicken right to his mouth as he chewed directly off the bone, until he signaled he wanted no more.

During the feeding by kiss, his cock had remained at the highest state of tension. During the feeding off the bone, however, he softened somewhat as his attention was distracted.

That was no problem: All it took was Steve kneeling between his legs and working his magic, that gift of fellation wherein it's not clear whether or not he's actually fellating you, it's so gentle and yet so real. In less than sixty seconds, Mike was as intensely, ragingly erect as ever, virtually on the brink, it seemed of culmination. But it was not to be so, even though Mike had already been submitted to our wills for more than two hours.

Steve and hauled on the ropes securing Mike's powerful legs, and pulled the duffle bags close to the bed, and then we actually lifted them onto the bed, so that in effect there was so much slack in the ropes that Mike's legs were effectively free to move for the first time, though his arms were as secure as ever.

I crept to the head of the bed and stroked Mike's hair, above the blindfold.

Steve knelt between Mike's legs, and stroked his belly, but avoided his cock and balls. I reached over and poured lube into his hand and he slicked his cock, and Mike's butt, and then, suddenly hauled Mike's hairy legs up and onto his big square shoulders, and shifted to position himself just right and pushed his cockhead directly into my uncle's hairy butthole. The introduction was the work of but a moment, and although the preparations were obvious enough, Mike still gave out a gasp, and then he said, "Mike, is that y---," before I, at his head, quickly stopped his mouth quite firmly with my hand.

He understood not to speak again - he knew we could replace the gag in a few seconds -- and he spoke no more words while Steve began the serious labor of reaming his butt. Steve was no newcomer to this line of work, and he knew every teasing way to make the experience pleasurable for both him and Mike, especially playing with Mike's sphincter with the well-lubed and very well-defined ridge of his cockhead; and then alternating short strokes with deep, exploratory ones, and changing speeds. Despite Steve's obvious artistry, Mike still didn't know who was fucking him. After a series of very studly full strokes, so that Steve completely withdrew from Mike and then sent his shaft full home, Steve once, twice, thrice, stiffened and trembled and shot his load deep into the bound subject of our amorous attention. Mike moaned, but knew better than to beg for final release.

Steve withdrew and lowered Mike's legs, and retired from the bed, and I took his place, without delay other than to lube my own erection, and in a business-like fashion I hoisted Mike's big legs onto my own shoulders as Steve had done, and tried to follow Steve's lead as much as I could. But as soon as my big cock split his butt, Mike instantly knew this time it was me, just by the difference in girth of my phallus. And this time no one stopped him when he moaned, "Mikey, Mikey, Mikey! It's you, it's you!" I signaled to Steve to remove Mike's blindfold at last, after close to two and a half hours, and he looked up at me and I looked down at him, each holding the eyes of the other, as I was at last redeeming the promise I made back in Galena. I leaned down into his face, stretching a bit, and supporting myself with my hands, and virtually fucked his mouth with my tongue just as I was fucking his butt. It sounds a bit coarse to put it that way, but I was in a passion I could not control, being in this incredibly intimate and special relation with the man I had idolized since my earliest memories, and this time I was fucking him, it was my big dick up his ass and he was loving it, and every movement of mine, small or large he accepted and received and was obviously grateful.

Pulling back from his mouth so that I could view his face, so familiar to me, so long the object of my fantasies - just to stroke his cheek! And now I was fucking him. It made me feel as though I were a giant bestriding the earth, and things would never be the same again. Odd as it sounds now to think about it, at that moment I was thinking that no matter what happened in the future, no one, no thing could ever take this moment away from me, that I was permanently changed, a different kind of man, a bigger, more serious and more joyful person, more a man of substance, more a man to be reckoned with by everybody, from now on.

I took my time, and like Steve I alternated small and subtle movements in series with several series of large and masterful, deep, exploratory plunges, such that sank my shaft right to its root. I wasn't experienced enough to know for sure what kind of difference, if any, the presence of Steve's spunk within Mike made. Of course it represented a new kind of bond with Steve, but all that seemed subsidiary, even insignificant, compared to the kind of bonding that I was undergoing with my young uncle. More than ever, I felt, more like a brother to him instead of a nephew, more of a potential partner, at least a junior partner, than just a disciple or admirer.

As all this went through my mind, something far more primal was operating. I too had had a constant boner for more than two and a half hours, and careful as I was trying to be, I could not resist any longer, and I gushed to the biggest orgasm of the entire trip, probably ever in my life.

Mike, of course, knew exactly what was happening as I was seized by my overwhelming passion and its inevitable sequelae.

But when at last I withdrew my now softening penis, Mike was still of course rigid as ever, still after all this time unrelieved. I lowered his legs, but spread them wide apart again, so that once again I was kneeling between them.

I was spent. I no longer had any interest in further exploring Mike's capacity for frustration, and it was evident that Steve too was finished. So I signaled to Steve to cut the ropes fastening his wrists to the bed, and I immediately went down on Mike's big, trembling cock. As soon as his hands were free, Mike put them gently upon my head, threading his big, strong fingers through my floppy golden hair, as my head bobbed up and down on his dick. I would have wanted to have brought Mike still more exquisite pleasure, but even more I wanted him to join Steve and me in repose after relief, and in a matter of seconds really, the deed was done, and my mouth was fairly flooded with his cum, now as familiar in its texture and smell and taste as it was welcome. I swallowed his seed, and, exhausted, lay my head upon his fuzzy belly.

And, curiously, after now close to three hours of ars amatoria, involving three very virile young men, except for a few drops leaking from my uncle's anus, there wasn't a speck of spunk anywhere to be seen, quite a different situation than in most of our earlier interludes, where cum wound up dripping from body parts, walls, floors, beds, car panels and showers and seeping into desert dirt.

I took a position alongside Mike, and lay my head upon his right pec; Steve did likewise, with his cheek upon Mike's left, and we each had a hand on his belly, our fingers touching. Mike raised his head, and leaned down and briefly kissed first my nose, and then Steve's. Now in repose, we quietly recapped the whole evening. As it turns out we each had a favorite part, but Mike had the last word when he said, "Guys, of all the nights of my life, this may the very last I'll ever forget."

And we sank into a deep sleep, and so ended the fourth night of my trip with my uncle.

To be continued...



Cross-Country with My Uncle Ch. 14



During a cross-country drive together, Mikey, a studly 18-year old finds himself intimate for the first time with Mike, his namesake 24-year old uncle whom he's idolized all his life. Steve is the 20-year old collegiate gymnast who hitches a ride with them.

We all awoke as the bright, early morning sun stole into the room. Mike and I were in each others' arms, and Steve's front was pressed up against Mike's back, with one of his arms curled over Mike's side, and one of his legs between Mike's. We all had boners, and they weren't just the typical early-morning boners: who wouldn't be massively erect in such a circumstance? Probably we had all three been so all night long, even in our sleep.

Mike looked over at the clock: it read 5.54, and evidently something occurred to him. He rolled Steve over, and more or less crawling over him, chest to chest, he reached for the bedside phone and picked it up. After a couple of rings, a voice answered and Mike said, "Yeah, good morning, Scotty, we have a little problem up here in room 201. Can you come up and give us a hand?"

At 6.01 (we'd just had time to piss) a rap sounded on the door, and Steve walked over. It was Scotty, the room clerk, who'd just ended his shift. With his big wide grin, Steve said, "Morning, guy. Come on in, " and turned to return to the bed.

God knows what Scotty had expected; but what he saw had to astonish him anyway. Past Steve's magnificent back, and his huge arms, and big legs, Scotty could see stretched out there my uncle and me with very prominent eight-inch erections. We had seen in his face last night when we checked in that he was impressed with us, maybe it's fair to say hungry for us, but I don't know that he really could have believed what he was seeing. Mike said, gesturing at his cock and mine, "Do you think you can help us with these?"

Scotty's look of astonishment did not disappear; instead it was replaced by a new expression of astonishment and excitement and joy all at once. "Sure, guys, god it's my pleasure!"

Steve got up again and putting one of his hands on Scotty's shoulder, gently kissed him. And then grabbing Scotty's right hand in his own left, led him next to the bed. He knelt before Scotty, and unlaced his Reeboks, and unbuttoned his cargo shorts, which fell to the floor in a puddle from which he stepped out. I came over on my knees on the bed, and grabbed the bottom of his simple white polo shirt, and he lifted his arms to permit me to pull it over his head, so that he was now standing in only some light blue Jockey briefs, from which his cock was almost busting.

Scotty, who we learned was just turning twenty, was a really nice-looking kid, with the fairly average body of a fit college student. He was 5'10" maybe, and had a trim, slim-hipped, slender build. Not an ounce of fat anywhere, but no bulging muscles, either. Except for a fair amount of hair on his lower legs, bleached by the desert sun, he was more or less smooth, so that his smooth, youthful musculature was well-displayed. He had a very pleasant face, with pleasingly regular features, and especially notable were his brilliant white teeth set off by his tan; but, with his medium-brown hair, falling somewhat raggedly across his forehead, despite his pleasantness, he wouldn't cause too many heads to turn if he entered a room, at least until he smiled, anyway. But he was unmistakably a looker.

Mike sat up and reached out to him with both his hands and as Scotty took them, Mike pulled him onto the bed, and lay him down supine, and leaned over him and gave him a deep kiss, certainly surprising Scotty, but he responded by reaching around Mike's neck with both his arms, and held on. Meanwhile, I gently tugged Scotty's Jockeys off, so that his erection sprang free at last. It was well-formed, maybe a shade over six inches, and throbbing with excitement. His cockhead was already smooth and almost shiny, and his balls were neither low-hanging nor carried very close to the body, and it was easy to see their separate shapes. From his navel descended a thin but very well-defined trail of hair that lay flat against his body, merging with his pubic hair, which also was not bushy, but agreeably neat and lay mostly flat against his body. He was a good-looking kid.

First we turned him over onto his stomach, and the three of us ranged around him, simultaneously caressed the parts that were nearest to us, Mike taking his shoulders, and neck, and I his right arm and right leg and sharing with Steve his nice round butt, who took charge of his left arm and leg. Scotty groaned, "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god."

After maybe 6 or 7 minutes of this, we told him to flip over again, and we did the same with his front side. Steve knelt between his legs and using both hands, jacked him slowly for about ten strokes, and at first it seemed Scotty was being hit by electrical jolts. Steve took care not to push him off the edge, however, and soon released him.

Mike told him to turn over and get on his knees, which he willingly did, and Steve arranged himself in front of him, with his legs splayed, and his dick throbbing in Scotty's face; and Scotty, with a will, grabbed Steve's cock with his hand near the root, and put his mouth over the rest, and did a fairly creditable job of fellating Steve, who combed through Scotty's hair with his fingers. Mike and I stroked Scotty's rear. Mike licked an index finger and slipped it inside.

Then Mike left Scotty's rear, and held out his palm to Scotty. In it were three condoms. Scotty selected one, and opened it, and carefully rolled it right onto Steve, who then edged away, and jumped off the bed. I took Steve's place in front of Scotty, and he began to work me with his hands and his mouth, taking breaks to look up at me in the face. I have to say I was smiling from ear to ear. Meanwhile, Steve had lubed Scotty's butt and gently entered him. Scott gave a great gasp, and went "Oh my god!" and his whole body trembled. Steve, expert as ever, began giving Scotty's rear an artful workout. You gotta give Scotty credit. Despite the overwhelming nature of the whole event, and his being invaded in his rear by the handsome stranger, he continued to do his best to work my phallus, with only occasional interruptions. He obviously loved his work. Mike meanwhile had his big right hand on Scotty's shoulder, and idly caressed it.

Steve, generous to a fault - he really had no special obligation to Scotty - gave him a very full-service butt fucking, using the various skills he possessed (such as reported upon in previous chapters), and he grabbed Scotty's balls once or twice, and caressed his smooth round butt, and leaned down and kissed Scotty in the small of his back. He was gentle, he was firm. Eventually, he did give a few extra-deep strokes, and, with a sigh, emptied his seed into Scotty. I had the ideal vantage point to watch Steve, and his perfect upper body, and his loveably cute face, so dear to me now, and most of the time our eyes were locked together. What a guy!

Mike then handed Scotty another condom, and he rolled it onto my dick, and I took the place that Steve had occupied only moments ago, and Mike assumed the position I had been in. And again to give Scotty credit, he did not lag in his work, but began working Mike's big dick just as he had mine. His attention was divided between what I was doing in his rear, and on the cock before him, and were it a matter merely of size and shape, he wouldn't have known any difference, so similar were Mike and I in that way. Of course Mike was bigger in the chest and notably hairier, both in the chest and in the belly, and even with his concentration on his business, Scott wouldn't have failed to make that distinction.

When I pushed into Scotty's rear, he gave quite an audible gasp - it came close to being a yelp or a shout -- since my tool was of a noticeably larger gauge than Steve's; but he soon adapted and continued his work with my uncle. I knew I hadn't the artistry of Steve, but by now I don't think it mattered any. Scotty had been so primed by Steve that he was almost in rectal spasm. Scotty's hand and mouthwork had pretty well set me up, and so it didn't really take that long for me, too, to climax in Scotty, and with a pleasant, agreeable slap on his butt, I withdrew.

At this, Mike handed Scotty the last condom, and Scotty unrolled it onto Mike's cock. I think he was almost disappointed that there was nobody else ready to take Mike's place, but he needn't have worried. Mike just flipped Scotty over onto his back, and hoisted his legs over Mike's shoulders, and without much more ceremony entered him. This time, there was no big gasp or yelp, for I had already prepared Scotty for Mike. Steve, meantime, had rolled off his condom, and he was already ready for more. On his knees, he straddled Scotty's upper body, and again presented his cock to Scotty's seeking mouth. And on my knees on the bed beside my uncle, I reached in and grasped Scotty's cock. It wasn't really possible to give it a quality jacking under those circumstances, but I know he appreciated my firm grasp and irregular stroke. He was on sensory overload anyway.

Steve pulled out of Scotty's mouth, and got up and stood beside the bed, and giving himself about 4 or 5 final strokes with his hand, sent a stream of semen all over Scotty's chest. It was just about then that Mike, too, completed a series of particularly long and deep and hard strokes, and he, too, pulled out, stripped off his condom, and with his hand jacked himself in a highly efficient manner to send his big load onto Scotty's chest, his stream falling across Steve's, already lying across Scotty's chest. And looking down and seeing himself covered in cum was the final straw for Scotty, and in my hand he too erupted, and, with me carefully assisting with specially intense terminal strokes, sent shot after shot after shot onto his chest, overlaying the mess that Steve and Mike had deposited. Mike dropped Scotty's legs, and I released his dick, and now he lay there, eyes closed, with cum running down his sides in eight or ten streams, too overwhelmed to move the slightest muscle. I leaned down and stroked his forehead a little. His hair had only a little cum in it, probably his own, but maybe Mike's. He opened his eyes and seemed to be trying to say something, but all he could manage was, "Awesome. Awesome," in a rather feeble voice.

After giving him a few moments to recover, the three of us picked him up - I grabbing him by his right thigh; Steve his left; and Mike grabbing him under the arms - and carried him to the bathroom. There we set him onto his feet, and he proved now steady enough to stand on his own. I took him into the shower stall, and carefully bathed him, showering off the cum, washing away the strong sex odors he had generated and those he had picked up from us. He just stood there, letting me wash him with a cloth I soaped up; and like the mother of a five-year-old, I washed between his legs and up his butt crack, held up his arms to wash under them, scrubbed his neck, his back, and of course his chest and belly, still somewhat slimy with spunk, and shampooed his hair. Hey, I even rinsed and repeated!

I pushed him out of the shower, and Mike and Steve were there with the big, somewhat rough towels you find in motels, and toweled him everywhere. And when they were done and he was shiny as a new penny, Steve embraced Scotty in a big bear hug, and kissed him deeply, and said, "Hey, thanks, man." Mike slapped him companionably on the butt; and still slightly unsteadily, Scotty made his way back to the bedroom and sat on the corner of the bed and pulled on his Jockeys, his cargo shorts, and his little white polo shirt, and reached down and tied his Reeboks.

He said "God. Awesome. Just awesome." And, as a very charming coda, he said, "And guys, the room is on the house. And if you want breakfast down in the coffee shop, that'll be on the house too."

And this was the morning of the fifth day on the road with my uncle.

To be continued.



Cross-Country with My Uncle Ch. 15



Conclusion and epilogue.

After Mike and Steve had their shower, and they dressed, this time in tee shirts and shorts, it was at last time to part. Steve drew a big envelope from his backpack, and handed it to Mike. "It's a set of photos of me, and a some of me and Mark together. I have your addresses, and as soon as I have developed and printed the pix I shot back home, I'll mail you copies."

He and Mike embraced very warmly, and shared a deep kiss. He couldn't resist running his right hand down the front of Mike's shorts and grabbing his big fat penis. Squeezing it a little, he said, "Mike, I'll never forget the times we shared together, and I feel that we'll always be friends." Turning to me, he said, "As for you, Mikey, I'll be picking you up on American 2337 next Sunday night at Denver International." Steve would be meeting me, taking me to Cheyenne and then to the family ranch, where I'd meet Mark; and two days later he'd drive me down to the dude ranch at Rand. I know we had great hopes and expectations of a hot, hot summer. How that summer turned out, and what it led to, is a story for another time.

Down in the parking area, Steve removed the towbar, and folded it and stowed it in the Boxster's compact boot, along with his backpack. He had about 740 miles to cover to get back to Cheyenne; and two days later he'd pick up Mark at last, also down in Stapleton. Giving us each another embrace and another kiss, he got into the Porsche and pulled on his baseball cap, and with a final wave, pulled out of the lot and headed for the east-bound ramp of I-80.

I climbed up into the cab of the rental truck, and my uncle took the passenger side. We had about 480 miles to go before Mike's 'joyeuse reunion' with his Allie, and in fact my reunion with Alice was only 8 hours away. Although we covered a lot of territory, going over everything that had happened in the last four days, which so profoundly reshaped my life, the principal topic of conversation was about Alice, and the kind of woman she was, and what to expect.

There was no doubt that Alice had meant everything she had said to Mike about there always being a place in their lives for me; but the exact shape of that place depended upon how the three of us worked out the details, and it would be a complex and subtle matter. Mike said that I shouldn't expect to just jump into their bed, but that that would come in time, provided I proved to her that in reality I had the character and the qualities of manhood that Mike had represented to her that I possessed, that I was one in whom she could vest every confidence and trust; and of course that I respected her and her position in Mike's life.

It was late afternoon by the time we pulled into the driveway of Alice's condo in Portolo Valley, near Palo Alto. What happened in the next four nights and days was truly interesting and absolutely remarkable, but an accounting of these events constitutes another story.

The day after we got there, there was a delivery to Alice from Gumps in San Francisco. It was 12-armed 2,000 piece antique Venetian chandelier. The engraved card said Stephen Rutland Manners, and it was endorsed in hand: "Best wishes to a lovely bride and to a very lucky man." It was incredibly gorgeous, and must have cost $10,000 at least, and maybe twice that. Mike had not too much trouble explaining the story to Alice, she was wonderfully understanding, but it turned out to be somewhat complicated think of how to explain this dramatic gift to the gathering wedding guests. They couldn't quite say it came from some uncle or some old roommate or something of that sort, since there were plenty of real relatives on both sides present at the wedding, and plenty of real old roommates, too. So they just left it in the box, and did not display it with the other gifts; but once they moved into their new house, they installed it in their dining room, and never a day passed in which they didn't see the magnificent object, and in its brilliance think of Steve.

These events took place in the early summer six years ago. For anyone who has read this account this far and who is interested in where Mike and Alice and Steve and Mark and I are, and what we are doing, just drop an email to the link below and I will give you the complete epilogue.

As for Scotty, he copied Mike's address from the motel registry, and every year sends him a Christmas card, updating him. He finished at UNLV with a major in hospitality, and now he manages the hotel where he used to work, and since it's owned by his parents, he has plans for buying it from them. In the course of years, he has had encounters with quite a number of guests, but none of them could ever compare with the greatest hour and a half in his life. Someday one of us will find ourselves in Battle Mountain, again, and we will surely look him up.

If you have read this novella to the end, thank you and if you liked anything about it, I would appreciate your dropping me a note at the link below.