Bobby Angel
Merry Christmas to the nifty archivist, fellow
contributors, and readers.
I remember perfectly the first time I met Bobby Duncan. He and his wife Sally moved into the house next door three years ago last June. The day was hot and muggy, one of the first true summer days after a cool, protracted spring, and Susan and I were delighted that their six-year-old, Marky, was just the right age for our little Trevor. The Duncans were totally exhausted by the end of the day, so they took us up gratefully on an invitation for beer and hot-dogs on the grill -- nothing too fancy, just a new-neighbors kind of thing. Afterwards Trevor and Marky stalked fireflies while we grown-ups drank our beers comfortably on garden chairs, talking about the schools and the commute, and lazily watching the sky for the first star of the evening.
"There it is," I cried, pleased in a silly way to be the first to spot it, "it's right over the second branch on the maple, the big one."
"Quick, Joey, make a wish," exclaimed Bobby, touching me on the arm. His hand on my arm sent a warm thrill through my body and he surprised me with the "Joey." Even Susan calls me "Joe." Silently I wished that we would become friends.
"Don't tell," Bobby warned earnestly, "'cause if you tell, it won't come true." I didn't tell.
What I don't remember is when I first started to really focus on Bobby's body, and what it was that first drew me to him.
It might have been his eyes. When he wears his denim workshirt, they seem to be the exact same color blue. But when he goes shirtless, which he does pretty much all summer long, you realize his eyes are actually pale gray, as gray as the weathered wood of a cottage at the beach, with only a smattering of blue in the irises. His tousled hair is similarly changeable. In the winter months it's brownish, no-color, hair-colored haired, but the summer sun lightens it to a streaky blond, surprisingly light against his tan.
Anyhow, I'd like to think it was his eyes that first attracted me to Bobby, but it might have been something lower down. Like his jeans. His calves and thighs completely fill them out, like well-cased sausages of flesh, and his heavy basket drags them down in front, while his pert ass hitches them up in back. Yeah, it might well have been the jeans. But to tell you the truth, I think it was something else that made me fall so completely head-over-heels in love with Bobby Duncan -- I think it was his smile. When Bobby smiles, his whole face beams, all kinds of dimples appear out of nowhere, and his eyes sort of slant down and sparkle. Bobby's smile combines the merriment of Kris Kringle with the innocence of the Gerber baby. It seems to say he's pleased with life, pleased with the world, pleased with himself, and totally happy to be with you. Bobby has the smile you might expect to see on a heavenly messenger bearing tidings of grace; -- Bobby Duncan has the smile of an angel.
It was last year sometime when I realized how hard I'd fallen. Bobby was in our driveway with his baby daughter in his arms, dandling her up and down. It being summer he had no shirt on, so his proud-daddy eyes shone gray instead of blue. The baby was playing at her daddy's chest with her tiny fingers, reaching for one of his nipples, which fit like bronze rivets at the corners of his pecs. A breeze stirring the leafy branches overhead dappled his smooth tan chest with shifting shapes of light and shadow. I stared, mesmerized. Close up, I could see an arabesque of baby-fine colorless hairs across his broad upper chest, almost white against the suntanned skin. The bicep on the arm supporting the baby bulged huge and hard under her small plump limbs. "Isn't she just a beautiful little thing?" said Bobby, following my eyes and beaming his heavenly smile. "Beautiful," I replied, weakly. That's when I started being careful where I put my eyes when Bobby was around, allowing myself only a glance or two before forcing myself to take an interest elsewhere. But I would stealthily position myself around him in various ways, like standing down wind of him hoping to catch his scent, or tying my shoe in places that allowed me to gaze at his golden legs. I was smitten.
It's not like I don't love Susan, I do. But I began to obsess on Bobby. Once when I was upstairs in the bedroom, I looked out across the drive and saw a shape move in the Duncan house. It was Bobby -- and in his underpants. He stood with his back to the window, apparently rooting through a dresser drawer. I crouched down to watch, looking over the window sill like a doughboy peering over a trench. "I can't believe I'm doing this," I thought to myself, but with no intention of stopping. Downstairs I could hear Susan vacuuming. As though rewarding my perseverance Bobby shucked his briefs, revealing his glorious butt. It was white against his tan in the dim room, with beautiful hollows on the sides that I longed to nuzzle in. Although I couldn't be sure from this distance, I thought I spied a fine trail of hair disappearing into the crack. Sturdy tree- trunk thighs supported the pale buns. "Turn around," I prayed, riveted. And turn he did, revealing his cock and balls hanging weightily from a thicket of brown pubes. His perfectly cylindrical cock was about the length and thickness of the cardboard inside a roll of toilet paper, and his balls hung peacefully down behind, one asleep on top of the other.
The scene between my own legs was anything but peaceful. My cock had poked its way through the slit in my boxers and was straining urgently against my pants leg. All of a sudden Bobby stepped into a swim suit and was gone. I rushed downstairs and grabbed Susan, planting a hot wet kiss on her startled lips. I pulled her down and fucked her right there on the living room rug. "What got into you?" she laughed when we were finished. "I dunno," I lied, "Just horny I guess."
When the circus came to town Bobby was eager for him and me to take the boys to see the show. I was dubious. Sure they might be a little young, said Bobby, but we could always leave if they got bored. We'd have a great old time, he promised, laying a coaxing arm across my shoulders. Bobby was wearing jeans with a frayed horizontal slit just at crotch level that seemed to wink at you when he walked, while his boxers played peek-a-boo underneath. The circus? Shit, I'd have followed him to Alaska.
The circus -- which wasn't a Ringling Brothers affair, not by a long shot -- was in a somewhat seedy arena in a somewhat worse than seedy part of town. We were a little late getting there and the arena wasn't really big enough for the crowd, so the four of us squeezed onto the end of a bleacher, or rather the ends of two bleachers, Marky and Trevor in front, and Bobby and me right above them where we could keep an eye on them. We were wedged in tight, and Bobby's the kind of guy who always sits with his legs spread, as if his cock and balls need the extra room, which, judging from the size of them, perhaps they do. Anyway, as the elephants and tigers were doing their elephant-and-tiger routine,I became aware that Bobby's shoulder was touching mine and that our legs were touching too. I moved away just slightly, afraid he might realize how queer I was for him, but Bobby, who didn't seem to have any qualms about the matter, happily used up the extra space, wedging his body against mine, taking long drags on his coke, and innocently enjoying the show.
For my part I have no idea what the animals and clowns and bareback-riders did that afternoon, or for that matter, whether they performed at all. All I could think of was the animal heat of Bobby's body against mine. I could feel, ever so faintly, the pulse beating beneath his skin. By swiveling my eyes as far as possible without moving my head I could see little-boy-blond hairs marching down the back of his neck. Ah, to bend over and lick them!
I had a raging boner, mercifully hidden by a tub of popcorn, into which Bobby every so often dug his hand, nearly sending me over the edge. From time to time he shifted on the hard bench, but each time he brought his thigh and shoulder back against my own, as though he found it companionable. I longed to run my hands all over him, but knew it was impossible, impossible. The temptation to increase the pressure of the contact between us, however, was irresistible; by infinite degrees I moved my leg more firmly against his. Millimeter by millimeter I brought my left foot into contact with his right. It was lunacy. My cock had been so hard for so long it ached, and my balls were clamoring to unload like a kid's when he's been making out all night with a girl who won't bring him off. It was way beyond fun. In fact, it wouldn't take much more of this for a batch of steaming spunk to shoot right down my leg. I imagined the big slimy spot, dark against my khakis. "What happened to your pants, Daddy?" Enquiring Minds would indeed want to know. Hoarsely I excused myself. The boys were squealing with delight as forty-odd clowns tumbled out of a tiny car. I made my way to the mens room. "Five quick tugs will put a stop to this misery," I thought doggedly on the way to the can.
I must have missed the main one because I found myself going down a rank and dingy hall near the top of the arena. At length I found a door marked, improbably, "Gentlemen." As the door creaked shut behind me I noticed that the battered old stalls opposite the row of urinals had all had their doors removed. Must have had problems with guys doing it, or maybe drugs, I thought as I approached the pisser farthest to the back. Feeling sort of hang-dog, to be wanking off like this in the boys room at my age, I unzipped my pants, gave my dick some air, and started strummin' on the ol' banjo. It wasn't going to take whole lot of fret work for it to pump its load onto the streaky old enamel.
Suddenly I became aware I wasn't alone. I shot my head around and saw the last stall wasn't empty. A black-haired, brown-skinned guy -- Mexican? No, smaller. Salvadorean? -- was bent over with one hand on his knee, his ass in my direction, wiping himself. At least at first glance he appeared to be wiping. In a flash I realized that he was just holding a wad of toilet paper against his asscheek with one hand, while with the other hand he pulled his buns apart, ostensibly to do his business, but in fact with the transparently obvious intention of offering me a good view of his hole.
He watched for my reaction as he dragged the paper slowly up and down the middle of the tawny cheek, very slowly grinding his ass in a lazy circle, like a stripper. His wrinkly asshole was a slightly duskier brown than the rest of him, and gleamed with an oily substance, vaseline probably. He pulled his ass apart a little harder, making the hole wink me an invitation, while he gyrated and rubbed the toilet paper slowly up and down, a few inches east of where it could possibly be of use.
"Aw shit," I said to myself, torn. I could see the headlines -- "Cops Nab Dad in Circus John" -- but my need was stronger than my judgment. I turned and allowed my cock to lead me over to the stall. Pedro dropped the toilet paper, reached out to support himself against the back wall of the stall, and offered his well-lubed bunghole to me. I had to stoop slightly to position my cock against him. Touching my cockhead to the greasy opening almost made me cream on him right then, but I got a grip, crammed forward, and wedged the head into his puckered gate. It must of hurt because he kind of gasped, but I plowed on anyway, reaming him wide. As I sank the last inch into his steamy smooth gut he groaned; was it more than he'd bargained for? "Too bad, Pedro," I thought as I slammed into him, "you sure asked for this."
I grabbed him by the hips and pulled him back hard against my crotch, forcing my cock deep up his rump, and then pushed him firmly away, until only my dickhead was still lodged inside. He got the idea and matched my rhythm, allowing me to fuck him up and down my stationary pole. He was doing a quick jerk on himself, yanking his fist up and down his stiff brown dick. Images of Bobby's delectable white ass flared across my consciousness.
My over-stuffed nuts, drawn up tight, were agitating like a washing machine. The thick hot juice was primed and loaded, ready to squirt in viscous jets. I could tell the guy was fully into it now by the way he mashed his butt back against crotch, eager to get every last bit of my cock deep up his ass. My dick itched and ached to spit its spunk. The sluice gates opened. I ground Pedro back against my pubes, poked up his chute as far as I could go, held him steady, and blasted him like a Texas gusher with about a quart of jizz. The deluge in his bowels must have pushed Pedro's buttons, for with a soft "aaaiiieeeeeee" he spurted three streams of come that plopped neatly into the toilet bowel; the rest of his wad dribbled onto the floor. As he shot, his anal contractions milked the final drops from my own pulsing rod.
"You feelin' okay Joey?" asked Bobby when I slid in next to him, much relieved, if a little shaky on my feet. "Much better, thanks," I replied truthfully, glad to be able to enjoy the touch of his sexy body without worrying about shooting down my pants. We turned our attention to a pair of greasily good-looking guys in spangled tights who were flying through the air with the greatest of ease.
It must have been July when Bobby came up with the idea of building a tree-house for the boys. We had an ideal tree for one, a great old oak whose ancient limbs spread wide over both our yards. His kid brother Pauly, who was on break from prep school and was visiting Bobby and Sally for a few weeks, was enthusiastic about the idea from the get go. I was less keen. I'm not all that coordinated with a hammer and nails, for one thing, and I was sort of reluctant to appear a total klutz in front of Bobby and Pauly. Somehow Bobby must have intuited why I was hesitant, because he managed to make me feel completely at ease on that score without ever mentioning it directly. Anyway, before I knew it, the three of us were at a lumber yard buying two-by-fours and plywood and nails from a little wizened clerk. We dragged it home in Bobby's pick-up.
The kids were all excited and wanted to help, but pretty soon they drifted away -- building a tree-house is a lot duller than it sounds, especially following Bobby and Pauly's exacting specifications. It soon became obvious that more than one weekend would be necessary to get it up, but somehow I didn't mind; horsing around with Bobby and Pauly was a lot of fun, and it was a lot more comfortable being around Bobby than it sometimes was -- I mean, at least I didn't have to go jack off to keep my composure. Things were easy among us. Two weeks later the thing was practically built, and sturdy too. We even made an opening for a window, which was harder than it sounds. Bobby, Pauly and I were three proud carpenters by the time we stood back and admired it, glowing in the evening sun. Bobby insisted for safety's sake that we add more support beams and brackets, but that could wait for tomorrow. We dragged some old couch cushions up from the basement. The boys were elated.
Putting in the additional support beams turned out to be more difficult than we'd imagined, especially securing the metal brackets, which was close, awkward work. It was really a two-man job, one to hold the beams, the other to screw in the brackets, so Pauly went off to buy some stuff and left Bobby and me to finish up. It felt anti-climactic after the previous evening's high. The boys soon lost interest and drifted away. Bobby and I were alone in the tree-house.
It was hot so we'd stripped to our shorts. Bobby's shorts hung loose and low, revealing a narrow band of white hip, belly, and butt below where his tan left off. Without Pauly around I was intensely aware again of Bobby's body, its curves and masses and meaty bulges. His chest glowed moistly and his tousled hair was dark with sweat; when he lifted his arms the perspiration trickled from his armpits. Every once in a while my nostrils were rewarded with a faint whiff of his healthy boy-animal smell. I was sweating too, and my heart beat fast, and not just from exertion. We didn't talk much, just concentrated on the job -- and, in my case, on Bobby.
I was having the devil's own time screwing in a metal bracket when I heard Bobby's voice close behind me. "Hey Joey, easy man, let me hold those beams from behind you while you do the screws. I was working in a corner, and suddenly Bobby was right in back of me, stretching out his arms to keep the beams in place. I mean right in back of me, at most an inch or two separated us, one step back and I'd be in his lap. My dick started to get hard.
All I could think of was how very near he was, near enough for me to feel his body heat, near enough to feel his breath. Surely he could hear my heart beating against the walls of my chest. The screwdriver suddenly seemed incredibly awkward in my sweaty hands -- oh please, please don't let me start shaking, I prayed. The screw was going in awkwardly, at an angle. My cock pressed against my shorts, tenting out the thin material.
"Easy, Joey, easy, baby," Bobby murmured caressingly, as though steadying a nervous horse. My prayer had gone unheeded; my hands shook. "Hey Joey, let me steady you. Lean back against me, you can steady yourself better that way," Bobby cooed. Trying to act natural, I leaned back into him. The shock of his touch against my back and thighs sent electric currents racing down my spine. He seemed to cradle me in his strong frame and engulf me in his warmth. I felt as though I was fainting against him. The screwdriver slipped from my hands; I felt myself sink back against him, helpless, dazed. Then it hit me like a meteor -- there was something big and stiff back there, something nudging at my butt; -- God Almighty, Bobby was hard!! "Oh Bobby," I gasped. "I know, baby I know, said Bobby with infinite gentleness, right into my ear, as he took my weight against him, "I know." He pulled his arms away from the beams, folded them across my chest, and hugged me tightly to him. "I know."
I turned around, or maybe he turned me, I really couldn't say. For a long moment I gazed into his gentle blue-gray eyes, the eyes I had for so long forced myself to avoid. Then Bobby's closed his eyes and parted his lips. I kissed him. Our heads formed an X as our tongues entered each others' mouths, shy at first, then exploring, tasting, licking, dueling. I was drowning in him. We broke apart long enough to sink down onto the old cushions. We kissed again, deeply, Bobby sprawled underneath me like a losing wrestler. I licked his neck, sucking and biting on the strong cords in it, but gently, like a she-wolf carrying her pup; I didn't want to leave any marks. Bobby fumbled at my shorts, and reached for my throbbing dick. I worked southward to his nipples, licking them erect, sucking on them, while Bobby pulled gently on my cock. Down I went, mouthing Bobby's sides in the soft place below the ribs. Unable to hold off any longer, I bent over him to take his cock into my mouth. A bead of pre-come oozed from his piss slit like salty nectar. I managed to take his entire cock in my mouth and sink my nose in his bush. I longed to service him properly, to please him. A heavenly smell rose from his groin, a wholesome musky smell, composed of deodorant soap and clean sweaty American man. Bobby lay his hands on my head.
At length I went exploring. First I took his heavy nuts into my mouth and sucked them one by one, rolling them in their sac, squeezing them, encouraging them to make sperm. Then on to his ass. I pushed back on his thighs to get at it. Bobby lifted his legs trustfully. Could this be happening? The fleshy cheeks were completely white, with, as I had suspected, a trail of fine brown hairs gathering into the center of the crack. I parted the firm halves of his bottom in order to see his anus. The little pink butthole seemed incongruously delicate on such a well- muscled guy. I licked up and down the crease, and especially the mysterious rubbery entrance, loving it with my tongue, forcing my tongue in past the o-ring of muscle. Bobby gasped -- I guessed this wasn't in Sally's repertoire -- but encouraged me to go on. "Oh Joey, yeah, ... aw yeah man, yeah ... wow, yeah .... yeah ... oh yeah ... do me man, it feels so good, Oh, Joey, Joey, yeah .... yeah man, yeah." I nudged his hole with my nose.
After thoroughly tonguing his crack and tasting his bunghole, I replaced my tongue with a finger. At first his asshole clenched, involuntarily resisting the intrusion, but with a little persistence I pushed through and had full access to his chute. Inside it felt soft and yielding. I examined the moist and fleshy region inside him, penetrating as deep as my finger would reach, and stroking the lining back and forth in a broad circle around his hole. His prostate was as hard as a walnut beneath the wall of his rectum, and grew even harder as I rubbed it with the ball of my fingertip, gently at first, then more vigorously. Bobby moaned appreciatively. "Unnhhhh ..... Unnhhhh .... Oh-Unnhhhh .... Unnhhhh .... Unnnnnhhhhhh." His head lolled back and his lips parted as he experienced, I think for the first time, the super-intense arousal of a deep slow finger-fucking. He lay there, giving himself up to me, and surrendered to the sensations I was causing inside. His cock was quivering and drooling pre-come when I took it again into my mouth.
I wanted to taste his come. I wanted to eat it. And more than anything, I wanted to drive him to orgasm, to cause him to quake under my touch, to reduce him to a hunk of shuddering pleasure, gushing forth milk in involuntary spasms of release. I held the base of his cock with my fist, because I couldn't take it all without gagging. I concentrated on the choice upper parts, -- the head, the flange, and the most sensitive regions of the upper shaft. Sucking on his cock felt strangely natural, sucking and licking him, bobbing my head up and down on his dick.
While I continued to massage his inner lining with gentle circular finger strikes, I rubbed my own cock with my free hand. Bobby moaned reassuringly. Please, Bobby, please shoot in my mouth, I want your come, give it to me -- silently I begged for it as I sucked his cock.
Would I be able to feel his sperm rushing down the dicktube, or would it surprise me as a sudden pulsing flood in my mouth? All at once Bobby made a little strangled sound, he must be going to shoot any second, I could feel his body going rigid. I redoubled my efforts; -- but wait, something was terribly wrong: Far from coming, Bobby was going limp in my mouth. In a moment of blank horror it came to me. I leapt off him and looked to the door. It was Pauly. His mouth sagged open and his eyes were big as headlights. And Bobby and I were frozen in their beam, like deer.
It was Pauly who broke the spell with a Banshee cry of "Coooulllll," bounding into the tree-house and tearing off his clothes. The color came back to Bobby's face. Pauly, far from shocked, was hot to share everything concerning man-on-man sex that he'd learned at school. Bobby and I were primed and ready, though Bobby shot me a meaningful look that promised "Later." At first the brothers were somewhat reserved with each other, but that gradually wore off, and soon they were attacking one another's bodies with zest. Afterwards we cleaned up under the hose. It was, as Pauly put it, fuckin' awesome.
Bobby and I have had sex with each other many times since then. Mostly we just lie down gently together, and kiss, and rub each others' cocks for a long, long time, till we shoot. We've talked about it. We both agree that we still love our wives. It's just that we have very strong feelings for each other, too, feelings that include a sensual side. A generation ago we might have freaked, but we're comfortable with it. We don't do it all that often, and Susan and Sally still get all the cock they can handle. But every once in a while, when our wives are out with the kids, I'll climb the ladder to the tree-house. Usually Bobby will already be there, lounging on the cushions, hands locked behind his head and the top button of his jeans undone. And he'll be smiling that dimpled, down-turned-eyed smile of his, as merry as Kris Kringle, as innocent as the Gerber baby, pleased with life and the world and himself, and totally happy to be with me. It's the smile of an angel.