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'SiLeNTLy PoPuLAR' o4
WriTten by T. Chase McPhee
%
Life is a tutor.
Flint's life has been not much different then all or us, chocked full of bad times, bad breaks, setbacks, but also moving forward into the good times, life gaining excellence, whether it be physical or emotional.
For that summer at the country club, Flint learned more than books at the seminary could teach. Not alone, it happens to almost everyone, thrown into the mix and then fending for oneself. Two mentors highlighted his transition from college to real life.
There was Eric, who could be all about business, when outside the cabin, but retiring from the day, he looked for relaxing evenings. Eric had needs. Slowly, over eight weeks, Flint became that source of fantasy Eric craved, which also educated in ways not gained by college nor textbooks.
From that first moment, when Eric surrendered mind, bod and ass to 'the master', Flint saw life in a different light, how bending the rules of giving from the heart in an offbeat way could cause another human happiness. Even though Eric was at the mercy of Flint's 8c, longer and stout-looking when fully inflated, it was the 'boy' calling the shots.
Flint even had to question, "hey, who's calling the shots here," he laughs, still sketchy on his part in all of this.
"I thought you didn't know what you were doing?"
There it was. Eric, lying naked, on his back, legs up on Flint's sturdy shoulders, ready to get violated.
"Well, yeah, kind of, but do you have to be tied to the bed? Like, can't we just go at this 'naturally'? I feel like I'm working from a script!"
For certain, this wasn't the first time Flint's plunged forward. It's just that he never was prompted by the one lying back to the bed.
"You have to act like you really want to do it."
"I do. Want to. Do it."
Flint relies of keeping his tube primed, one hand making motions, the other cupping his loaded balls.
"Then don't be all sweet about it. We're not making love."
"Oh." That threw Flint, "we're not?"
Flint wasn't sure about all this foreplay, that maybe it was leading that direction.
Sfting through his emotions, based on slowly added information, "right," he adds, "I knew that."
But he didn't and for sure, Eric read right through him!
"You've got to be forceful," Eric says. "You want something, you've got to own it!"
From that one college experience, tutored by another, Flint draws from that experience, taking the liberty to do something he thought was 'forceful', "well, okay, if you say so."
Cock and balls dropping from his hands, Flint leans between Eric's legs, falling forward more, hands targeting Eric's pecs. Grabbing two tiny nips, he gives them a twist and a pull.
"Owch! Oh shit, Flint!"
Immediately, Eric's hands were soothing his tortured nubs.
Withdrawing, Flint says, "did I do something wrong?"
Silently, Eric was thinking. If he ridiculed Flint, it would send the wrong message, that he didn't want to totally submit. That's not how the game panned out in the twenty-five year old manager's mind, with a strong want to be degraded.
"Of course not," Eric tried smoothing things over, like his palms were doing for his pecs, "just a little sensitive, that's all."
The other thing that happened this day would also have an impact on Flint's summer. Since there was no air conditioning in the staff cabins, carelessly, Eric, so taken aback by the beauty of Flint's foxy bod, forgot to latch the windows shut. Better they should roast and sweat, than have passing staff or guests wonder what's going on inside.
Such was the case of Mac McNally, country club admin, strolling the grounds with his clipboard, making notes of problems needing to be addressed. Little did the two inside know that Mac stood undercover next to a pine tree, planted too close to the cottage. Over the years it has provided a dark place for anyone wanting to lurk outside. For Mac's purposes, under an open window, from sounds of not only conversation, it made him smile, a hand feeling up the reason why!
It wasn't the first time Mac hovered in the shade of the tree. Fact is, after that inaugaural time when he chose to split his pants open and relieve his pent up emotions, Mac snidely doubled back one day and screwed in a hook to hang his clipboard. The first time, setting the clipboard on the ground, made it moist from not only mossy tree roots, but when Mac shot his load, not realizing his morning's work was to suffer the consequences. Under the pile of clipped papers, were paper towels, a necessity to wipe up afterwards. Routinely, he would stand there, see if the situation warranted the time it took to canvas the area, get hard, work himself up, shoot his load, use a paper towel, zip up and then go on his merry way.
At thirty-seven years old, the young daddy-bear has experienced much. Along life's highway he's found things he's liked, like the first most guys find impressionable, do they prefer sucking to fucking, or vice versa. Not only a top, Mac has found the leather culture and from it, has molded his ideas of how it could provide entertainment for himself, at the same time keeping his shaft hard.
What irked him the most, was how Flint was being presented with an opportunity, but was not using it to his full advantage. Mac was about to close his hand around the doorknob, with key inserted, when he discovers he left them hanging on the loop of his clipboard.
"Dangnabbit!"
Making a u-turn, he trotts the same path he took from under the pine tree, whips the clipboard off the hook and parades back to the door. To himself he thinks, 'first time for everything', having forgotten to unhook the clipboard from the tree. Ever so silently he slips the key in the slot and turns both lock and knob. Unfortunately, from the end of last summer, he thought it inconsequential to fix the squeeky step. Well, now Mac was paying for it!
Barging in, he hastens his steps to the separate room, shouting, "okay, what's going on here?"
Startled out of his gourd, Flint hops off the bed, backwards and falls flat on his ass.
Eric, slipping from his submissive state, jumps on his feet, off the foot of the bed, turning to the club manager, "what the fuck, Mac?"
Yeah, what a summer that was for Flint. From that moment on, he wound up in this three-way twist of fate. As with him and Eric, with Mac now joining in, whatever happened in the cottage, stayed in the cottage. On the outside they went along their way, carrying out their duties. But at night, which was nearly every night, they found their entertainment superseded gatherings at the club house, or around a campfire, going into town for kareoke, linedancing or other clubbing.
That is, until Eric met his true match, a freshman student from the local college.
"Oh geez, I'm so sorry," he says to the frosh, Eric's elbow knocking over a drink.
His senior year of high school, after working out the previous summer, Tim, with the help of his camp counselor, transformed from a weak, sickly looking nerd, which in his junior had taken much bullshit from bullies.
For the then eighteen year old, call it luck, fate or faith, that spilt drink had the two in silence, eyes locking, thinking about what their next spilling out of words might entail.
Tim had had some similar experience in a vacation community, as Eric. Only, it was in his college years, at a sleep away camp for boys. Placed in a cabin with senior counselor, Derek, the then college freshman would feel life transformed. That junior year of high school seemed to be the turning point, when Tim's brother returned from a tour of duty in the military. It was in their shared room, at night, Tom coming in, stripping off his uniform, he notices Tim shy at removing his clothing.
Tom claimed, "it's only me. I know it's been a long time since I last saw you, but no need to be shy?"
Tim had been avoiding any situation, where it would put him in the position of showing off his naked skin, casually saying, "I'm not being shy."
He had known Tim's secret and Tom, even though he always claimed he was straight, played up to his brother's secret, acting out, or have it, roleplaying, feeling sorry Tim was in the closet, yearning to come out, but in his estimation, not ready.
Just so a moment presenting itself, Tom walks over to his brother and touches the tale of the tee shirt he was wearing, "haven't come out of the closet, yet?"
As Tom snickers, Tim, who in the past freely allowed his older brother to lift his shirt, keeps it snug at the hips with both hands, "nothing that you already haven't seen."
Silently Tom had a difference of opinion. Four years away, it's not like he didn't react to his almost smooth chest and stomach, hands slowly adapting to feeling the remarkable amount of hair growing in both places, and other areas.
Though, as Tim stood there, he very much wanted to touch Tom's new appearance to his bro's bod.
Suddenly Tim realizes it, "oh, I get it," he jokes, "you can't wait to get your lips on all my fuzz?" he laughs.
It wasn't the case, Tim more wanting to hide what was under his own shirt, but gives in, "yeah. That's it. You found me out."
Placing hands on his hips, Tom backs up, saying, "okay. Go to it. Do your best," hands fanning out to his sides, almost like he was trying to enunciate the hairy poundcakes, "I'm all yours."
Tim knew, if even they rubbed bods, that Tom would find out about him, so he says, as he lifts his tee shirt, "guess I should just come clean. You're bound to find out sooner or later."
Lost for words, Tim was stunned at the bruises on his brother's stomach, "shit, Tim!"
"Ow," Tim reacts to Tom feeling his stomach.
Of a one-parent household, Tom says, "has mom seen this?"
"No. She doesn't know a thing. I..."
The only person he's ever confided in, his brother, Tim caves in, tears welling up in his eyes, "you wouldn't tell her, will you. No one has to know."
Carefully placing hands on his brother's shoulders, guiding Tim over to the bed, Tom sets him down, saying, "who did this to you?"
"Bullies at school, but I don't get beaten up everyday."
Knowing how important discipline is, Tim says, "are you joking, bro? Even just one day of treatment like this is unacceptable."
Sitting down on the edge of the bed, even to accomplish that, made Tim wince.
"Hold on," Tom says. "Don't go anywhere. I'll be right back."
He wasn't joking, Tom bringing back a big bag of ice, "mom hitting the bottle again?"
It was one of the reasons, other than threats, that Tim didn't say anything about the occasional beatings he received, the credibility of a drunk mother, complaining about the treatment her son was receiving at school. Tim figured his mom wouldn't have a leg to stand on, almost literally, when school officials smelled the liquor on her breath.
"Yeah. She's been at it almost since you shipped out."
Helping to strip Tim's shirt off overhead, Tom carefully had him lying down on the bed, almost like he was putting a Lenox china plate there, "so, she hasn't seen your bruises, so she hasn't been to school to file a complaint?"
Pouting, Tim says, "can you even imagine, her trying to make it up the school steps?"
A random thought, as Tom places the steak on Tim's stomach, "I don't suppose dad has been around?"
"No. Never see him."
"Bastard!"
However, Tom knew the story. Both parents had turned to drinking after the boys were born, unable to cope with job-related stress. It was a fact which has plagued others, a common piece of information. Tom escaped through the military.
Having thoughts about that, Tom says, "if only I had been here to help you."
Tim tries sitting up, it hurting, "it's not your fault."
Tom realized that, but looking under the frozen piece of steak, turns to his brother's future, "who are the ones responsible for this?"
Terrified, Tim pleads, "forget about it. If I tell anyone," he tears up.
Standing up over his brother's bod, Tom says, "I'm not going to forget about it. Now, name names."
After rattling off a few first names, a couple of surnames, Tim concludes, "mostly guys on the football team."
Standing there at 6-feet, 2-inches tall, Tom assumes the position of arms crossing his poundcaked pecs, "let me guess, Coach Johnson's boys?"
He knew his brother played football, Tim says of it, "you never told me why you did what you did?"
"What, joined the army?"
"No. Why you quit the football team when they were winning every game?"
He also never told Tim that he had received not a physical beating, but ostracized by the team and especially ridiculed by Johnson, whenever the coach could secretly do so. That is, until Tom happened to see coach jogging in the park, waiting till he passed over a footbridge and in a secluded area, swung him around, planted his fist in Johnson's stomach and then beat him to a pulp!
"Not important now," Tom replies.
It was apparent to Tim, the gears of Tom's brain were turning. For certain, that workover he gave Coach Johnson, years ago, had stopped his own hassling, but of his brother, "I'll take care of this."
As he watches Tom grab his camo jacket and head out, he pleads with him, "please don't say anything."
In the former soldier's estimation, after he pays a visit to Coach Johnson, Tim will be in the clear and no one will put a finger on him. At the high school he sat in his car, and like it was yesterday, peered out the dash window, waiting to see if the football coach took his usual after school jog. Checking his fitbit a couple of times, it seemed Johnson was running late.
Whether the coach decided to run this afternoon or not, with the parking lot emptying out to one car left, Tom decides to make his move. He was surprised to find a side door unlocked, but after entering presses the gizmo inside the door to make sure it locks behind him. The coach offices preceded walking into the locker room. Upon doing so, Tom hears the sound of running water, which lures him to where steam escapses from an opening.
He smiles, saying out loud to himself, "at least you're not forgetting that after school shower, coach?"
It was on deaf ears, but as he gains distance, hears the sound of whistling, proclaiming, "still whistling that same, dumb tune, coach?"
His ears verifying it indeed is Coach Johnson, Tom gets a new idea. Taking his camo jacket off, he loosens the buttons of his shirt. He curses himself, that moments before, when he met with Tim, he had stripped it off, only to have to redress!
Tom stops at a locker and finding it uninhabited, stashes his shirt. Unbuckling his belt, he unzips his pants. Folding them haphazardly into a square, he stashes them in the locker. Briefs, shoes and socks follow, placing his watch in as well. Knowing the door locked and the only other person than coach in the gym, he walks towards the steamy shower room.
Only, this time, instead of whistling, he hears sounds of Coach Johnson moaning!
A sight which could probably give his brother an instant boner, Tom comes upon coach, standing there with water cascading over him, a dude on his knees giving him a blowjob, "tasty, kid?"
Apparently, a student, he rips his lips away from coach's pubes, gasping, "who are you?"
Even though four years of duty, plus one and half years before he received his high school diploma, Coach Johnson can make out, "Beardsley," he gasps, "is that you?"
Well, the last time around, Coach Johnson, at the time he received a beating in the park, Tom had all his clothes on, but being naked didn't put a dent in his facial features.
Tom didn't acknowlege his identity, but talks up the present, "I hear you're up to your old tricks, allowing the footy boys to run off steam, using the nerdy kids as punching bags?"
Okay, Tom couldn't deny, his own brother, Tim looking as nerdy as when he left, lanky, brown-rimmed glasses, an easy pushover.
Coach, who knew exactly what Tom was talking about, says to his young blow-jobber, "you can go now."
Little did Tom know, his surprise visit to coach was a godsend, the high school junior being accused of being gay, being made to prove it. Tom did have to smile, the kid's eyes concentrated on the bulge between his legs. He remembers the first time he caught his brother doing the same thing!
Even though he would much rather stay and feast his eyes on Tom's bod, the junior giggles as he says, "I guess you've got matters well in hand."
Tom picked up on the pun, a hand holding both balls, "on the other hand, why don't you stand. Would be good to have a witness account of Coach Johnson here slipping on a bar of soap and suffering some damage as his limp bod falls to the shower floor?"
Remembering the few years back, Coach Johnson recalls how his stomach felt like it had been turned inside out, after the then high schooler had planted his fist multiple times in his abs, rearranging his sixpack, "what you're thinking, Beardsley, you've probably got it all wrong."
Tom knew, the first time he worked over the high school coach, it wasn't reported. Detectives didn't come knocking at his door, nor was anything said at school. He stood in the clear.
This time, with a student present, Tom questions, "what's your name."
Before the kid could get it out, coach is naming him, "go on, Cavanaugh, you can get out of here."
Between the door and Cavanaugh, Tom says, "no. Stay."
One thing was on Cavanugh's mind, "you wouldn't happen to be," he stutters, "gay?"
Tom smiles. It was one of the things he had yet to bring up with Tim, "maybe a little!"
It put a wide grin on Cavanaugh's face, "I could help you find out?"
Meanwhile, they hadn't paid much attention to Coach Johnson. Slowly he was sliding his bare back along the wall, inch by inch, an attempt to flee the scene.
Only, Tom notices, "oh no you don't. The last beating I gave you, that was kid's play."
Coach bounces off the opposite wall, "you heard that Carl. You're a witness now."
"To what?" the seventeen year old questions.
Carl Cavanaugh didn't want to admit it to coach, but certainly, to have Tom's shaft down his throat, or simply licking it, now that would be a treat worth remembering!
But Tom wasn't the only one holding a massive erection in hand and upon spying Carl's hardness, "on second thought, maybe you can avoid getting a beating, coach?"
He does remember, like it was yesterday, standing there, back to wall, Tom's arm up against his chest and the other, heaving hefty jabs into his midsection. He swore off he would do nothing to warrant that kind of beating, ever. But here he was, being accused of the same wrongdoing!
Of those bad memories and the torturous gut punching he had undergone, Coach Johnson is willing to negotiate, "I'm sure we can come to an agreement."
To himself, Tom was thinking, 'sweet', Coach Johnson falling right into his plan, "good to hear you're willing to work with us," Tom stands there, arm over Carl's shoulder.
"Of course," coach feels a sigh of relief coming over himself, "I can be a reasonable man."
"Great to hear," Tom lightens up. "Then you will instruct your football players to keep their hands off my kid brother, Tim?"
He couldn't recall ever meeting Tim, but if it was going to keep him from having his abs caved in, "sure. No problem."
"And," Carl adds, while the opportunity exists, "the team will stop harassing all of us?"
Tom didn't see any visible evidence, that Carl had been bullied, but accepted it, being he seemed like a lanky weakling, "and any other of Carl's classmates?"
"You've got it," Coach Johnon heartily agrees, thinking he's off the hook.
"Oh, and one other thing, before I excuse you."
Coach Johnson didn't like the sound of that. Around the gymnasium, he was senior coach and was not used to others dishing out orders. However, of Tom's 6'2 frame, compared to his own 5'10, he wasn't into arguing, "of course. Anything else I can help you with?"
Tom was more than glad Carl was present, because other than pounding the living daylights out of Coach Johnson's abs, he wasn't sure he wanted to do anything else. But with Carl here, his teen shaft all prompted and ready for action, "well, not myself, but I think it would speak for all of the others your footballers have hassled, if you wouldn't mind letting him fuck you?"
Coach wasn't the only one dazed, Carl saying, "fuck him? You mean, Coach Johnson? Damn, I've never fucked anyone!"
He wasn't up on the gay life, but Tom knew there were those guys who enjoyed pumping a guy's ass and those who lived to have there own asses fucked. Of it all, "if you haven't fucked a guy, how do you know if you like it or not?"
For certain, while Tom was busy negotiating with Coach Johnson, all Carl could think of is how the former soldier 'tasted', let alone thinking about anyone's ass!
"No, no, no. No way Jose. It's not gonna happen," Coach motions, 'safe', like all bases are secure.
Standing there, right in front of Coach Johnson, Tom says, "have it your way then."
Coach didn't even see it coming. Carl neither, as Tom's fist plows into the coach's midsection, causing him to belch out loud, double in half and fall to his knees.
"Oh shit," Carl remarks.
Looking at coach doubled over on the floor, both arms holding his stomach, Tom reacts rather casual, "wow, for a thirty-four, or is it thirty-five year old, whatever, I thought maybe your abs would be tougher than that, coach?"
Looking at the heap of man on the floor, Tom gets another idea, "hey Carl."
"What?" Carl answers.
"I'm not up on guys fucking guys, but come over here and look at this ass."
The teen had studied Tom's bod since he entered the showering facility, but passing by it, he sure was lusting to get his tongue on that hairy chest, skate right down that tummy trail and beyond. But as he passes by Tom, Carl's attention is drawn to the of attention at hand.
However, never given the opportunity to gaze of an ass, except at the guys in the shower and maybe his father's a few times, Carl says, "what am I supposed to be looking at?"
Realizing he's huddled over and having his ass observed, Coach falls to the side, obliterating their view, "get away from me you perverts!"
Tom had things well in hand, not counting his dick which he was still holding, "is that so? Tell me, coach, how many of your team have you fucked?"
Vehemently, Coach Johnson stands up for himself, "you're out of your gourd, Beardsley. I've never fucked any of my boys."
Of a fact he heard rumored, back when he was a high school student, Tom says, "that may be true, but exactly why did that training coach you were mentoring, decide to up and quit?"
Coach Johnson felt his face go flush. He had to be blushing, but to throw off the question, "none of your business, Beardsley."
"Immaterial," Tom had other things on his brain, "but to show good faith, that you're not going to go back on you're promises you're making, to leave my brother and his friends alone, I'm going to leave it up to Carl here to seal the deal."
Coach sat there on the tiled floor, cock hanging down between his legs, unsure of where Tom was going with this, "you have my word."
"I somewhat don't believe that, being your track record on keeping your word, is somewhere in the zero range. I think it should rein'forced' in a different way."
Carl couldn't believe it, Tom coming from behind, reaching an arm over his shoulder, forearm down the front of his bod, hand between his legs and feeling him up, "oh my god, Beardsley!"
It was a gut reaction, to reinforce what he was saying to Coach Johnson, to hold Carl's shaft as if it were a common thing. The thing is, coupled with the tip of his own cock touching the teen's ass, it was feeling good, like it was the most natural thing to do. Stranger, his lips were right at the side of Carl's neck. It would be so easy to plant a kiss there, except this wasn't his objective.
Instead of his yearning, he replaces it with excuse, "the name's Tom and since you seem of a good size, maybe we should put it to good use?"
Carl felt very warm, Tom's front to his back, but with a hand on his hard shaft and it not being his own, it made him feel mightier than anything, "what did you have in mind?"
Coach Johnson knew what was on Tom's mind and didn't like it at all, "you're crazy, Beardsley, to think you can get away with this!"
By this time, coach had first crawled to the farthest corner of the six showerheads lining the wall and climbed the wall until he was standing.
Tom, still clutching Carl's bod, walks him over in pursuit, "it's either Carl's cock here, or this fist," he pauses keeping the teen hard, raising a clutched hand, to drive the point home.
It was no secret, Carl letting out a yearning, when Tom lets go to make a fist. He wanted to say something, but the teen thought it inappropriate to say something sweet to Tom, and interrupt him with his business at hand. With certainty, there was a void when Tom slips passed him to address Coach Johnson. Then another thing happens. Whereas he kind of dreaded Tom's idea of fucking coach, when he spots Tom's hairy ass, his longing kicks in, enough to cause him to fondle his own crotch!
Catching himself in this lustful moment, Carl physically and verbally halts the action, thinking to himself, 'no, that's just wrong.' Maybe he willed himself into not jerking his shaft, but it didn't stop the pangs of wanting to get intimate with Tom.
Tom got two gutpunches in, Carl hearing Coach Johnson belch after each one. His legs caved in and with holding his stomach, fell once again to the tiles.
"And if I ever hear of your football team touching my brother or his friends, I'll have them all back here, lining up to ream your ass!"
Turning to leave, it didn't go unnoticed, Tom taking a glance to between Carl's legs, but he thought it a result of talking up putting coach in his place, "c'mon, Carl," he once again places and arm over the teen's shoulders, like buddy-to-buddy, "let's get outta here."
It was almost comical, Carl thinking of Tom's big shaft, swinging side to side, as they cleared the showering area and entered the lockers, "you think he'll do what you say, Tom?"
"I think he remembers the beating I gave him four or five years ago."
As they enter the hall of lockers where Tom stashed his clothes, Carl says, "hey, I'm only a few lockers away."
Tom just stood there in thought, before saying, "yeah, uh, you wouldn't happen to have an extra towel?"
"Always have an extra," Carl says, dialing up numbers on his lock.
Paying no mind to, Carl uncouples the lock, pulls open the door, reaches down and pops up with a white towel, "oh," his hand is right there at Tom's abs.
He was in a melancholy mood, Tom, having traveled the short distant to retrieve the towel and upon feeling his midsection tapped, "would feel even better if..."
There it was, each holding a secret in their minds, dwelling there for a few seconds, which seemed like a few millenia, gazing at each other.
For lovers, or strangers, the natural reaction might be to pucker up, kiss and embrace. For these two it went beyond that gut reaction.
With not the result he expects, Tom hoping Carl would get the hint, that he liked guys toying with his abs in punchy type of way, "well, I better get dried off," he backs off.
Carl didn't know what to do or say, only dry off.
Certainly, each had a yearning for a particular action, hoping for an equal reaction.
It's something which troubled Tom when in the military. Of his platoon, he bunked with about a dozen guys. There was always half or more shirtless, no pants or any combo thereof. He knew he was successful at not staring, being Tom had peripheral vision and made it a point not to stare, even while showering or shaving. As a diversion, for himself, Tom created a fantasy, of having one of his soldier buddies taking pleasure in punching him in the stomach. Surely, his worked up and worked out abs could take such a punishment.
"Guess we're at odds, about what each of us wants?"
Carl didn't get it, but knew his aim, "oh, with certainty, I know what I want!"
He winked, smiled, hoping Tom got the message. Carl hoped holding his shaft would also send the message home.
Clearly labeled, Tom turning his attention to sex, he bit a lip, then not keeping Carl in a mysterious state any longer, "truth is, I never...you know?"
"You mean, you never got it on with another guy?"
"Nope," Tom simply says.
"Um," Carl stood and meekly walks over to where Tom parked his ass on a bench, "do you think would want to?"
He probably should have thought about it, but Tom swallows, says, "I'd love to."
Neither thought about age or consequences, nothing, Carl sitting, as Tom is about to stand.
They both laugh as Tom's cock is the height of Carl's chin.
Realizing his shaft is in Carl's face, Tom says, "is the way you meant it?"
Standing once more, Carl stares up at Tom, "not exactly like I pictured it."
In reality, Tom had never bared ass or crotch to any man, even at this place in time, having reached the age of twenty-five. His main source of relief had been to carry it in memory, face or bod of a hot dude, when his loins needed pent up release. He'd get even more pumped up, when he fantasized about one of his hot muscle buds making him incapacitated and jabbing his stomach with their fists.
Going on gut reaction, Carl says, "I hope this doesn't offend you," he encloses Tom in his arms and plants a kiss on his lips.
Other than his mom giving him a peck on the forehead, Tom hadn't felt what he was feeling with Carl. He felt it natural as anything, reciprocating.
"That was nice," Tom says. "I mean, it felt good. Oh shucks, whatever."
Carl just stands there, tight-lipped and smiling.
"You have been kissed before...I mean, by a guy?"
Tom drops hands to his sides, smiles, then says, "nope."
On the verge of turning eighteen, Carl shares, "I thought by now, your age, just how old are you?"
"Twenty-five and yeah, I know, but now you would've thought?"
Carl had dropped the hold he had on Tom, his hands once again making connection with the sides of Tom's bod, "I don't judge. Everyone is different. Like, contrary to what you hear, I'm probably one teenager who hasn't put sex above developing a relationship before, doing it."
"You probably won't like it," Carl turns and leaves to go back to his locker.
Grabbing an elbow, Tom says, "how do you know, if you don't ask?"
"Okay," Carl turns back, "you might want to pound my stomach till it's black and blue, but back in the shower, when you were speaking to coach, I checked out your ass and wanted to um..."
Tom slowly backs up, beyond where his own locker was, till he was backed into a corner.
"That's it?" Tom laughs his ass off.
Instead of treading forwards, Tom extends a hand, "come on now. You don't have to be afraid," and going on gut instinct, instead of thought, "who knows, maybe you'll get what you wish for!"
That got the gears of Carl's brain turning and as they dressed, "by the way, is this the last I'll be seeing of you?"
It was something Tom had silently thought about, Carl being fun thus far to be with, "um," he wasn't sure, until the first thing to pop into his head, was what he planned on doing the next day, "it could be, unless you're into hiking the woods tomorrow?"
Naked, Carl thought of Tom as an equal, but in a flannel shirt and jeans, he sure did look older, "you're okay hanging out with a high school junior?"
"Sure. I've always wanted a younger brother."
"I thought Tim was your younger brother?"
"That's right," Tom laughs it off. Then it comes to him, "do you know Tim?"
"I haven't really met him, but I think I know who he is?"
"Well," Tom says as he ties his boots, "he's a senior, so it's possible you don't know him, but I think you would like him."
As they leave, Carl slings a gymbag over his shoulder, "well, if he's anything like you, I thing that could be a possibility."
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Little did either of the two know, as they were leaving, Coach Johnson just sat there in the shower, allowing the water cascade over his bod, sitting there with a hand wrapped around his weiner, dreaming of Tom towering over him and making him suck his shaft.
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On their way out to the parking lot, Tom asks, "you wouldn't happen to be needing a ride home?"
"I'd like that," Carl replies, even though he has second thoughts about accepting.
He soon dismisses the thoughts, listening to Tom talk about his hiking experiences.
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% Copyright 2021 T. Chase McPhee
Developing segments of 'SiLeNTLy PoPuLAR' may not be sold, nor made part of any collection, electronic or otherwise, without prior consent from the author.