"Sweat! (2)" contains male-to-male sex and is pornographic in nature. It is unsuitable and probably illegal for minors to read it.
Copyright remains with the author. You may freely transmit and distribute this story UNALTERED.
Author's note: The story contains sex between a 17 year-old and another man. The first episode, "Sweat! (1)", was posted to alt.sex.stories.gay.moderated and the Nifty archive in July 2000 under "beginnings".
Again, I would love to receive feedback and comments. I intend subsequent episodes to explore many different types of situations, both light-hearted and grim, with the 17 year-old hero. Please let me know what you think. Thoby Johnson.
thobyj@yahoo.co.uk
"SWEAT! (2) : In which Marmaduke gets to wear his construction boots."
The story so far: During Marmaduke's encounter with the older Eric, of whom there shall be more, we discovered that our hero looks mighty fine in bike-shorts, and mighty fine not in bike- shorts. Now, Marmaduke is on the prowl for something closer to his own age. Read on!
Marmaduke was confident in the inner-city scene. Perhaps a little too confident. Yes. Definately a little too confident, as the ending of this shameful episode shall prove (wait for "Sweat! (3). He had no trouble at all obtaining access to any gay nightclub. No trouble at all, even if he was wearing track-suit pants with the wrong number of stripes and a bomber jacket. The doormen of these establishments took one look at his wide, expectant eyes and innocent, slack mouth - and waved him in. Luckily, they didn't ask his age either.
Often, they didn't even bother to look at his face, being occupied, as they were, viewing his approaching, slender figure. Then they turned to watch him as he passed through the door - the narrow little buttocks rubbing together under tight fabric, as he disappeared up (or down) the stairs.
Attesting to Marmaduke's confidence in this noisy, inner-city nightclub scene of predominately queer orientation, was his habit of wearing his construction boots, out on his Friday night fun. The same, paint-splattered boots with steel caps that he wore during the day on the construction site. This, despite the despotic and arbitrary dress-codes applied along the district's main street. It was probably that which Marmaduke didn't wear that greased his entry to these ridiculous places. Sometimes he wore jeans - the pockets were handy - but often he wore something a little less practical. Although, minuscule, tight, lycra shorts were perfectly practical for a night of sweaty gyration, both on and off the dance floor. How minuscule could they get? Marmaduke had found out, but only with the aid of a pair of scissors, and in the privacy of his tiny flatlette (the experiment, in pursuance of a possible 'jungle-boy' look, was a failure).
On the particular evening we will be examining, Marmaduke had chosen a comfy pair of black and white striped duds. Real short and cute. There was a matching top with high-cut sleeves, and small enough to just expose his navel. Thick socks and his work boots completed the ensemble. "The white stripes will show up nicely under the ultra-violet light," he thought cleverly to himself. Then he decided that a fully-charged boner in the tight shorts could be embarrassing, so he put on underneath, a little G-string. It would go some way toward keeping his unruly dick in check, and not show up as a pant-line at his rear.
Attired splendidly thus, Marmaduke shoved his wallet into one of his socks, checked quickly for zits, and stepped out. In the lift of his apartment block, he shoved his hand down the back of his shorts to check his anus was properly clean. Skid marks simply wouldn't do! And another boy would be putting his dick in there tonight, no doubt. "Cleanliness is always an asset," he thought to himself, smelling his finger and simultaneously noticing the lift security camera.
The sweaty dance floor at 'Spike' was its usual, writhing cauldron of massed bodies, hoofing it to the latest Euro-noise. Sometimes the DJs would slip in a set of uplifting, singy 'dance-classics' from a couple of years ago. It was all the kind of thing that these gay crowds loved. Marmaduke paid eight dollars for a trendy energy drink mixed with vodka and surveyed the scene.
The racket was a 160bpm thump that could be heard downstairs on the street. It actually rattled windows of nearby shops. Inside, green laser-beams sizzled in the fake smoke and the air dripped with the fumes of amyl-nitrate. Stupid boys danced wildly on podiums, waving their arms around. Marmaduke leant on a brass rail in the smoky dark and felt a hand slide onto his hip. He looked.
"Ta-ta Pops. Try for one of the rent-boys on Victoria Street," said Marmaduke to the queer who had made the hopeful pass.
The hand slapped his lycra hip bitchily and flounced away. Marmaduke was after a good-looking boy and not in the mood to fight off the familiar queue of 'try-their-luck' types (readers: see "Sweat! (1)" for the account of a nice man who did get lucky with Marmaduke). In the next five minutes, more hands brushed against his bum, someone standing on the other side of the rail managed to bump his cock with the back of their hand while engaged in a conversation, and a handsome, dark-haired boy clutching a Midori and lemonade walked up to him and said; "You look so ----- standing there!" and then walked away (Marmaduke missed the full sentence in the noise).
A big hand grabbed his elbow and forcible, but gently, turned him around. He came face to face, or rather, face to chest, with a towering, white-faced drag-queen, with beautiful blue plumage shooting up from the top of her head. Marmaduke stared, gog-eyed, as the big transsexual pursed her brightly rouged lips, appraising him up and down. Her eyes lingered on Marmaduke's hefty front-packet. Then she moved on. One of her following entourage licked a finger and wiped it horizontally across the bare gap of skin on Marmaduke's tummy as they passed.
He'd had enough of being available. He went for the young man who had spoken to him. The one drinking Midori and lemonade. Marmaduke slid next to him at the bar.
"Are you my fuck, tonight?" asked Marmaduke, leaning backwards on the bar like Humphrey Bogart, head to one side.
"Maybe, darling," the husky-voiced guy said, sipping his drink. "You know you'd pick-up just as easily if you were wearing some pants."
Marmaduke looked down at his ridiculously small shorts. The outlined, folded snake of malehood was clearly visible and hardly decent. Then he looked up at the guy.
"How about I get into your pants?" Marmaduke said wittily, smiling, and drawing closer, trying to get his crotch to touch the guy's jeans.
"You're on heat, sweetheart. I should pour a drink on you," the guy said, smirking. Marmaduke knew now that they'd have sex. The only matter remaining to determine was how quickly they'd have sex. This guy looked about twenty-five, and was wearing an expensive jacket - he was noticeably effeminate and sophisticated.
"Do I need to know your name?" said Marmaduke.
"It's Rodney. You?"
"I'm Marmaduke."
"No, you're not."
"Yes I am! I can prove it!"
"Listen, honey; if your name's really Marmaduke, that's simply divine. Why don't we get on the dance-floor and wiggle about a bit. I'm tired of bar-talk."
And so they did. It will suffice to recount that suitable gyrations were performed over a period of time, and athletically amorous gestures exchanged between the two. As they approached the bar again, Rodney shuffled up close beside the now sweaty, glaze-limbed boy and firmly gripped one buttock. It was shockingly firm. Hard little muscles undulated under his grasp as Marmaduke walked.
They faced each other at the bar. Close. The music was loud and the air was dirty with smoke. Hot breath was exchanged briefly, then their mouths forcibly met. They pressed into each other, Rodney groping at Marmaduke's hot, sticky skin - Marmaduke reaching under Rodney's jacket and embracing. "How come Rodney's wearing a jacket and jeans, and yet I'm the one who's hot and sweaty?" wondered Marmaduke, the spoilsport. Who cares? Let us consider, instead, Rodney's wandering forefinger which had probed down into the back of Marmaduke's shorts, into his warm, rearward cleavage, where the two rounded buttocks of the boy pressed together. The finger found the lucky bit of elastic cotton which formed the vertically stretched string of Marmaduke's G-string. One quick loop around the finger - and that taut piece of cloth was jerked upwards, sharply, out of its warm and moist, dark, narrow abyss. The stretchy little thong of cheap cotton zipped across the surprised sphincter. Marmaduke broke off the kiss with a jump, his eyes wide with boyish startlement. Then he lunged back, forcing his tongue into Rodney's mouth. Rodney had him by the hair, his other arm slid up Marmaduke's wet back, under his lycra top, kneading the ridged spine and cat-like shoulder-blades.
"Hang on, Marmy-duke," said Rodney turning his head to one side to light a cigarette. "I need one of these."
He turned back to the figure of top-choice boyhood, holding his cigarette aloft, blowing smoke to the side.
"Congratulations on those thighs, Marmaduke darling. Where did you get them?"
"Let's go somewhere," said Marmaduke, breathless with desire.
Rodney dropped his cig' and stubbed it with his foot. "I know a place. Turn around and march, soldier." He gave Marmaduke a playful smack on the bum as they set off towards the door.
Out in the street there were plenty of people. Leathermen, arm in arm, strutted past. Drag queens with luridly coloured feather boas wafted along, and drunken, teetering girls in stupid shoes stumbled by, their straight boyfriends in tow. Marmaduke and Rodney headed purposefully up Oxford Street, then turned right, then left into a little lane. Marmaduke knew where they were going - the 'Mineshaft'; a sex-on-premises venue.
They went through a door, paid at little window-booth, were each issued a white towel from a pile and a locker key, and were allowed entrance to a multi-layered facility crowded at each turn with prowling men. Marmaduke followed Rodney. He hadn't been to these kind of places too often.
They were in a tiled change room full of aluminium lockers and furtive, sideways glances. With a couple of flicks, Marmaduke had quickly and lithely stripped and chucked his boots and lycra things into the locker with a 'clunk'. In here it was warm and the air was moist, in contrast to the chill of the street outside.
"Let's find the spa," said Rodney, and they wound their way down a wooden staircase, towels around their tragically slim waists, past a constant line of men of all ages and shapes moving up, in the opposite direction. They went hand in hand, to avoid some of the wantonly obscene approaches that were coming their way.
The spa room was slippery and steamy. They shed their towels and sunk slowly into the wonderfully warm, bubbly water. "Aaaaaaahh!" said Marmaduke, purring softly with pleasure. The other occupants seated around the circumference of the spa had all looked blatantly at the two boys' half-turgid dicks, just before they slipped into the bubbling soup. Marmaduke now manoeuvred himself on the submerged bench, finding a jet of bubbles to aim at his cock. He stiffened underwater immediately. Leaning over, he embraced Rodney and they wetly kissed, Rodney chewing and sucking on Marmaduke's lower lip. Together they wiggled happily, sliding their hands quickly over each other. Rodney's hand went under Marmaduke and poked a well-aimed finger upwards into the tight boyhole there. Marmaduke shuddered in his hands. The finger pushed in further. Rodney licked and sucked the pouting mouth of the softly moaning Marmaduke. He nibbled his earlobes and whispered; "Don't come in the spa, Marmy-duke, for God's sake!"
It was no good. Rodney felt Marmaduke's sphincter contracting repeatedly and fast, with knuckle-bruising strength. The boy came. White strings of semen presumably reacted with the heavily chlorinated water (heavily chlorinated for good reason, it is plain to see) and were sucked immediately away by a hugely efficient filtration system, hopefully.
"You're a silly sausage, Marmy-duke!" berated Rodney, his hand resting on the grimacing boy's wet shoulder. "I was going to suck all of that up myself! Why did you have to come so quickly?!"
"I couldn't help it!"
Marmaduke looked crestfallen. Then he contritely slipped underwater totally. Rodney felt an extremely adept, enveloping mouth engulf his erect cock. He gasped. Ecstasy came in seconds. Marmaduke was a very skilful sucker! Rodney gripped the edge of the spa.
"Gaaaahhhg!" The noise strained from deep within him somewhere, his mouth open wide.
Some of the others were hopping out of the spa-bath in disgust. Others stayed.
Marmaduke surfaced like a whale, gasping.
"No!" said Rodney, and forced Marmaduke back down, pressing his head under the surface and onto his demanding meat-prong. Marmaduke struggled , his mouth full. Then he stopped struggling and began working his mouth breathlessly, fast, feeding desperately on the engorged cock. Rodney came and let him up. He surfaced for the second time, gasping and retching. The struggle had caused plenty of splashing and the two boys lay back on the edge of the spa, gasping for breath, the waves they had created lapping at their chests. Rodney reached over and grabbed Marmaduke's wet, tousled hair.
"C'mon spunk. Let's go upstairs."
They left the spa. Naked and dripping, and hand in hand, they made their way back up the spiralling, wooden staircase. Marmaduke shivered but the warm air soon dried his skin, leaving a pleasant prickling over his body - residue from the chemical mixture in the spa.
Up and up they went. Rodney had been here before but for Marmaduke, every level unveiled a new, erotic scene. There were pool tables and TV rooms, and rows of cubicles which enclosed all manner of debauched goings-on. Marmaduke wanted to see - but Rodney tugged him onwards by the hand. There was, amazingly, an actual coal mine with realistic rocks and shirtless, dirty he-men in miner's hats, who shone their flashlights on the two naked boys as they passed.
There was a kind of bondage room, with a hefty set of middle-English stocks.
"Look at that!" cried Marmaduke in astonishment, his eyes wide and bright. "Can you put me in the stocks?!" he pleaded.
"Come on!" said Rodney impatiently, dragging Marmaduke by the arm.
"Oh, pleeeeeeeeease?!" Marmaduke wailed, insufferably, like a child. His cock had jerked to life again. Rodney hauled him onwards to the next upward-winding staircase.
Finally they arrived at a sort of 'cowboy' room which featured, most notably, a mechanically bucking pickup-truck loaded with loose bales of hay and bare-chested, Stetson-hatted boys, whooping wildly. It was a remarkable sight. One young cowboy jumped to the floor.
"Lookee here!" he yelled joyously at the two naked young stallions. Marmaduke was given a loud smack on the behind.
Rodney pulled and pushed his speechless, erect-membered companion to a large pile of hay. They buried themselves, rolling together in each other's arms in the dark, feeling the prickly hay on their bare skin. Marmaduke took over. He rolled Rodney over underneath him and stabbed with his stiff prick. It went home into Rodney's rear passage, then Marmaduke commenced humping, gripping Rodney's shoulders and driving wildly with his narrow hips.
'Slap! Slap! Slap!' went the violent, skin-on-skin thrusting of desperate boyfuck. Hay flew. The two lithe bodies, now sweating again, writhed - and gleamed - in their rapidly dispersing nest of hay. Limbs shone slipperily under the subdued light. Finally, Marmaduke came, not as effortlessly as the first time, but with rending, grinding intensity. He groaned loudly and held Rodney still until his testicles had emptied. Both were exhausted. They crawled under the hay and, like innocent cherubs, slept.
It was some time later that the two emerged onto the street, showered and dressed. In fact, it was daylight.
"What now, Marmaduke, dear?" said Rodney. "What adventures are we going to get up to today, with our dicks?"
Marmaduke yawned. He indicated that he needed his beauty sleep. His clothes were sticky from the previous nights cavortings, and looked pretty stupid in the light of day. Rodney agreed. He wrote his phone number in greasy eyeliner on the waistband of Marmaduke's sexy little shorts and they parted, each walking their separate ways in the pleasantly warm morning sun.
Nightclubs still thumped as Marmaduke strolled down Oxford Street, gradually emptying of their unwashed, human contents, so he didn't feel entirely out of place. As he moseyed along thoughtfully, his lovely, bicycle-tuned thighs springing into their lean, boyish definition of musculature at every step, something across the street caught his eye. It was an old, old public amenity.
Years before Marmaduke had been born, men and women in the city had been able to attend to their personal 'toilet' at one of a number of public lavatories. These facilities, however, had become the type of places with which many are now familiar for the less savoury type of activity within. In years gone by, gay men had found them to be acceptable venues, before enlightened times saw cruising become a more open (and lawful) pastime.
But for some, the fascination still held. Marmaduke knew this. The particular public toilet he had spotted was long closed by the council as a health risk. Its above-ground opening stood as a relic of a time when folk had no fear of using it for its intended purpose. "Men," said the broken old glass sign above the stone monument. A rusty gate closed-off the steps leading down . . . into darkness. Marmaduke crossed the road at a trot, thighs flashing, heart beating. He took one look at the (uncannily) easily-vaulted gate, the dark orifice inviting him underground, the off-white tiles on the structure's exterior - like the tiles in an old pub - and the dead leaves lying on the steps of the condemned shit-hole.
He hesitated once, and then was over the gate, clonking downstairs in his workboots, feeling a warm updraft on his bare arms and legs.
To be continued in "Sweat! (3)".