Cross-Country with My Uncle

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.