Sailor

There was no question that the handsome young man was Navy. He was standing across the cafeteria table from me decked out in pristine Navy enlisted whites from the circular cap down to his broad chest of white tunic with navy-blue turtleneck underneath and blue string tie to his slim waist wrapped in a thick white web belt and polished brass buckle, and on down to white trousers gathered into white leggings and spats covering shiny black boots. If he was older than I was, it wasn't by much.

There also was little doubt that he was nervous as hell. He was carrying a cafeteria tray, but there was little on it and it kept wobbling around on the tray, which he held with white-gloved hands.

"Excuse me. Is this seat taken?"

I looked around and saw other tables with empty seats, but he looked so good to me that I happily said, "No, it isn't. Join me." I realized then that I'd seen him before—several times, in Marconi Plaza park, but in T and shorts, not Navy whites. The Navy whites, although spiffy, didn't do justice to how muscular and cut his body was. I could have sworn that he'd seen me there too.

"Sorry for the whites," He said as he set his tray down. "Just came from the yard. Parade today."

We were at a cafeteria next to FDR park, which was just a short distance from the Navy Yard. This was where I usually ate lunch on Saturdays. I liked hearing the sounds from the baseball stadium, just a couple of blocks to the east.

"Oh, I thought that you wore them just for me," I said. He gave me the impression to be very proud to wear that uniform—and he had every right to be; he looked terrific in it.

He blushed as he sat down, and I could tell I'd scored a point. He

had

been interested in me when we'd been in Marconi Plaza park at the same time. In any event, he'd scored a point too. I melted at the look of him in his Navy whites. He was young, my age or maybe a year older, and in superb shape, as I could remember from seeing him in his athletic gear and playing volleyball with his mates in the park. And he was ruggedly handsome and refreshingly shy at the same time.

We were both quiet for a few minutes as we ate, although I could tell that he was just busting to talk, and to finally blurt it out—why he was approaching me. By then, when he said it, I wasn't a bit surprised.

"I've seen you in the park—in Marconi Plaza park—a couple of times."

"I know," I answered. "I saw you there too."

He hesitated here, but took a big breath and proceeded. "And I saw you walk over to that bar on 10th. Sometimes with men."

"Yes, I guess you would have seen me do that." I wasn't going to make it easy for him. I thought his nervousness and his obvious need were precious. And, god, he was a hunk and a half.

"You know what kind of bar Merry's is, don't you?"

"I guess I would," I answered. "It's where men go to pick up other men to fuck. It's where I pick up men to pay to fuck me."

He lowered his head and blushed again. And he shuffled about like he was thinking of leaving the table. I reached over and put my hand on his forearm. And then the image of the ghoul having done that to me just a few days previously to detain me floated through my mind, and I withdrew my hand. Instead, I pressed the knee of one of my legs between his under the table. I didn't want this one to get away.

He gave a start and looked up at me. But he also pushed his knees together under the table, trapping mine between them.

"Is that what you've come here to ask me?" I asked. "You want to pay to fuck me?"

The neediness in his face provided an answer. He didn't have to say anything. I slipped my foot out of my sandal and moved the foot to his crotch. I could feel the line of his cock inside his tight whites. I could tell that he was hard. I could also tell that he was hung.

"Don't be embarrassed or shy. If you want a good fuck I can give you one. It's what I do," I said. "For those who have the money."

"I've got a hundred dollars. And a motel room up off I-95 in Wilmington. And . . . and I've rented a car." It just sort of burbled out of him, like a dam bursting. I wanted to laugh and then cuddle him, as cute and naïve as he was.

And then I wanted him to fuck me hard. I wanted to fuck him dry of cum. He was just what I looked for, what I melted to. And, a fetish of mine, although I wanted him bare-chested when he did it, I wanted him wearing those trousers, tight across the hips but baggy in the legs, and those white gloves.

He'd been planning this. A hundred bucks was twice what I'd expect from a straight fuck. I was definitely low-rent district. And I almost laughed at the motel room idea. Wilmington was in another state—Delaware. Only about a twenty-minute drive from here. But still, he didn't want anyone here to know. He didn't even want to do it in the same state where he worked and lived and interacted with other sailors. I wondered how he'd made it this far in the Navy and remained so innocent.

As naïve as he seemed to be, I was surprised that he'd been brave enough to approach me in the open. He certainly hadn't approached me in Marconi Plaza park, where he'd usually been playing pickup sports with his mates.

"You knew I usually lunched here on Saturdays, didn't you?" I asked. I rubbed the sole of my foot up and down on his crotch and was rewarded with a deep moan and a look of want in his eyes.

"Yes," he said meekly.

"Have you fucked men before?" I asked.

"Yes, of course," he said, a defensive tone in his voice. He'd answered too soon and he was blushing and couldn't look into my eyes.

And, of course, he hadn't.

"You might get more food than that on your plate, then," I said. "You'll need the fuel."

He grinned sheepishly, but he went back to the cafeteria line to tank up on more food. When he returned, he still had a shaky hold on the tray—and a look on his surprise that I was real and still here.

* * * *

He came almost immediately, when I crouched in front of him in the middle of what was a very nice motel room; unbuttoned his fly (I loved that you could still get dress whites with a button fly rather than a zipper); fished out a nice, hard cock; and gave him an intense, if brief, blow job. I took his gloved hands and pressed them into the side of my head, wanting to feel the soft fabric of the white gloves.

"Sorry," he whispered almost plaintively when he had come—and come prodigiously in three separate spurts. "Nervous."

"No problem. You're young and in top shape, I can tell. It won't be long till you're hard again. And you won't pay by the jack off. As many as you want—as you can get up for—for as long as you've paid for this motel room."

I enjoyed the groan that evoked and the lurch of his cock as I closed my teeth over the side of it and scraped them along the shaft.

In fact, I often did charge by the ejaculation, but this was a fuck I was going to enjoy. Not only was it obviously his first time and he was a top-notch hunk, but I was a sucker for a sailor. I had to admit, though, that I usually had them well seasoned and wanting to do it rough—wanting me to suffer, which sometimes I exhibited that I was doing as an act and sometimes because they really were cruel bruisers. I had conditioned myself not to care much which, as long as they had cash.

This one I could care for—all I wanted in a sailor, and the freshness and wonder of the first time.

I stood up in front of him while stripping off my clothes. Then we remained there for several moments, in a close embrace, rocking back and forth, and kissing, while our hands searched each other, me showing him how he could frot our cocks together in a gloved hand, making the sensitive bulbs kiss and rub together. Even beyond the foreplay that didn't often come into the transaction, it was a special sensation, me naked and him fully clothed, including gloves. He was most of the way there to my fetish of being fucked by a sailor. He got the hang of the kissing—and frotting—quickly, and I had him panting heavy.

"Now, you want me to . . . you?" he whispered.

"If you want," I said.

He slid down onto his knee and took my cock in his hand. "Lots of you for the size of your body," he murmured.

I didn't want to know how he was able to make comparisons, but I knew that the sailors mostly had communal showers at the Navy Yard barracks—I'd been snuck in there and fucked by several showering sailors before. Still, the observation gave me a glow. Anything nice he'd say about my body, as magnificent as his was, would go straight to my head.

He slowly sucked the bulb of my cock into his mouth. He tentatively moved his lips down further on the shaft and then back up and back down. It was obvious he'd never done this before, either, but that didn't prevent me from becoming aroused—quite the opposite.

"Use the tip of your tongue to try to fuck my piss slit," I whispered—and moaned when he did it.

But I didn't let him work at it for long before reaching down and hauling him back up to his feet. I didn't want to come the first time too soon.

"Lay down on your back on the bed," I said. "No, stay in your uniform for now. The uniform gets me off. Keep your cock and balls out. Shit. Hard again, so fast? You can pull what you're wearing on top off, though. God, yes, you're a hunk. Pecs bulging, nipples hard. You really want it bad, don't you? No, stay there a minute."

I went down on my knees in front of him again, slowly, bringing my face close to him and sniffing the smell of a young man in heat. He was sweating in his nervousness, but I found the smell of clean sweat mingled with whatever aftershave he'd doused himself with heady.

He obediently lifted his arms for me to sniff in his pits, groaned for me when I took his nipples in my teeth, and then reclined on his elbows, trembling, as my mouth worked its way down his torso. I could tell from what little I could see and reach inside his open fly that he trimmed his bush; he didn't shave it all off as some of sailors did. His decision on that was rewarded when I sent him to moaning again by tonguing down the curly pubes I could reach through the fly. He grunted when I took his hard cock in my mouth again. But I didn't work him long. I just wanted to feel the hunk tremble at my touch.

"Want to fuck you; got to fuck you," he was muttering in a low, hoarse voice.

"We'll get to that—as many times as you want," I answered. "But you are such a hunk, I'd like to worship your body a bit more first. If you've got to blow, go ahead and do it. I'm sure there will be enough for later."

I stretched out beside him for several minutes, fisting and slowly working his cock, with him boring his eyes into the ceiling and breathing hard, while I cupped, stretched, separated, and squeezed his balls and slow pumped his cock to quite large and thick and dripping precum. His hips were beginning to move involuntarily in the rhythm of my stroking and he was moaning softly. The scent he exuded now was musky and I held off for a few minutes, afraid he would come again and I'd have to start the foreplay all over again. This was unusual territory for me. Foreplay rarely was involved in my transactions.

With this sailor, I couldn't help stretching out the anticipation and enjoyment. I wanted him inside me so bad. If he'd known, he'd probably be charging me for it.

Also, if he was a virgin—and he was giving every indication he was—I wanted to give him a good experience, the best of memories of his first time. I wanted to have as good an experience myself as this circumstance and his divine body would permit.

It was time. I had anticipated that he'd remembered everything but the lube and the rubbers, and I'd stashed those on the bedspread beside us and now put them to use. He was muttering and groaning and sighing when I'd risen and thrown a leg over his thighs, positioned myself in the saddle, and started sliding down his cock.

I did it all—other than the ejaculation—that first time, crouched over his torso, holding him down with hands on his upper arms where they met his chest, and moving my channel up and down on his cock, back and forth, revolving, riding him like waves lapping up on the beach, retreating and flowing in again, each time higher and more intense. Before the fucking got serious, I moved my hands all over his torso, which was every bit as beautiful and hard as I thought it would be.

He had sandy-blond hair. I couldn't tell from his haircut, as close cropped as it was, but he had a fine down of chest hair, curling around his nipples, trailing down his sternum, and spreading out on his belly. I could hardly wait to see all of his pubic area, having gotten only a hint of the short, curly hair surrounding the root of the cock and balls I'd pulled out of his fly and tongued down and around. I was torn between wanting him in the tight white trousers still and naked below, with me licking from the inside the thigh of one leg, through his bush, and down the other inner thigh. But not knowing it all at once was part of the arousing mystery of making use of his body.

And I couldn't deny it. He was paying for this, but I, more than he, was using his perfect body—his horse-hung cock—for my own pleasure. Despite all the fucking I did, from where I lived in the groove, true pleasure was fleeting.

There was nothing fleeting in my enjoyment of this young, hard body.

I dipped my head to his well-muscled chest and nipped at his hard, erect nipples. The fuck got serious after that, and, animal instincts clicking in. I realized I had been waiting for him to have enough of the foreplay and for his undeniable need to set in. For him to ravish me.

He finally took control, heaving up and pushing me over on my back with deep grunts. Grabbing my legs under my knees and lifting and spreading them, rolling my buttocks up, digging deeper inside me with his cock, and pounding, pounding, pounding. Lowering his forehead to mine and, our eyes locked, savoring my expression and groans and moans at every deep thrust of his cock. I usually was acting at this point. Not now.

We lay there afterward, both of us having come. He still lay on top of me, flaccid, but still massive, inside me, between my spread and bent legs. He was kissing me in the hollow of my neck and playing with one of my nipples with his gloved hand. The hints of stirring of his cock inside me told me he wouldn't be flaccid long—that this wasn't our last coupling.

"I want to see you again—after tonight," he whispered. "You're wonderful."

I smiled at that, but then alarm bells started to sound in my brain. Never, never, never fall for a john. That had been drummed into my brain. It never ended well, Demont had said repeatedly. And I had been caught, feeling very mellow after this fuck, thinking thoughts of "next time," just as he was saying it.

"My name is Austin," he whispered. "I have wanted to do this . . . with you . . . for a long time. Everything about you—every thought of you makes me go hard."

"I'm John," I whispered back, doubly concerned that he'd given me a name. And as naïve as he was, I was betting it was his real name. "John," of course wasn't my real name.

"I'm free most Saturdays," he whispered.

I began moving my hips in slow circles, and squeezing the muscles of my channel as I had learned to do. I needed to get his mind onto something other than any day or possibility beyond this one. It was working.

"Oh, you virile stud," I exclaimed. "You're going to do it again. I need it again. Fuck me again. Again. Now!" I sent my pelvis into motion.

Austin groaned. "I want to try it—"

"Yes! Doggie fuck me. Fuck me deep. Show me how much a stud you are. Take me hard!"

To his credit, he had no trouble at all moving me to all fours, covering me, and fucking me hard to another shared ejaculation.

Almost immediately, defensively, because of the combined sweetness, naiveté, virility, and hardness of him—the filling thickness and length of him—I began to pull into my shell, turning away from him, my back to him, frightened of this vulnerability and need I was feeling.

But he didn't let me go. The gloves were off and his strong hands were massaging my neck muscles, causing the tension to melt from me. The hands were gliding all over me, massaging the curves, sliding into the crevices. His lips were in the hollow of my neck, his tongue rimming my ear lobes, flicking into my ears.

"The smell of you is intoxicating," he whispered. "The smell of sex." If only he knew how the scent of him turned me on.

But didn't he know when to stop? Telling him he could have me all night was more foreplay come on than reality. My johns didn't do this. I blew them, they fucked me, they paid me, and we both left our own men.

He obviously had taken me seriously. Did I regret that? Intellectually? Maybe; emotionally? Not a chance.

He was moving over me, turning me to my back. Above me, kissing my forehead, my eyelids, my mouth, my cheeks. His hands were splayed over my pecs, his fingers working my nipples. I began to tremble and moan as his tongue and lips followed the hands to my nipples, with his hands sliding down my sides to my waist. His body was suspended over mine now, in reverse, and when his lips slid down my shaft, I grabbed his slim waist between my hands and took his cock into my mouth.

He gave expert head this time, and, with a gasp, I plopped his balls out of my mouth and whined, "Oh, God, Austin, fuck me again. I want you inside me again." I hadn't meant to say it; I just couldn't help myself. It was a begging whine. No longer in control. In total awe of the need he could coax out of my body.

And this time it was genuine need, no hint of faking my want. I had to have the young stud's cock working up inside me again. All barriers down, all defenses fleeing. This time I was begging for it, whining for the big, young stud to fuck me.

Way ahead of the learning curve and in full control, he barked out the position he wanted me in, and I scrambled to meet his demand. He sat on the side of the bed, facing a mirror on the opposite wall. I was in his lap, also facing the mirror, the heels of my feet dug into the edge of the mattress to give me leverage for the pumping he demanded by growling, "Fuck yourself on it."

He'd put the white gloves on again and had his heavily muscled arms wrapped around me, the white-gloved hands palming my pecs. Quite a tableau in the mirror—his young, tanned, muscled arms and legs all that were showing around my small, dark, yielding body, framing my body in his young virility.

Attention drawn first to the big, white-gloved hands splayed over my pecs—and then down to where he had my body drawn back, showing two inches of the root—and then one inch and then again three, four, or five inches—of an impossibly thick cock buried in my hole, the only part of the image that was moving. My own cock, as hard as it ever had been or, probably would be, standing out proudly from the trimmed V of my pubes, my hand wrapped around the root of my own cock and squeezing. My other arm flung up, my hand grasping the back of his neck. My head thrown back, nestled against the top of his buzz-cut head, my eyes slitted and my mouth forming a big O of complete surrender and pleasure. Being totally fucked by my man.

If only I'd had a camera—but the arousing image of it would never leave me anyway.

We'd neglected the condom, and I didn't care. It made it all the more moving for me, walls of defensiveness and protection rumbling aside as I used the leverage of my heels to force the hard, throbbing cock to move deeper inside me. No concern for condoms; wanting the intimacy of the bareback. It was his first time—he hadn't had to admit that to me for me to know it—and I was checked regularly.

We came together, Austin bathing my insides, deep, and my ejaculation arcing out almost to reach the mirror.