Young Man's Gift

"Auburn and curly, you say?"

"Yes," I answer after a moment, after the directness and shock had dissipated, both embarrassed and being turned on—but trying just to convey the embarrassed part. I'd played tennis with our new, young neighbor, and, the day being hot and wanting to be friendly to the new guy on the block, I'd readily agreed to go home with him to his cliffside house on the ridge above our house and to take a swim in his pool.

"Yes, auburn. Most of us gray from the top down. As you'll probably find out." I had meant it as a joke. But it had been delivered nervously, and his youthful smile told me that he thought he was as invincible as I had felt at his age.

I'd had my flings with men back in my daytime TV acting days, but not much of anything in recent years. I'd settled in well with Marge, used my earnings to establish a comfortable, normal—safe—life. And I thought that part of my life was just something from the past, gone and put to rest. It was a shock how quickly it all could come back to me. Hank. Mostly Hank. My first. When he was about my age and I was about Jeff's age, as a matter of fact. Interesting that.

I'd been surprised when Jeff invited me to play tennis. He was half my age and was so handsome and outgoing that I thought he'd have no trouble finding partners—for anything he wanted to do, female or male. He reminded me of the way I was at his age. Young, strong, confident. I could have anyone I wanted in those days too. But I was attracted to Hank. Gray-haired, handsome Hank, who played the "all-knowing" family doctor on my first television show. Maybe I thought concentrating on the seeming unattainable would blank out my feelings, help make me ignore what turned me on.

I think I impressed Jeff when I beat him in straight sets. I'd kept in shape. Gray didn't mean decrepit.

"You know, I watched you on the television when I was a child, and I think I was in love with you," Jeff was saying. I had stretched out on my back on a lounger after swimming in his pool and his was sitting beside my hips, his arm extended over me. I wasn't going anywhere until/unless he moved.

"Or maybe it was just lust," he continued and flashed me a really, really friendly smile. He told me how attractive my gray hair was and that he had noticed the mix of auburn coloring among my chest matting. That's what had led to his question of what color my pubes were. Forward and suggestive, certainly, but it had been successful in getting my attention and piquing my interest, surfacing old feelings. I'd convinced myself that part of my life was over. I obviously was wrong. At least my dick thought so; it was straining at the tight material of the bathing suit.

"There were rumors at the time that you and the actor playing the doctor in that program were doing it. True? He was a real hunk, as I recall. About your age now, wasn't he? Hot though. Like you still are."

"Um, ah." I was tongue tied and entirely too slow to respond—getting the sense that this was going somewhere I hadn't been in years and debating with myself if I wanted to deny that Hank Forman was fucking me at every opportunity in those days.

"Can I see it? Can I touch it?" His smile was gorgeous. He was so young and hunky. I was so turned on by this.

I didn't have to answer. He was slowly pulling the bathing suit down and off my legs even while he was asking. His voice was soft and so compelling.

"Ah, I can see you are interested," he murmured. "And so, very, very nice. Yes, like you said, auburn and silky and curly. Still young down here, I see." he laughed. A full, throaty, husky laugh.

There was no more talk. He wrapped two fingers around the base of my cock, and he was running the other fingers of that hand through my pubic hair. I felt the palm of his other hand going in under my balls, the middle finger poised at my rim.

I was immobilized. Not expecting this at all. But remembering. And sighing at the attention. It had been years, but I remembered as if it was yesterday. Hank's hands running all over me, slowly preparing me, seducing me. That first time taking so much time with me. Burying his thumb inside me near the beginning of foreplay and holding it there, pulsing, telling me all I needed to know where this would end up.

Jeff was handsome and young and well built, broad, muscled chest. And he had Hank's voice, his silky-smooth convincing tones.

Hank could have had me just with that rich, baritone, authoritative voice of his. On the examination table on the set of the television program, after hours, practicing our lines and movements for the next day's shoot. But the "examination" going much further than the script called for. That enticing, controlling, dominating voice. And those strong, sensuous fingers. That pulsing thumb. Lips, tongue. And when I had melted to him, that strong, commanding, never-ending cock—when embedded churning and churning.

I was lying on my back on the cold steel table, trembling, scared, virginal, but oh-so prepared emotionally for the older, experienced, dominating man. He was wearing that white, pretend doctor's medical coat—and nothing else. I vividly remembered being surprised that his pubes were jet black, silky and curly, even though his head hair was a delicate, shiny gray. I writhed, my legs spread, my buttocks at the edge of the table, while his soft mouth went down over my hard cock and his lubricated thumb moved inside me, preparing me, loosening and opening me up for that huge member springing forth from that jet black bush. Then that first, painful, glorious breaching and glide—deeper, deeper, and deeper, as I cried out my first taking to the hard steel beams overhead—that hard steel beam of his stretching and penetrating inside me—and arched my back and he pulled my legs up and out with strong hands wrapped around my ankles and began to rotate and pump.

He was so sophisticated and serious and elegant and fatherly in reading from the script, but the unscripted Hank was crude and hoarse, muttering of ripe buns, taut nipples, young flesh, fucking, scoring, popping cherries, and, when he had entered me for the first time, not so painfully as I expected as fully as he had prepared me, of sweet tight virginal asses and of how he was going to make me beg for it and cry out at what he could do inside me. All of which was true. The unscripted Hank filled me with lust—and with his burbling cum. Again and again and again.

For months after that, whenever the filming took a break, Hank took my elbow and guided me into his dressing room and bent me over a chair and thrust inside me, possessively, strongly. And I loved it.

But I kept telling him that people would talk. And they did. But he didn't care. he just laughed and pulled me into his dressing room and fucked and fucked and fucked.

For three months. Then a younger man was added to the cast. Fresh, still-innocent flesh, and the doctor was working on a new patient. I was taken over by a lighting man, who was younger, stronger, and more cruel and demanding and longer lasting than even Hank had been—and who had a thicker, if stubbier cock. And I enjoyed that as well—until the year I moved up to a better role in a different television series—and to more variety in my sex life.

Ahh, the memories. What Jeff was doing to me, bringing back the memories. Causing me to lengthen and thicken.

Jeff's voice reminiscent. And his fingers. And then that tongue slicking down my pubes. The strong, hard finger at my rim, entering. His thumb inside my channel, pulsing and stroking. I was lost.

The tongue moving up the side of my tool, just as Hank's did. Kissing my knob, flicking my piss slit with his tongue. Me sighing and moaning and panting and lifting my hips to him—as a second finger sank inside me and Jeff's soft mouth came down, down, down over my longing, remembering cock.

My hand gripping his bobbing head, enjoying the feel of his movement there as well as on my cock, my fingers running through his hair. Auburn, just like me once. I hope when he is gray he has someone young, virile, and masterful to do this to him too. Ohhhhh.