Dive Into My Shorts
Ken Smith
Copyright 2011 by Ken Smith
Smashwords Edition
Chapter 0 - CONTENTS
BIRTHDAY BOY
BOILER ROOM BOY
CONVENTION
FIRST LOVE
PUNISHMENT
THE KEEPER
TORPEDOED
STREET KID
JOSH'S INCREDIBLE PACKET
Chapter 1 - BIRTHDAY BOY
(From Riding the Big One)
Today was my birthday. I’d managed to wangle a short weekend break away from sailors and the sea, and my search for shags and had come home. Sadly, my mother was away on holiday. She’d left me my birthday present - jeans and shirt - and a note saying she was sorry to have missed me. She had also left instructions that Jim, her gardening youth, would pop around and do some work.
It was a sunny but crisp morning and to all intent and purpose was to be like any other day that I spent at home - chilling out and generally relaxing. Morning coffee and cornflakes had been cultivated and consumed, and my mother’s mail placed beneath the clock on the mantelpiece.
The knock on the door was expected, but at nine in the morning, not exactly favourable before I’d even had time to get myself fully awake or prepared for his arrival.
Jim was clearly visible, though distorted, through the bubble-glass door when I went to answer it.
“Good morning, Sandy,” he chirped when I swung the door inward and toward myself. He held out a soft palm. “I’m Jim. I believe your mother left a message saying I was coming over today?”
I smiled, shaking his palm, but now delighted to be greeted by such a vision of beauty so early in the day. “Yes, my mother left a note, so I was expecting you.” I released his palm but not telling him that I hadn’t expected him to be such a stunner.
“I’ve brought you something, Sandy.” He smiled, handing me a box of Quality Street chocolates with a birthday card attached. “Happy birthday.”
“Thanks, Jim. That’s very kind of you,” I said, accepting the gift and taking the opportunity to squeeze his arm, totally surprised this stranger youth had bought me a gift. “Come in, I’ve just percolated some coffee if you fancy a cup.”
Jim brushed his cute body against mine as he passed, releasing a smile which I can only describe as sexual and seductive. “Thanks. Black and no sugar,” he ordered, gripping his palms around a slim waist and then patting his flat tummy, indicating that he didn’t wish to put on weight.
“What work are you going to do today?” I asked, passing him his low fat drink.
“Did your mother leave any jobs for me?”
“Nothing on her note.”
“Might have a go at the lawns.” Jim took a sup of coffee. “Unless there’s something else you want me to do, Sandy?” His eyes sparkled, all naughty like.
My dirty mind swiftly flashed a thought of what I would really like Jim to be doing, recalling that I’d had similar disgusting thoughts when I was a mere youngster. Even from that young age, I found it immensely exciting to watch my mother’s young gardeners at work, and observe them on hot summer evenings bending over in the garden, dressed only in their skimpy white shorts.
How often I would wonder what lay beneath the cotton-covered bulges bursting between their muscled thighs. To this day, I have no idea why I never discovered the answer to that question or why the answer wasn’t provided freely. Not once did any of them attempt to divulge the contents of their pants.
“Let me have a chocolate and a think,” I said, desperate to move my thoughts away from undressing him.
Jim smiled his seductive smile again. “Hope you like them. The ones with the white cream inside are really nice. I like to make a hole in the top and suck it all out.”
My cock jarred at that tease. “I must try that,” I said, searching for one so he could give me a demonstration.
Jim peered into the box. “Here’s one,” he said, popping his fingers in and pulling it out, and placing it into my palm.
“No, you have it,” I insisted, handing back the unwrapped chocolate.
I watched Jim’s lips part over the sausage-shaped chocolate and his teeth give a nip. My cock twitched excitedly when he made a sucking sound. A white blob of sticky cream clung to the corner of his mouth. I mentally licked it off before his delicious tongue darted out and lapped it away.
“Uhm,” sighed Jim. “Scrumptious.”
“Thought of a job,” I said, realising how desperately I wanted him to stay within arms reach.
“Great. What?”
I quickly conjured up cleaning the jungle-of-a-conservatory, aware that the tropical heat within might lead him to remove his I’M A BAD BOY T-shirt which I’d been dying to rip from his body since he’d arrived. If that wasn’t achievable, simply observing his delightful buttocks bending beneath dying banana bushes and inquisitive ivy would be reward enough.
Jim grinned, another very suggestive grin. He flexed his developing biceps. “Right, let’s get to it.”
I was positive he was up to something. He appeared to be in a very playful mood. To my sheer delight, before he’d even started on his chores, his I’M A BAD BOY T-shirt came over his pretty face and was tossed onto the wicker lounger.
Even from the distance that he was, I could smell the fresh mustiness beneath his armpits, just a hint of sweet deodorant apparent. I could also feel and electrifying aura of sexiness oozing from his every pore. I began to wonder, like his T-shirt boasted, if indeed he’d ever been a BAD BOY.
Whilst Jim worked in his plantation and my mind worked inside his pants, he continued to give me wicked little grins. Still I was positive he was up to something naughty. What that could be, I had yet to discover. Then again, it was most likely my randy imagination, my desire for that to be the case.
As I observed Jim’s toffee coloured chest glisten and glow in the warmth of the conservatory, I knew I wanted to embrace his half-naked body, feel his moist chest against my face or against my own naked chest. Wanted also, to slip his snug-fitting shorts over his compact little buttocks and push my face into the scent of his teenage bulge, which I suspected would be sitting inside a pair of pure white, mother-washed briefs.
Aware that my cock had grown big enough and now deemed no longer decent in the company of strangers, I moved into the kitchen and poured myself a very stiff scotch over ice, ice that would have undoubtedly been of better use inside my underpants. I cannot be certain but I do believe I turned the conservatory’s central heating full on before returning to my observation of buttocks, bulges and well-defined, brown-nippled pectorals.
Within minutes of returning to my study of gardening and the anatomy of a working youth, I was sweating profusely. What with the scotch I’d consumed, the extra heat, and a biteable bottom just a breath away, I was turning into a human volcano. Jim, however, looked cool, although the dampness around the seam of his shorts, separating the cheeks of his delightful buttocks, caused me to believe that he too was warming up nicely.
“Are you hot, Sandy?” Jim inquired, wiping his brow and naked chest. “Why don’t you take your top off? I’m sure getting all steamed up myself, even with my T-shirt off.”
That casual remark stunned me. Here was a total stranger, albeit a gorgeous one, suggesting that I remove part of my clothing. I was tempted to say, “Only if you take your shorts off first” but simply asked if he wanted the heating turned down.
“There’s no need, Sandy,” was the reply I didn’t expect but which I delighted in; the possibility that he would soon need to remove something else exciting me. Failing that, his shorts might become so wet I would soon be able to see right through them.
Obeying my adorable youth, as he continued hacking his way through the conservatory jungle, I pulled my T-shirt over my head and tossed it on top of his.
“You see. Isn’t that more comfortable?” said Jim. A flash of white teeth accompanied his comment, and his smile almost melted the ice in my scotch. It definitely caused a minor volcanic eruption inside my pants.
I began to wonder if Jim knew I was gay. I certainly had no idea if he was. My excitement at the prospect that he might be, caused me to sweat even more.
“You’re sweating, Sandy,” commented Jim. “You can wipe yourself on my T-shirt if you want. It has to be washed. Save you getting a towel.”
Was that a strange thing for him to say, an erotic and sexual thing for him to say, or was it just an innocent offer? Doing it, however, was erotic, was sexual and was far from innocent, and it almost sent my heart into spasm when I rubbed my face into his discarded clothing.
The underarm odour of the youth’s body smelt stunning. When I rubbed the area of his T-shirt that had been closest to his crotch into my face, the scent of sweaty cock was simply sensational. I wondered, as he got warmer, if he might soon discard his underpants and maybe suggest I rub the sweat from my face with those. I could hardly wait.
“Better, Sandy?” Jim grinned seductively. I thanked God he couldn’t see inside my underpants, for he would have found them super-glued to my stomach by the batch of sticky pre-come which had just squirted out.
“Yes, thanks,” I kind of sighed.
Together we remained in the hot jungle, both naked to our waists. Still Jim had an aura of naughtiness exuding from his every pore, whilst I, having had several birthday drinks to calm myself, had neat scotch exuding from mine.
By lunchtime, the conservatory no longer resembled a jungle. And, as I fed Jim a chunk of Cheddar cheese and a couple of crispy rolls for his dinner, I began to contemplate what other task I could conjure up in order to keep his body tormentingly naked and within arms reach. I wondered whether I could start him on the plants in the bathroom. When he was close to the shower, I could accidentally set it off and observe those tight shorts, stretched so invitingly over his buttocks, absorb the fine spray and soak into that tantalising tuba buried in the undergrowth of his jet-black pubics.
“I have to go now, Sandy,” was not the comment I wished to hear from my hardworking lad but the promise that he would return in an hour and do some more chores, most definitely was.
Jim pulled his I’M A BAD BOY T-shirt over his succulent body. Sadly, he’d been anything but. Having rubbed that soft material into my face, at least I knew our body odours and fluids were now hugging together. Somehow, I found that satisfying.
Closing the door behind such a cute behind, I was tempted to head straight to my bedroom and have a damn good toss, but the promise of his return led me toward the bottle of scotch. I wished myself a happy birthday for the third time and downed another.
I sent Mozart spinning beneath the laser head of the CD player as I tried to prevent my brain from doing a similar thing inside of my head. I suspected so much scotch before midday was not such a good idea. I couldn’t figure out what Jim was up to. I most definitely hadn’t figured out what was inside his shorts.
My scotch sodden brain went all haywire and blew a randy fuse. I shot into a world of fantasy. Did Jim wear jockeys, briefs, boxers or nothing at all under those tight shorts? Was he a passive or an active youth, or both? Was he a rough youth or a passionate and gentle, kiss and caress teenager in bed? Most important of all, was he?
An hour later, the sound of the front door colliding with the Tibetan chimes hanging from the ceiling brought me from my continued disgusting thoughts. Jim, as promised, had returned. Would it be the bathroom ploy or could I magic another cleaning job that might require the removal of more of his clothing?
Jim strolled into the lounge, not cocky and arrogant as many youths found it necessary to be. It was more a glide, gently floating toward my tortured body. He’d changed T-shirts since he’d been away, hopefully not because of my body scent. It now read I’M A VERY VERY BAD BOY.
Was he trying to tell me something?
“Sandy. How are you?” he greeted, his face beaming all naughty like.
That was a strange thing for him to say. It was almost as if it had been the first time he’d seen me this day. I refrained from telling him that I was tipsy or that I was as horny as hell and wanted to dive into his shorts or any other such truthful statement, and simply told him I was fine.
Mozart continued to seduce my ears whilst Jim continued to seduce my entire being. Just as I was about to try the bathroom ploy, he asked me not to get up but to close my eyes tightly. He had another surprise.
I have no idea why I obeyed this youth whom I’d only know for a few hours, but I kept my eyelids clamped tightly shut and waited for what seemed an age.
Just when I’d almost fallen asleep, serenaded by soft strings and sedated by alcohol, his deepish voice announced, “You can open them now, Sandy.”
Teasing myself, I lifted my eyelids very slowly. Stunned by what greeted me, I popped them wide open - very wide open.
“Oh my wonderful, kind and caring God!” rushed toward my lips but remained jammed in my choking throat when I stared at the vision of beauty. Before me stood Jim, naked as the day he was born!
My eyes focussed greedily on Jim’s soft, lazy cock, which was hanging over tight, teenage balls. Above the scrumptious offering, a tuft of black curls, so few, I think I counted all two thousand from where I sat.
I took a decent gulp of scotch to help calm my hidden joy and compose my ecstatic torso. “Jim,” I whispered, my body and cock rising, “What are you doing!”
“Don’t get up, Sandy. Close your eyes again,” Jim requested, in a voice that slid over my whole body like soothing massaging oil.
I obeyed without hesitation, without knowing the consequences of my actions. And what would those consequences be? Would I open them to find a naked Jim sitting on my lap - on my face! Or would I be greeted by that curly, coal-coloured crown buried into my crotch, consuming my cock? Better yet, his pretty prick pressed against my mouth, tantalisingly teased to its full potential for my pleasure.
“You can open them now, Sandy,” came his long-awaited instruction.
I opened my eyes slowly, very slowly, teasing and torturing myself. I closed them quickly, opened them again, and then closed them again.
I was drunk. No, I was asleep. No, I was dreaming. No, I was all three. I opened them slowly again. I was in total shock! Before my bulging eyes stood a naked Jim, sadly without an erection, next to him another naked Jim, also without an erection. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Jim had a twin, a scrumptious, sensational, sensual, stunning and perfect identical self, or so it would seem?
I almost wet my pants!
I couldn’t move, couldn’t take my eyes from the four thousand pubic hairs and the joint six inches of soft cock, or the four balls held tightly beneath them in tiny hairless sacs. I definitely wet my pants but this time with a wealth of sticky pre-come.
Both youths grinned, the sunlight catching their perfect white teeth.
“Jim?” I questioned, looking at one, then repeating the question and looking at the other. Both remained silent and grinned again.
The youths began to glide toward my desperate body and an even more desperate throbbing cock. My heart stopped - it actually did - then gave an enormous thud, almost breaking two ribs, then began to race like a galloping horse toward the finishing line.
“What are you doing? What’s going on?” I excitedly queried, addressing them both a second time.
Still silent, the adorable youths continued to drift toward my dissolving body. Beside me now, two tender palms gripped my hands. With a naked youth attached to each, they led me toward my bedroom. With me still in a state of sexual shock, they requested I sit in my easy chair at the foot of the bed.
Jim and his twin moved away, one on either side of the bed. They reunited in the centre of the mattress. Both, I noticed, just before they climbed onto the soft centre, had semi-erections, strangely at the same angle and of the same length. Nestled on my multicoloured duvet, they resembled two of the finest wallflowers, a couple of magnificent bedding plants of the highest quality.
Patiently, but excitedly, I waited for the show to commence. For this was theatre indeed, entertainment of the highest quality. Whether I was to come on as an extra at a later stage, I had yet to discover. I could only hope that that would be the case.
Not a word left either of the lad’s lips as they mirrored each other’s movements. I wondered if they had been doing this all of their young lives, as teenage palms began gliding over small thighs, defined chests, flat tummies, more thighs and finally firm young cocks, firm, young, sexy, six inch cocks.
The youth’s movements were in unison as foreskins rolled just the right distance over slender shafts, then back over swollen buds, and then rolled back again. Gently, ever so gently, they caressed each other’s stiff young cocks. I was sure had I measured the distance their tender loose flesh slipped down shafts there would not be a millimetre of difference between each, such was their togetherness.
When mouths met mouths, tongues tickled tongues and lips moistened lips, my cock exploded in spasms of pre-come, for they had reached the point where I urgently wanted to join in. How desperately I wanted that.
I began to remove my clothing. I wasn’t sure if that was permitted but knew I would surely die if I didn’t. A brief break from youth feasting on youth, and a soul-destroying smile from each as I disrobed, confirmed that I hadn’t broken any of their rules.
I slumped back into my chair. Naked and sweating, my cock so stiff it could have drilled a hole through eight inches of concrete, I continued to allow myself to be overwhelmed by the superb sight of the stunning twins sucking and savouring each other’s sexy skins.
My weakened body raised itself and bent over the bed, as sweet and succulent teenage cocks were deliciously sucked, and sucked, and sucked.
I began to caress my own cock, unable to hold back a moment longer.
Then it happened. A hand from each youth raised and beckoned me to join them. Even as they made that welcomed and elegant gesture, both mouths continued to work, savouring each other’s stiff young sexes, stimulating their tiny spunk-filled balls with sensational sucks.
A strange guilt struck me. Was it a crime to break up such a beautiful union? My guilt quickly swept away when Jim, who I now recognised because he was the lad with a cute little beauty spot on his slender neck, reached toward me and passed me a condom and sachet of lube.
For an agonising moment, I began to doubt whether I would fit in with their erotic routine without interrupting the flow, but started my voyage of discovery by kissing Jim’s boyish bottom before working my way up his voluptuous body, abdomen, navel, chest, neck and finally lips.
By the time my mouth had done its return journey, Jim’s legs had parted.
My heart raced excitedly. This would be the first time I had screwed a youth. Both lads stopped sucking, turned and smiled. With a nod from each, they indicated that I should commence lubrication of Jim’s hairless hole.
My trembling fingers tore open both sachets, first the condom then the lube. Within seconds, I was probing into the depths of the softest hole I had ever touched, lubricating the tight passage. My solid sex soon replaced working fingers and with sensationally slow strokes, keeping rhythm with the sucking lads, my cock slid inside Jim’s soft smooth cheeks, fucking him gently and lovingly.
Their first sounds, the emissions of blissful pleasure, almost brought me to the point of coming. Mesmerised, I delighted in the vision of delicate cocks disappearing then reappearing from cute faces as the lads sweetly sucked. No longer able to contain my need to come, I drove my cock deep into Jim’s hole and prepared to shoot.
The boys must have been psychic. They knew at precisely which point to stop. Just as I was about to release a joyous gasp and jettison my juices into the tight little bum, Jim’s twin passed me a second condom and lube and indicated that it was his turn to be fucked.
I withdrew my slippery cock from Jim’s fine young hole, allowing my spunk to retreat into my aching balls. I moved to the other side of the bed and commenced my second act of lovemaking in a similar fashion to the first, savouring as much skin of Jim’s twin as I was permitted before he too offered me his tender hole.
They must have surely been the same person, because as I entered the second pair of juicy buttocks, driving hard and deep into Jim’s twin, I was positive his brother was receiving an equal amount of pleasure from my fucking.
Blissfully I watched as Jim sucked upon his delightful twin and he sucked on Jim. How desperately I wanted to suck both cocks myself. Soon their ecstatic moans of pleasure reappeared and filled the bedroom.
My head was spinning and my balls ached. This time both youths would surely come into their respective mouths and gulp down gallons of teenage spunk, and I would release enough of my own spunk to drown both.
It wasn’t to be. Unbeknown to me, the lads had other plans. Once again, I allowed my spunk to subside, and a youth to move either side of me.
It was kissing time. Boy was it kissing time!
Tongues, sweeter than youth’s cocks, darted in and out of my mouth whilst fingers foraged and fondled my cock. Soon I was writhing in ecstasy, wriggling like a hooked worm, controlled and almost crying from the euphoria.
It just couldn’t get any better.
It could!
A pair of lips on mine, another slipping, sliding and slurping over my cock; a pair of lips on mine, another slipping, sliding and slurping over my cock, a pair of lips on mine, another... My wonderful suffering was endless as each twin took it in turns, sucking and slurping on my cock or passionately kissing me.
“Please let me come. Please let this wonderful pain stop,” I inwardly screamed.
But it didn’t stop. They weren’t going to let it stop!
Jim ravished my cock whilst I gorged on his twin, and then the reverse. His twin had sixty-nine with me whilst Jim screwed me senseless, and then the reverse; every possible sexual combination explored and re-explored, then explored again.
These twins were tormentors and teasers, beautiful torturers. Several times, I almost showered them with steamy spunk. Each time they prevented me. It seemed they had captured me for their own pleasure and had me prisoner in a heavenly hell from which they would never let me escape.
It was time for the final act. God, it just had to be the final act!
The twins brought themselves together in a seesaw position, so that their balls touched and their stout cocks stood proudly together. With another seductive smile and a nod from each, I lowered my mouth over both sexes, swallowing them to their scrumptious bases.
Crazy for their spunk, I crammed my mouth into both tufts of fluffy pubic hair. Feasting like a famished child, I worked my mouth hungrily over the youthful cocks, all the while running my palms over soft and slender stomachs or beneath small tightening balls.
The boys released delighted yelps, raised their bodies and locked their naked chests with young arms. Slamming their kissable mouths together, with a sensational tightening of tummy muscles, both sent salvos of sweet spunk swirling around my sucking mouth and shooting down my throat.
Crazily, I captured their creamy juices, concentrating on the heads of their cocks for every sweet droplet. Whilst the wonderful taste still lingered in my palate, the youths brought their heads between my legs and two sensational mouths began sucking in rapid sequence. Not a microsecond ticked by without a marvellous mouth manipulating my cock or my spunk filled balls.
My buttocks tightened and I arched upward, pushing my cock deep into the pretty faces, wondering which lad was to get the liquid torpedo loaded in my tube. But these boys were brilliant blowjob bunnies, and when I released that final yelp of pleasure, and shot my load, somehow both youths managed to savour an equal amount of spunk, swapping it between their mouths, playing snowball as they kissed their final kisses.
I lay on my bed, semiconscious and slain by sex. The lads moved into the kitchen and then returned with drinks. Each had dressed in their respective BAD BOY T-shirts. Passing me a measure of the much-needed liquor, they raised their glasses.
“Happy birthday, Sandy!” they saluted. Both grinned wildly.
Chapter 2 - BOILER ROOM BOY
Boxer was bent over some machinery, head stuffed deep inside, boiler suit folded to his navel, the arms tied around his waist, butt drawn in tight and invitingly by the blue material. If I could have handcuffed him there and ripped that boiler suit from his body and stuffed him stupid, then I most surely would have. But Boxer’s sexual preferences were still a mystery to me.
I had no idea where he’d gotten his nickname from. He didn’t look like a boxer and definitely didn’t wear them, especially under that boiler suit. Beneath that - I was only too aware - was naked flesh, a thick short dick and a small tuft of jet black pubes. Every silken sweaty part of his upper torso was solid muscle; two years of torturing tight nuts and bolts. Speaking of nuts, his were hairless and hung, plum-sized, beneath that beautiful bone.
“Boxer!” I shouted above the noise of the ship’s engines, “Have you seen the Engineering Officer?” Boxer didn’t reply, elbow working up and down, a kind of wanking action, an action I was sure he was familiar with.
“Boxer!” I yelled, even louder, and placed my palm upon his greasy, sweaty back, running it down to the crack into which his body fluid was draining.
“Fuck!” Boxer screamed, banging his head when I startled him, before spinning around to face me. His pretty face then beamed on greeting mine; baby soft, it looked so cute covered in grease make-up.
I stroked my finger on a blob of grease above his thin black eyebrow. “Commander Cruft?” I asked, waving a wad of signals.
“Not here. I’ll take them if you want,” he bellowed, offering a sticky black hand. My expression gave my reply but I wouldn’t have been allowed to give him them anyway - secret stuff and all that. “Scared of a bit of shit,” he shouted, pulling five fingers down my cheek, printing an Indian war paint mark from temple to chin.
At that moment, old Crufty clattered down the ladder. “Signals, Sir,” I said, with a salute.
Crufty grasped them in thick fingers then glimpsed my face. “Clean yourself up, Signalman. How dare you come into my engine room looking like that.”
Boxer stuffed his head back into the machinery, hiding his giggles. “Sir!” I hollered.
As soon as Cruft had disappeared into his office, I stuffed my hand between Boxer’s thighs and goosed him from the front, squeezing that delicious dick tightly in my palm.
A second bump on Boxer’s head, when he jumped in surprise, saw me legging it up the ladder, him gripping his sausage and shouting something back at me. Lip reading, I think he mouthed “Suck this”. If that was the case, then I would have gladly done so right there and then, feasting on his sweat and grime and spunk.
My watch-keeping buddy and I were both on the Middle watch with about an hour to go. The Signal Office was quiet but the weather wasn’t and the ship was bouncing around like a tit in a tantrum. The teleprinter fired up and began clattering away. A signal reminding us there were force eight gales in the area spewed out.
Marconi, a nickname given to the junior signalman because he was a whiz kid, was the lad with me. I pushed myself up against him as he read the incoming message, “Anything interesting?” I asked, kissing his neck.
“Piss off,” he rebuffed, pushing his arse against my stiff cock. “I don’t know, Knocker. I hate this Middle watch. You always get horny around three.” And that was the truth; for all of us in fact. Dead on three up popped our peckers whether we wanted it or not. And when you’re at sea and the only thing shagable is a pretty youth, instinct tells your cock it should find a hole, so a guy’s bum or mouth becomes very inviting indeed. In my case, the most inviting places.
“Wanna crash early?” I asked Marconi, giving him the opportunity of an extra hour’s kip - sleep, rum and fags having the currency of gold on a ship.
He swung around, his cock as stiff as mine. “And what do I have to do for that?”
“On your knees!”
“Half your tot and twenty smokes as well,” he bargained, even though he was already pulling his prick from his pants and going down, knowing only too well I would say yes.
Marconi had been doing this sort of thing well before the navy and was a master at mouthing cock. I pulled my shaft into the open. His lips parted and his mouth went straight to the base. No messing about for Marconi. He loved sucking cock.
“Just the head,” I demanded, knowing I would shoot quickly; thoughts of Boxer still lingering in my mind. “That’s good, around the ridge.”
Marconi slurped and savoured the swollen bud while jerking himself off. In his eagerness he couldn’t remain at the head for long and was soon down to the base, allowing his throat to do the work. I rubbed his prickly hair and grabbed the back of his neck, pushing harder and deeper. There was no need; he couldn’t have gotten anymore of me.
“You want my spunk, don’t you? You’re gagging for it,” I teased, pulling my cock from his lips as he fought to get the lot back down his throat.
“Uhm! Uhm!” he moaned, his throat contracting tightly on my thickening cock.
Marconi grabbed my arse and squeezed tightly, his right hand pumping as fast as one of Boxer’s engine pistons. I knew he was almost there; we’d done this so many times before.
As thoughts of screwing a naked Boxer covered in grease and draped over throbbing machinery swamped my mind, I let go the whole whack in one thick squirt.
Marconi went mad, his throat massaging every droplet from my dick. With a muffled squeal, he sent his own stream of spunk sailing over my bell-bottoms, the remainder seeping in strands from his cock. Quickly I pulled him up and fell to my knees, taking what spunk remained into my mouth and milking him dry.
Job done, in a blink of an eye Marconi was away to his hammock.
The office was strangely silent with Marconi absent. I still had an hour to kill until my Morning watch relief. I pulled my cock out again and ran visions of Boxer and Marconi’s bobbing head through my mind. Ringing bells, indicating an important incoming signal, put paid to a second shooting. Reluctantly, I got on with my job.
A ship in distress was the news I didn’t wish to read. It would mean I would remain on watch until things got sorted. It wasn’t good for those relieving me either, and I dispatched the Bosun’s Mate to wake them early.
Drowsy, eye-rubbing guys greeted me when I answered the buzzer and let them in. The coffee was the first thing they headed for, getting their caffeine fix. The second fix was nicotine, each pulling fags from my packet and drawing heavily upon them. Meanwhile, I felt the ship shudder as more revs were stuck on the engines. I thought of Boxer in the boiler room, half naked and sweating as he beefed them up, or put more gas in them, or whatever he did down there.
“Where’s Marconi?” asked my opposite number who was of equal rank and in charge of his shift.
“Sent him below early. It was as dead as a Dodo until ten minutes ago.” I detected a wry smile on his face. I suspected he knew why I was always letting Marconi have time off. It didn’t really matter. There was nothing he could do about it. Not only that, his junior signalman had been early to bed on more occasion than I could mention, and I’d caught them pressed together several times.
“Going up top for a breath of air,” I said, after explaining the situation. “I’ll be on the flag deck if you need me.”
The bridge was buzzing as I passed through, the navigator plotting a course toward the distressed ship, the duty Bunting trying to gain contact by voice transmissions while swapping information with other craft bearing down on the damaged vessel.
I nodded to the duty Bunting and walked onto the port side of the flag deck. The wind howled, hammering rain and salt spray into me. I donned an oilskin as I took in my surroundings. Several seaman were positioned around the flag deck, binoculars in hand, scanning seaward in search of the vessel. I noticed Spud leant against the twenty inch signalling lamp as I stuffed my head between funnel and bulkhead and attempted to light a fag.
Spud was a scrumptious sailor, eighteen, jet black hair and queer. I moved over. “Mornin Spud.” I began running my hand beneath his waterproofs and gripped his cock. It was solid.
Spud flinched slightly. “Oh, it’s you, Knocker.”
In the darkness, I bit on his earlobe then unbuttoned his fly and pulled his cock into the wind and rain. Spud kept his left hand on the binoculars but dropped his right into the opening of my oilskin and sprang my cock free. Together we gently tugged, Spud continuing to scan seaward as if nothing were happening. “That feels great, Knocker. Go a bit faster,” he urged.
I increased my pace. Spud followed suit. I felt a dribble of spunk roll down my finger, then the whole load. A call from the bridge, requesting I return to my office, caused me to quickly lick Spud’s juices from my hand and put my own cock away.
“Sorry,” whispered Spud, apologising for being unable to finish the job.
I pecked his cheek. “Next time. Catch you later.”
As I headed into the bridge I overheard the Captain ordering a decrease in revs and a new heading for the Coxswain. I guessed the incident was over and we were returning to relative normality. That was confirmed when I returned to the Communications Office and was officially relieved. Still horny, I left my relief and his lad to their own devices and headed for my hammock.
The Mess was dark, only the red night light above the hatch bathing it in a warm seductive glow. Men and youths snored, shuffled and talked in their sleep. The scent of sweaty sailors swam in the air, siphoning in and out of sleeping nostrils. It was a heady smell, yet somehow sexy and arousing. My cock stiffened when I brushed beneath a couple of sailors slumbering in their hammocks. I listened for signs of wanking, ready to assist if required. Sadly, all were asleep.
Normally after finishing a night watch we’d jump straight into our hammocks without washing, eager to get to sleep. Washing disturbed the built up drowsiness and made it harder to get off.
Maybe it was the extra hour I had done, or maybe I was feeling a little grubby. Quietly opening my locker, I removed my towel and washing gear, stripped naked, wrapped the towel around my waist and headed for the aft heads.
The hiss of shower spray greeted me as I entered the steam filled room. Pissing in the urinal first, I moved around to the shower cubicles. The sight of Boxer was not what I expected. He was smothered from head to toe in soap. Happily he hummed away. Again, I caused him to jump when I called out.
“Not you again, Knocker?”
I spun the tap and hoped for hotter water than yesterday. “‘Fraid so.”
“Just finished?”
“Yep.”
“What was all the panic?”
I ducked beneath the welcome spray. As always, with each roll of the ship the temperature changed from freezing cold to boiling hot as the shower was fed with a greater quantity of either. I released a few yelp before answering. “Sinking ship.”
“Should have been this one,” Boxer gurgled his reply, his mouth filling with water.
I could see he was about to complete his bathing and head to his hammock. I didn’t want him to leave so soon. I wanted to get that sexy vision planted firmly in my mind for the wank I intended to have once inside my own hammock.
“You’ve got a whack of grease on your back, Boxer,” I lied. My gaze fell onto his soapy cock when he spun around.
“Wanna wash it off for me, Knocker?”
My cock began to rise. I tried not to appear over eager to get into his side. “Sure.”
I began lathering my hands as I walked toward him. Boxer placed a palm either side of the shower head, standing spread eagled like a criminal waiting to be frisked. His arse looked inviting beyond belief and it took every effort to concentrate on his spotless back rather than those solid fleshy cheeks and the crack into which the bubbles were travelling.
There was no way I could keep my cock down as my hands worked over his neck and shoulders, then around his waist, then back to his neck via his spine. The absent grease would have long gone but I continued to rotate my palms around his solid body, at one point bringing them up under his armpits and over his pecs. All-the-while, my cock grew and grew and eventually stabbed between the cheeks of his arse when the ship rolled to port.
“That’s great, Knocker,” Boxer whispered. “Has the grease gone?”
I prodded his right shoulder, drawing my finger down to his butt. “There’s another stubborn bit just here.”
Boxer didn’t reply and let his palms fall to his side. He picked up his own bar of soap and began lathering. I was sure it was his cock that he was working on but didn’t explore to confirm this.
He moved his palm to his arse and began moving the bar between the cheeks, parting them and pushing. My heart quickened. I began to contemplate if sex was on, if my Boiler Room boy was about to give me what I had so longed for since our first meeting.
I moved slightly forward so’s my cock was against his knuckles as he rotated his hands around his buttock cheeks and between them. Another roll of the ship and my chest pressed hard against his back. My hands went about his waist as we both slipped on the soapy floor.
It was there, happy and proud, bigger than I’d expected it to be. I could resist no longer and grasped it tightly. Boxer flinched and sighed, a sizzling sigh. I drew my soapy hand down to the base of his cock, pulling his foreskin back. Cupping the other palm under his balls I gently caressed.
My cock was bursting, pressed up against my navel and his buttocks. Boxer grasped it cautiously, before soaping it with sensational strokes. It felt fantastic. I could have easily come right there and then but I allowed my mouth to fall onto his neck, taking things a step further. Boxer continued to soap, swifter and swifter over my shaft. I did likewise, rubbing in a circular motion around the head of his delicious cock.
Boxer pulled my cock down, directing it toward his slippery crack. On the next roll of the ship the bud slipped into his hole. He didn’t flinch when my dick sank deep. Instead, he released a gasp of joy, as if he’d been waiting all of his teenage life to be shagged.
I moved my palms from his cock, up around his tits and began to squeeze. Boxer pushed his buttocks hard against my pubes. “Knocker!” he gushed.
Spray fell like confetti over our soapy bodies, running between chest and back, buttocks and cock. Firmly but gently, I thrust deep, then withdrew, then thrust deep again.
Boxer gripped my butt, bending down and pushing himself hard against my abdomen. His body became supple and submissive as he whimpered my name, willing me to work his insides, willing my cock to grow larger than it had ever grown.
I gripped his cock again, biting hard into his neck. Desperately I wanted to suck a love bite onto that tender skin. Boxer’s cock swelled, the ridge of the bud bulging out from the shaft. He arched into me, almost tearing my arse apart with his strong hands. With an almighty gasp, his spunk splashed against the Formica bulkhead.
I ran my palm over his dripping cock a final time. I watched Boxer’s spunk slip to the deck as it slid down the Formica wall. My own gasp rushed from my mouth as I began filling his arse with the contents of my tightening balls.
Someone struggling with the door caused us to break away. Just before the door barged open I pulled our faces together, sucked on Boxer’s lips and tongue, then fell to my knees and sucked the remnants of spunk from his dribbling cock.
Boxer scooped up his towel and wrapped it about himself as the young sailor entered. With a wry smile, he hastily departed.
Spud, his slim and suntanned sexiness wrapped in a brilliant white towel, walked over. “Hi Knocker.” He grinned knowingly. “About to take a shower?”
I slung my towel back onto the hook. “Yep. Wanna join me?”
Spud tossed his towel intimately on top of mine, his cock already rising as he began to soap keenly along the thickening shaft. “Sure do!”
Chapter 3- CONVENTION
Jeff drew the van to a halt beside the disused warehouse, pulling up the hand brake with a squeak and turning off the windscreen wipers. Outside, the rain continued to fall, more a fine drizzle, the clouds scurrying across a clearing sky. He sucked in a deep breath, inhaling a few droplets of misty rain, then popped a cigarette into his mouth and lit it, drawing in a mixture of smoke and cool air. He puffed a perfect smoke ring into the cab.
Drumming his fingers on the metal casing of the van, he walked to the rear, unlocking the back doors and pulling out a large pair of bolt-cutters. Cigarette in mouth, he moved to the warehouse’s corrugated-iron door and with a strong squeeze of the cutters set it free. The chunky lock fell to the concrete with a clunk!
After a brief struggle with the rusty bolt, it slid back. Picking up the lock, he tossed both it and the cutters into the rear of the van.
Taking another deep drag on his cigarette, Jeff began to whistle a tune which had been going through his head all evening. He took a can of oil from the toolbox and squeezed a large helping of the slimy liquid onto the bolt’s rusting surface. After several strenuous movements it finally freed itself, sliding silently back and forth in its harness.
Releasing a deep sigh Jeff replaced the can back amongst the tools and closed the lid on the box. Silently shutting the van doors, he let the finished cigarette fall to the ground. It gave a simple hiss on meeting the wet surface, and was extinguished. Almost immediately, he pulled another from its pack, placed it between his lips but didn’t light it.
Walking back to the warehouse, Jeff gripped his huge hand around the door’s handle and began to pull. The hinges shrieked as if in pain as he tried to open it. Gently cursing, he walked back to the van.
Returning to the warehouse door - oil can in hand - he drowned the rusted hinges, relieving them from their metal against metal burden. After several swift movements back and forth, the metal sheet moved without a whisper and he sent the empty can scurrying in clatters across the concrete courtyard.
It was almost dusk when he entered the vast warehouse. “Perfect,” he whispered, and walked halfway into the empty shell.
Igniting his cigarette, Jeff glanced up at the broken skylights. A large droplet of water fell from a metal girder high above him, followed by a couple of less forceful droplets, each hitting him square on the forehead. He rubbed the refreshing liquid into his cropped head then glanced at his watch.
“Not much time to prepare,” he thought, and began checking the warehouse for useful items.
Almost marching, he skirted a couple of large puddles but sent his boots crashing through others. The empty arena echoed as studs met concrete, accompanied by softer plips and plops as descending water met more water.
Against a paint-peeling wall, Jeff discovered a bank of wooden pallets. Letting his second cigarette fall to the deck, he began pulling them down, skating each into the centre of the arena. A nail caught his camouflaged trousers as he worked. He released a brief curse as he checked for damage to the tough material before continuing.
Six of the wooden pallets he arranged into a stage, stacking them three high beside each other. The remainder he arranged in pairs, one on top of the other, placing them in no particular uniformity before the main platform. It was a strenuous task so he unbuttoned his combat jacket, allowing air to circulate around his massive frame.
Lighting a third cigarette, he fiddled with the marine name-tags which hung around his thick neck, whilst puffing more circles of smoke into the stale air as he contemplated his next task.
It was becoming almost too dark to work, so he moved back into the courtyard and began unloading his van. Firstly, he took six gas lamps into the warehouse, igniting them and distributing them between the pallets. They flamed into life with a phutt phutt then moved into a strange hiss, filling the place with an eerie atmosphere; their irregular burning sending sinister shadows sliding around the wet and slimy walls - Jeff’s own shadow, ten times his formidable size, accompanying them.
Checking his watch for a second time, he began to collect the beer, stacking crates beside the main platform. Freeing the lids on the top two boxes, he pulled out a can and opened it with a click. Foam bubbled from its metal mouth. Jeff quickly placed his own over the opening, sucking almost half the contents into his drying throat.
The alcohol sent an instant buzz to his brain and he released a man-sized burp as it gurgled in his belly. After sinking the remainder of the beer, he cracked open another can and, between gulps, retrieved the remaining items from his van.
Into the cool night air for the final time, Jeff moved his van into a slip road then returned to the relative warmth of the warehouse. Falling to the floor, he sent his powerful body into a session of punishing press-ups, followed by a Karate-like, combat routine.
After locking his fingers and cracking his knuckles, he slipped another cigarette between his lips. He sat on the stage and lit the cigarette, sucking in soothing quantities of nicotine as he waited. Moments later, the door drew back and three guys entered. Jeff welcomed them in, offering each a can of beer, telling them to help themselves.
Somewhat apprehensively, the guys remained in their own company whilst Jeff began preparing himself on the platform.
As more faces entered, Jeff gave each a similar greeting, and within fifteen minutes some ten bodies had filled the warehouse, dispersing themselves on pallets, and chatting.
After another ten more minutes had passed and no sign of any new arrivals, Jeff raised his body onto the platform and began to address his audience. The group fell silent as his deep voice thundered around them, the occasional word repeated in echoes.
A crushing cheer filled the air when Jeff bellowed, “Tonight we’re going to kill some queers!”
His audience remained riveted to his every word as his deep, South African accent echoed about them. Occasionally, they were greeted with shouts of “Kill the queers!”
Whilst bodies moved forward, collecting courage in cans, Jeff glanced at his watch, almost apprehensively, and declared that he had said all that he had to say, having explained how they could recognise queers, where they cruised, what pubs they used and where their campaign of terror would start this night.
Satisfied he had stimulated their hate, Jeff invited any who wished to share stories of their own sadism to speak.
It was the only female who spoke first, explaining to the group how she and her boyfriend and his mates would use her as bait by pretending she was lost or in some danger, inviting the queer to her car where the others would then appear and beat him senseless. Several stories followed, each stirring more passion and hatred, each increasing their eagerness to get on with it.
Jeff continued to allow the stories to flow, he hadn’t heard enough and wanted to hear more, wanted to drive them to the point of hysteria.
A body raised itself above the seated audience, standing upon a pallet. Jeff stared down at him as he spoke. It was a gruff, ugly voice filled with the deepest of hatred. The audience became strangely still while he told his tale, constantly wielding a baseball bat as he wallowed in every word.
Halfway through, he pulled a companion to his side and together they began to laugh as they shared the story; the evil audience now cheering and clapping.
“A queer. A black queer,” he excitedly informed, foaming at the mouth. “Smashed to pulp!” he shouted, circling the baseball bat above his head and laughing.
“Killed two birds with one stone,” they both delighted. “A Nigger and a poof!”
The story completed, the audience stood and clapped, tossing finished cans into the air and stamping booted feet.
“Enough!” roared Jeff, silencing them instantly. “Finish the beers and then let’s do it!” He raised his hand in a Nazi salute.
A rapturous applause rang out for their new leader and smacked against the walls as Jeff stepped down from the platform and began to move among them.
Silently he walked between their ranks, absorbing their hatred, absorbing their anger, receiving slaps to his back, high fives and handshakes.
Calmly, he moved himself toward the teller of the last terrifying tale until they were square on. Gripping the guy’s hand like a vice their eyes locked, the storyteller eager but unable to avert his own as Jeff penetrated the other’s soul and savoured his fear.
Jeff knew this guy would love to kill him - kill anybody! He had seen the look many times as a marine. He held his gaze until the guy surrendered with a wry smile, whereupon the guy punched their fists together as if to declare a draw. Jeff locked into those evil eyes a final time before moving over to the door. Momentarily, he watched as the group gelled, each buzzing with booze and hatred.
Silently, Jeff slipped into the courtyard. Drawing the refreshing air into his lungs, he slid the bolt on the door and locked it. Pulling his last cigarette from the packet, he crunched the empty box in his palm and let it fall to the ground. Solemnly, he walked toward his van.
Removing a black box from his combat jacket, Jeff pulled the aerial out. His thumb covered the red button on the casing as he continued across the courtyard. Without looking back, he pushed it down. A tremendous whoosh filled his ears as flames sucked in air. Glass splintered and shattered about him as it was blown from the skylights and rained hot fragments over his shaven head. Still Jeff didn’t look back. His only thoughts, it was too quick, too kind, unlike the death of his black boyfriend, his beautiful body broken and beaten by baseball bats and boots, dying for no other reason but for being gay and black.
Jeff climbed into his van, pulling a picture of his dead boyfriend from the dashboard. A single tear slipped down his cheek. Kissing the picture once, he whispered, “It is done.”
Placing his thumb over a second red button, he pushed it down. The van disintegrated.
Chapter 4 – FIRST LOVE
Paul jumped from his hammock wearing his floral, Hong Kong boxers. They were not Navy issue, but permitted. His erection popped proudly through the open fly, allowing his tight-knit of black pubic curls above his cock to peep through. Before reaching his locker, he smiled at me, his deep brown eyes sparkling when he caught me staring. I smiled back, shyly, my dimpled cheeks flushing as he read my thoughts.
Paul was teasing for sure, leaving his cock dangling and decreasing in length and girth, a globule of spunk sparkling on the head, remnants of his early-morning entertainment.
With some difficulty, I averted my eyes from this eighteen-year-old seaman, who I adored.
“Morning, Nipper,” Paul greeted, rubbing the smallest of hands over my head.
“Morning, Paul,” I returned, then more bravely, “Nice dream!”
He laughed, boyish for a young man. “Wouldn't you like to know?”
Yes, I would liked to have known, liked to have known that he was dreaming of me, this young sailor, this sailor who loved him.
“Tea?” I offered, willing to be his slave.
“Bacon and egg, and fries, whilst you're there.”
Yes, he was taking advantage, but I would have cooked it, even laid the eggs if he'd asked.
Paul's boxers fell to his ankles as I began to ascend to the deck above to collect his breakfast. His pert bottom stared back at me. It was acorn-brown, not from a decent tanning but from his mix of race. Catching me staring a second time, he winked. Instantly my face turned crimson. Hastily, I began ascending the metal ladder, two rungs at a time. It clanged loudly when I stumbled and fell. Again Paul laughed.
We sat apart whilst Paul and I ate, not that there was any distance between any of us in this miniature mess-deck, which somehow billeted thirty grown men and boys. All the while, my eyes were searching his, searching for a hint of love, for another smile, for any expression that would give me more importance than the other young sailors. But Paul was aware of the dangers of appearing too interested in any one youth, or simply was not, and was locked in 'sailor-talk' with older men, men of whom it was clear saw Paul as a mere boy themselves and not as I did, a mature Adonis.
Paul refused my offer to return his dirty tray to the galley. That hurt me. Another rejection. Didn't he know that I wanted him to want me to do everything for him? More importantly, I wanted him to want me to do that for him.
We had different professions and the completion of breakfast separated us. I wouldn't see him again until lunchtime, maybe, hopefully. I knew I would miss him, miss his smile, laughter, company; miss his beautiful brown body that was firm and fit, flexible, honed to perfection by pulling hawsers, his face freshened in complexion by years of upper-deck air and salt spray splashes. I hoped I too would reach that masculine elegance one day. Hoisting flags, I doubted it.
On the flag-deck, I scrubbed the woodwork with salt water, bringing it to the whiteness of my frail chest, the morning Far East sunshine attempting to reverse that colour to the nut-brown of my beloved Paul.
My white shorts tightened around my buttock cheeks as I bent over and scrubbed the duck boards upon which the twenty-inch signal lamps stood, sweat and salt water dampening them around the crotch.
A stiff slap across my backside bolted my body upright, bringing me eye to eye with Paul, my eyes again reaping every inch of him and sowing the beautiful vision into my subconscious.
How I longed to touch his body, his delicate chest, every muscled defined, or the concave chocolate-button navel sitting on his firm abdomen, or his hairless arms, youthful biceps, formed and solid. Yes, how I wished to touch any part of his wonderful torso that had a curious sprinkling of pinkish blotches all over it, the result of a skin pigmentation complaint.
I know that I'd seen every centimetre of his body during the month that I had been on board, but I wanted to look at it forever and knew I would never tire of that which I desired so badly.
“Bending over like that, Nipper, you're asking to get knobbed.” Paul laughed, grasping the bulge in his shorts.
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