Man-to-Man Firsts Read online

  MAN-TO-MAN FIRSTS

  Weekend Getaways

  Diana Sheridan

  EROTIC ROMANCE

  Secret Cravings Publishing

  www.secretcravingspublishing.com

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  A Secret Cravings Publishing Book

  Erotic Romance

  MAN-TO-MAN FIRSTS

  Copyright © 2011 by Diana Sheridan

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-61885-040-9

  First E-book Publication: October 2011

  Cover design by Beth Walker

  Edited by Lori Paige

  Proofread by Ariana Gaynor

  All cover art and logo copyright © 2011 by Secret Cravings Publishing

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  PUBLISHER

  Secret Cravings Publishing

  www.secretcravingspublishing.com

  Dedication

  To my friend Cassandra Pierce, a good—

  and hot—writer

  MAN-TO-MAN FIRSTS

  Weekend Getaway

  Diana Sheridan

  Copyright © 2011

  LEARNING EXPERIENCE

  I didn’t want to work that summer. I was finally out of high school and due to start college in the fall. I knew what college life would be like, and I don’t mean frat parties and keggers. College, for all the fun, is a lot of work, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. After college, I’d be working till I reached retirement age. This would be my last summer to relax, to take it easy, to spend the time surfing and sunning and swimming.

  But my dad had other ideas.

  He argued in favor of my working because it would be a good learning experience. What’s more, he didn’t want to be raising a bum. At eighteen, I was old enough to learn what life was about. There was more, too. But his most convincing argument? “If you want any money out of us while you’re in college, you’d better show us that you’re willing to earn part of it yourself. You don’t get a free ride.”

  So I acquiesced…but then I dragged my feet about looking for a job. I don’t know if I was hoping all the jobs would be gone by the time I applied—and, after all, if I told my dad I’d tried to get a job, he couldn’t hold it against me if I failed, could he?—or if it was just indolence and lack of interest.

  But Dad took care of that, too. He came home from work one day and told me one of his clients needed some summer help, and he’d arranged an interview for me.

  Oh great! Just what I needed—to spend the summer doing lord-knows-what for some dorky old guy as practically an indentured servant…with the dork reporting back to my dad every time I goofed up.

  I groaned. “Well, do you have any other prospects?” Dad asked, his hands on his hips. So it was decided. And I felt Doomed—with a capital D.

  I had no idea what a favor my dad had done me!

  My first surprise came when I met Lou. He wasn’t a dorky old guy. He wasn’t, in fact, dorky or old…or anything like either one of those things. I guessed him to be about thirty-five, but he was trim—in fact, buff—and suntanned, and genial too. “I need a personal assistant. Your dad says you’re available only for the summer. Well, that’s all right…I’ll get someone new in the fall. Meanwhile, I’m sure you’ll do.

  “Your chores will involve everything from helping me with my business to helping me with my gardening. I have a lawn crew that comes in to mow and edge and so forth, but they don’t tend to the flower garden. I need someone to prune and weed and trim…and cut fresh flowers for the vase in the living room whenever the old ones start to wilt. And you’ll be making runs to the post office with packages for my business—the office is over the garage—and picking up office supplies, and….”

  I missed what he said after that. I was stuck on the part about his having cut flowers in the house. The guy liked cut flowers? What was he—gay or something? But no, look at those muscles; look at that rugged appearance; look at the vigor and vitality he exuded. Surely this was no nellie swish.

  Apparently there were no personnel forms to fill out for this job “interview”; apparently I had the job. As my mind stopped wandering and wondering, and I drifted back to the here-and-now, Lou was telling me to show up for work the next morning at eight. “I like to get an early start.” Well, there went any chance of sleeping late this summer! “No suit and tie—you’ll be doing a lot of work with your hands. Wear jeans—or shorts if you want. Dress comfortably,” Lou said. “Wear clothes you don’t mind getting dirty.”

  My first task was cleaning out the garage. Lou and I worked together, and we talked as we worked. He was easygoing and funny, and I found I enjoyed his company. After a while, it felt less like a job and more like I was helping a buddy with some scutwork.

  Then he dragged me upstairs to his office over the garage, where he was preparing to send out a mailing. He’d run out some sales letters on his computer, and my job was to address one hundred envelopes, fold each letter into an envelope, run the envelopes through the postage meter, then take them to the post office.

  “Don’t get spoiled by the lightweight mailing.” Lou laughed. “You’ll be shipping plenty of heavy packages for me.”

  The task was boring, but when I thought that I might’ve been flipping burgers someplace, it didn’t seem too bad.

  It was near the end of my second week that Lou asked if I wanted to stay and have a beer after work. It was at the end of the third beer that I noticed he was sitting awfully close to me, but by then the unaccustomed alcohol was strongly blurring my thinking processes. Lou told an off-color joke, and I laughed and told him one in return. “Good one!” he said, slapping my knee. His hand seemed to linger a moment…or was I imagining it?

  My dick was stirring, too. Must be the dirty jokes, I thought, though sex jokes didn’t usually have that effect on me. Irrationally, I found myself wondering about Lou’s dick. Was it big? Bigger than the boys’ dicks in the locker room at school? I’d sometimes found myself pecker-checking the other guys, which bothered me more than a little, though I knew some competitive comparing was normal.

  Suddenly I realized Lou was looking at my dick. He had noticed my hard-on! “It was the dirty jokes!” I blurted out, embarrassed as hell.

  “Are you sure?” Lou asked with a slow smile. And then his hand was on my knee again. And this time i
t didn’t leave.

  “Uh—yeah,” I said. But I wasn’t so sure. Why had I sprung a full woody? Why was I oozing pre-cum?

  “Maybe Roger knows something you don’t know,” Lou said slyly.

  Roger? Oh…my dick!

  And then Lou’s hand was on my dick. I couldn’t push him away—he was my boss. I couldn’t push him away—he was my dad’s client. I couldn’t push him away—it felt good. He was squeezing my lump of dickflesh, jacking it through the material of my pants, squeezing and releasing while he worked the dick back and forth and talked to me in a seductive purr: “Your dick knows what you like. Roger has a mind of his own. Right now, Roger wants a warm pair of lips closed around him, a tight throat massaging him, a tongue sliding up and down his underside. Let’s give Roger what he wants.”

  Maybe it was the beers. Maybe it was the fact that I was now too hot to argue. Maybe I had been gay all along and just never knew it. Probably it was all three. But I followed Lou upstairs to the bedroom, where he led me into the master bath. “We both could use a shower first,” he said.

  He soaped me up, and his hands on my nipples did strange and wondrous things. As he skated over the little brown nips, a current ran straight to my dick and balls. He washed them far longer than they needed. Each pass across my hard nubbins made my dick stiffer and stiffer. Spurts of pre-cum were dribbling from my piss-slit now. My legs felt weak, and it definitely wasn’t the beer.

  My eyes zeroed in on Lou’s dick, which was a mottled maroon, long and very thick, hooded and hairy. Since we’d learned about safe sex in school, I knew better than to drop to my knees and take it in my mouth, yet that was exactly what I wanted to do. I settled for hesitantly wrapping a hand around it.

  It felt so different from my own meat. It was the same length but much thicker. And it was spongier, and the veins stood out in bold relief. I jacked it, and it felt good in my hand. I jacked it more urgently. Lou began to sway back and forth in the shower, punching his hips forward with my thrusts. His soapy rod slicked through my fist, slithering in and out of my grasp, and Lou grabbed my rod and treated it to the same kind of handling.

  But just when I thought I was about to lose a load, Lou stopped abruptly. “Let’s get ourselves clean and get on with the fun,” he directed in a lust-thickened voice. When Lou soaped up my back, however, we got sidetracked again. Things were fine when his hands were on my back, but as they slid down to my butt, he got distracted. His hand polished my taut globes, then slithered into my butt-crack. That’s when things got intense.

  Lou seemed intent on getting my butt-pucker clean…or, at least, he certainly was spending a lot of time there. His soapy fingers skated nimbly across, touching every nerve, polishing my rosebud to what must have been a fine sheen. I tingled. I ached. I wanted…what? I didn’t know, but my body called out for something.

  It got a taste of something it liked a minute later, when Lou’s finger eased inside my sphincter and began to fuck in and out of my dank ass-vault. I shivered. Goose-bumps grew across my skin in profusion. And then, as he hit something buried deep in my rectal canal and rubbed it the right way, my dick gave a lurch and, although neither of us was touching it, it began to spit a load.

  “Roger likes that,” Lou chuckled, while I sagged against the tiled wall of the shower, my legs suddenly weak.

  Lou didn’t stop his anal probing, and my dick didn’t soften. Despite having just spurted, it remained as rampant as ever. And now Lou had two fingers in me…and now three! The three plunged recklessly in and out of me, deeply delving, ram-rodding far up my canal.

  “If that feels good, wait’ll you feel this,” Lou said, swinging his hips forward and pressing his dickhead into my thigh. “Let me just get a rubber…”

  He had three shelves up high in the shower. They held shampoo, soap, a back brush…and, apparently, rubbers. Did he make a habit of fucking guys in the shower? He tore open a packet, clad his dick, and soaped the rubber to make it slick. Then he pried my butt cheeks apart with his hands and nudged his dicktip up against my pucker. “This is going to hurt at first. Hang in with it. It’s worthwhile,” he advised.

  Then—before I had a chance to have second thoughts—he punched his hips forward and drove his dick through my sphincter.

  Yeeeeowwww! Man, he hadn’t been kidding about the pain. It hurt like a sonofabitch! But the heat of pain soon transmogrified into a different kind of heat, and soon enough it began to feel good. Beyond just “good.”

  I leaned against the wall to get a better stance, then began bucking my hips against Lou’s fuck-motions. His thick, long tool plunged deeper and deeper up my chute till his balls were slapping against my ass-cheeks. My ass was having no trouble swallowing him in his entirety now; the pain had vanished totally, and in its place was sheer pleasure of the deepest, most satisfying, and most exciting kind.

  Lou plunged into me wickedly, determinedly, repeatedly. He reached around and gripped my dick, jacking it as he thrust in and out of me with his stabbing sword. I stood spread-legged, taking everything he had to give me, bucking back against him, swallowing his meat in my hungry ass.

  With one reckless final plunge, Lou skewered me deeper than ever and then shot off into my bowels, and although I knew I was imagining it, I swore I felt the rubber straining deep inside my guts. Then he tugged my tool a couple more times and I, too, shot off.

  My legs gave out for real, then, and I sagged to the floor of the shower. Lou rinsed the soap off both of us—though we had never quite finished washing to begin with—and grabbed another rubber from the shelves. Stripping off the full rubber, he tied it off and aimed it for the bathroom wastebasket, then replaced it with a fresh one. “Suck,” he urged, leaning over me. I tilted my head, opened my mouth, and sucked in his wonderful meat.

  * * * *

  “If you work over the summer, you’ll learn something,” Dad had told me. Well, it certainly had turned out that he was right. But I didn’t think, somehow, that this was what he’d had in mind.

  And I sure wasn’t going to tell him about it.

  HEADS OR TAILS

  Where do I start the story of my coming out? How much of a preface do I include?

  Do I go back to my major crush on high school track star Vic, he of the lean muscles, trim body, dazzling smile, and huge basket? I sprang a woody whenever he was in view—or even in my thoughts—and I did everything possible just to be near him—to sit at the same table in the cafeteria, to walk near him in the halls. But I never admitted my feelings were homoerotic. I never let myself think my feelings were anything more than hero worship. After all, this was a guy who had it all, while I was the science whiz who was averagely popular with the other guys, maintained a B average but wasn’t a Major Brain, and distinguished myself only in such classes as Bio and Chem.

  Or do I start the story with my senior prom, when Mary Jane Kennedy whispered in the back of the rented limo that she wasn’t wearing panties beneath her glamorous dress? When I didn’t react, she prompted me, “If you don’t believe me, see for yourself!” I didn’t. I told her it wouldn’t be respectful of me. I told her a bunch of other hogwash too. The truth was, the thought of touching her pussy made me just a bit queasy. That should have been a clue to me, but once again, I refused to see the obvious.

  Maybe I should start my story with the night two buddies got a hold of an old-fashioned “stag film,” a grainy, badly acted, black-and-white porno from a bygone era. I had never seen any porn videos, believe it or not, though I didn’t tell them that, and while they were laughing over the incredibly bad, unintentionally funny movie, I was developing a hard-on from watching the big dicks in the movie…though my stiffy went limp every time the camera showed a pussy. That was the night I came to terms with the fact that dicks turned me on and pussies didn’t.

  By the time the guys carried out the old 8 mm projector, put away the stag films, and popped a modern-day porno in the VCR, I was red-faced with the belated realization that I was gay. At eighteen�
�I was out on my own and working by now—I finally faced the truth.

  But really, that’s all prelude. The real climax—if you’ll pardon a pun—to it all came the next morning. I woke up at four AM, unable to sleep, restless and embarrassed and eager and ashamed by turns, conflicted over my realization of gayness and definitely unable to lie still.

  I started to jerk off, and I consciously pictured myself sucking some guy’s dick. But I still wasn’t quite ready to deal with deliberately summoning such an image. Swinging my feet out of the bed, I hopped into my jeans, stuffed my still-hard rod into my pants, and left my one-room apartment like that…barefoot, shirtless, and without so much as a sip of coffee. I headed for the beach.

  Now, where I currently live—Virginia—“the beach” means the sand alongside the ocean. But in my mid-continent hometown, “the beach” meant a lakeshore. It was June, and a soft breeze shredded the thickness of the humid night that was creeping toward morning. By the time I got to the beach, dawn’s rosy fingers had a grip on the horizon, and I could see the water break where hungry fish were surfacing in search of a succulent meal of mosquito.

  I was as restless as the fish, though I didn’t know precisely what had drawn me to the beach. Maybe it was Destiny, or Fate, those twin sisters who often steer the courses of our lives in unexpected ways. Mine certainly got a goose in just the right direction…in the person of Todd, who, like me, had come to the beach at this early hour, though not for the same reasons.

  The lanky towhead was there with his palette and canvas to paint a sunrise scene. By vocation he was a diesel motor mechanic for the local bus company, but by avocation he was a painter. When we encountered each other on the rocky shore, we naturally fell into conversation. He asked me what I was doing there. I hesitated, and he withdrew the question. “I guess you’re working out something personal,” he said. “This is a great place to do that. None of my business what the problem is, though. Sorry I asked. If you’d rather just keep walking and thinking, go on. It’s okay, dude.”