A few months after my divorce I moved down the coast a short way from San Francisco, to a smallish town where I hoped to get some of the quiet I had long craved. The divorce had not been especially angry or bitter; after a while my wife and I simply had nothing to say to each other, and while we rarely argued, the long silences at had home become oppressive to us and to our teenage kids. Luckily they were old enough so that our split wouldn’t traumatize them, and we didn’t have much trouble agreeing on a distribution of property. She got the house, of course, which was fine with me. I wanted to move anyway.
My new home was close enough so that I could see the kids often, and they liked coming down to my place for weekends. By some miracle I had managed to find a small cottage in the woods about half a mile from the highway, and there was a protected cove near the end of my driveway with a small beach that got plenty of sun in the afternoon. We would walk down on weekend mornings and spend the whole day there swimming, grilling burgers, lolling in the sand and climbing the overhanging rocks. My kids were wise enough to know the divorce was probably the best thing, but I could they worried about what they thought was my hermit-like existence.
I didn’t think of it that way. I didn’t want any company besides theirs, I had long worked from home, and I got all the conversation I wanted on my twice-weekly trips to town for groceries. I usually stopped in for a beer at the beachfront bar, where I was one of the regulars whose privacy others respect. Now and then a woman I met would show some interest in me, but I could never seem to work up much interest in them. I missed the sex, of course, but not as much as I thought I would. When I felt horny, solo sex usually took the edge off.
It sounds like a dull life, but it had its spicy moments. Exploring above my cove one day, I found a path that ran through a thicket into a sandy spot with big slabs of standing rock on the landward side and a clear view to the water on the south and west. I started going there two or three times a week, admiring the view and basking in the sun. I often did this in the nude, and naturally this became one of my favorite places to rub one out. I wasn’t worried about getting caught; I’d never seen anyone around, and I figured I’d hear anyone coming in plenty of time to cover up.
One fall day, though, I was lying in the late afternoon said, fantasizing about a girl I had dated in college, and that familiar heaviness was starting in my cock. I was just about to grab hold when I heard rustling in the thicket, and before I could react someone pushed past the last bush and into the clearing. It was a guy about 35, maybe older, wearing shorts, hiking boots, sunglasses and no shirt. He stopped abruptly when he saw me, and as I started to make excuses he held up his hand and said, “Hey, don’t mind me, just passing through.” He pushed through the bushes at the other side of the clearing and was gone.
For several seconds I sat there stunned and ashamed, but then I saw the humor in the situation and starting chuckling to myself. I glanced down at my cock; I was surprised to see that it had gotten very hard -- harder than I usually get. I settled back in the sand and finished the job, and didn’t try to stifle the moan that accompanied my cum. If he’s close by, I thought to myself, he must have gotten a laugh out of that.
A week or two went by. I was sitting at a table in the back of the bar when a guy walked in and sat down on one of the stools. When his eyes swept the bar to see who was in they rested briefly on me, and I thought I saw a smile flicker across his face. What’s up with that, I wondered, but at that point my phone vibrated and I got into a text conversation with my daughter. When I looked up again the guy was gone.
Another week passed. I was laying in supplies at the grocery story when I turned a corner and there he was again. He looked up, registered who I was and smiled again. This time I spoke up.
“Have we met?”
“Sort of,” he said. “You have no tan lines.”
He waited. For a second I was puzzled. Then it hit me; the guy who had found me naked, ready to have a wank. I felt myself starting to blush.
“Hey, it’s cool,” he said. “We’ve all been caught at least once.”
He smiled again, so broadly I had to laugh.
“Steve,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Mark,” I said. But before I could take his hand he pulled it back.
“Washed your hands recently?” he asked.
This time we both laughed. He held his hand out again, and I took it.
“Have a beer next time you’re in town?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said. “l’ll be here Friday night.”
Friday night was unusually warm for October. I had been gotten sweaty working around the house all day, so I decided to take a shower. As I soaped up I felt myself getting hard, but I resisted the temptation to beat off. Drying myself in front of the mirror, I looked at my semi-hard dick and thought, “Wonder what Steve thought about this?” I surveyed the rest of my body -- not bad for 42, I thought: not muscular but reasonably toned, only the hint of a belly. I suddenly felt self-conscious, and shook these strange thoughts from my head -- thoughts I realized were usually prompted by women.
Twenty minutes later I walked into the bar. Steve was already there, sitting at a table off to one side. I shook his hand as I sat down, noticing for the first time what a good-looking guy he was; not move-star handsome, but an honest, open face with regular features, tousled blond hair and green eyes. “Clean hands?” he asked, and I was strangely glad I had not jacked off in the shower. I said yes, laughing again. He gripped my hand firmly and said “Mine aren’t.” This time we both laughed, and in that moment, I think, we became friends.
We drank and talked for a long time that night, covering most things guys do when they talk: sports, work and sports. After the fourth beer we moved to more personal stuff: I told him about growing up in the Midwest, moving to California for a job, marrying and having kids, the divorce. He had grown up in the Bay Area but never liked city life, and after law school had moved down here to be close to the beach and the woods and set up a small-town practice. He had been married briefly in his 20s, no kids, and since then had three or four long-time girlfriends, each of whom dumped him when it became clear he wasn’t going to marry again.
We were still there when the bar closed. We sat outside to sober up before going home, and it wasn’t until nearly 3 that I rolled into bed. I was not as badly hung over the next day as I thought I would be, so I grabbed a towel, put a coupe of beers and a sandwich into a cooler and headed down to the beach. It was still warm, so I climbed up to my sandy spot, spread the towel, undressed and opened a beer. I sat there for awhile to let the beer take hold, and then lay down.
When I closed my eyes I saw not my ex-wife’s lovely breasts, which I had never tired of admiring, nor did I remember the long slow fucks we used to have before we had kids; instead I saw Steve, quietly watching me. In my fantasy he didn’t move off as soon as he spotted me, but stood watching while I stroked myself. I had a long, slow jack, and my dick was almost painfully hard and swollen when I finally went over the edge, blasting cum all over my stomach, chest and chin. When I opened my eyes I half-expected Steve to be standing there. Good Lord, I thought, where is this coming from?
I went home a little disconcerted by what had gone through my mind while I was beating off. Why was I thinking about a guy?
The next week was a busy one, so I didn’t have much time to dwell on it. My kids were down for their fall break, and we kept busy hiking in the hills and strolling along the beach, though the water was now too cold to swim in. They left Saturday morning, and it was only after they left that I thought of Steve again. We had arranged to meet at the bar again that night, and I was really looking forward to seeing him.
About 2 p.m. I had a thought; why not invite him down to grill steaks and maybe hit the beach? I called him -- we had exchanged numbers -- and he said, “Great idea. I’ve got a couple of errands to run but I can be there about 4.” I tidied up the place a bit, took a shower and put some more beers in the fridge to cool.
At 4:15 I heard a car coming up the drive, and as he got out I thought again what a good-looking guy he is. He was wearing shorts and a faded green polo, and his face had that slightly weathered, reddened but not unattractive look of people who spend a lot of time in the sun. We stuffed the steaks and beers into packs and coolers, put the portable grill in my trunk and drove back down to the road above the beach. Fifteen minutes later we had the grill set up and the first beers open, and within 10 minutes we were deep into conversation.
I can’t remember now what we talked about, before, inevitably, the conversation turned to sex. We talked about our first times, our first real lovers, what this or that woman would or wouldn’t do -- all the usual things men talk about when they’ve had a few drinks. We stopped long enough to put the steaks on, cook and eat them, and we were starting our fourth or fifth beer when I asked Steve, “What was the wildest, most erotic thing you ever did?”
He thought a minute before, a little sheepishly, beginning a story about a female cousin who had seduced him when she was 17 and he was 16. During a big family gathering they had sneaked off to the upstairs room of a big farmhouse and played a game of “you-show-me-yours” that ended with them wildly fucking on an old featherbed. He had come at least four times in two hours, and he lost track of how many times she had. As he told the story I of course felt myself getting hard, and when I reached into my pants to adjust myself to be more comfortable he saw me and did the same.
“How about you?” he asked.
I told him about the time before my wife and I got married when we had gone sailing with a college girlfriend of hers and the girl’s boyfriend. We’d anchored the boat in a secluded cove and gotten very drunk on wine, which led to some skinny-dipping and then, after a lot of suggestive kidding, back into the boat and into the two narrow berths below. The girls told us two guys to lie down in the berths and then bent down to suck us. The other guy and I turned to look at each other and smiled as if to say, “Can you believe this?” The girls then climbed on top and started riding the ponies; my girl’s wonderful tits were dangling in my face but I kept watching her girlfriend, whose tits were if anything still more gorgeous.
When we were all close to coming the other girl suddenly said, “Switch!” The girls got up and, believe it or not, changed places. I had always admired this other girl’s body, which was more curvaceous than my girlfriend’s, but I had never really let myself lust after her. But when she climbed in my berth and straddled me, rubbing her dripping wet pussy against my dick, I thought I would blast right then and there. I put my hands on her tits and pulled them toward my mouth, and when I licked her nipples she damn near squealed. Then I turned just in time to see my girl take the other guy’s cock in her mouth; instead of making me mad this turned me on further; and when my girlfriend moved up to take him in her cunt she turned and gave me the wickedest smile. Then both girls started fucking us good, and it was the most incredible...”
I stopped. Steve was looking at me with intense interest, his eyes shining, his mouth slightly open. His hand went to the front of his shorts; I could see he was shifting his cock around again. I did the same.
“Go on,” he insisted.
And so I took a big swig of beer and told him what happened next, a part of the story I had never told before, a part I couldn’t stop myself from telling now: About how one of the girls said “Switch” again, but this time when they got up my girl took my arm and pulled me out of the berth and lay down with her friend. They looked at each other briefly, and then kissed. I stood there flabbergasted as they started rubbing their tits together, running their hands over each other’s bodies, finding the slots that had till then been filled by throbbing cocks. I looked at the other guy and he, too, was stunned. We looked at each other and then at the girls, who had stopped kissing long enough to turn and look at us.
“Well,” my girl said. “What are you waiting for?”
Then I told Steve about sitting down, my cock still at full attention, on the other berth. A few seconds later I felt a hand, very tentatively, on my back. It was like a flame shooting through my body. I turned and looked at the guy, and he had this kind of, “Why not?” look on his face, so I lay down next to him.
I paused, unsure whether to continue.
“Then what?” Steve said.
I told him how for, a few seconds, we lay there without moving. In the other berth the girls were moaning and making all kinds of noises, and I could see both my dick and the other guy’s were still very hard. Almost without thinking I put my hand on my cock, and he did the same. And the next I knew we were touching each other’s cocks and both leaking like crazy and then we turned and touched our cocks together and I put my hand on his shouder and pulled him close and he put his hand on my ass and ground us together and next thing I knew we were moving in rhythm like we were fucking and then all four of us started to come almost simultaneously, the girls in high-pitched squeals and the other guy and I grunting and moaning. We hit at the same time and when I came it was just about the hardest I ever came in my life. Jizz went everywhere and we were both covered in it.”
I paused again.
“Wow,” he said quietly. “Wow.”
Then I told him how we switched back to the original couples, and went at it again, only this time I stayed with my girl and the other guy stayed with his, but what I didn’t tell Steve was that I kept thinking about the other guy and imagining his cock against mine and half wishing my girl would call “Switch!” again.
I was raging hard now and it was all I could do not to stick my had in my pants. Steve I could tell was feeling the same. He shifted uneasily on the sand and reached in a pocket to give his obviously hard cock room to move.
“Wow,” he said again. “Hot.”
There was a long, thick silence. Then I told him how we all woke up the next day, and despite our hangovers we fucked our girls again and then jumped in the water naked to clean up, and how hard it was for me not to look at the other guy’s body, tanned and fit as it was, and not to think about the feel of his dick against mine. But the guy wouldn’t even look me in the eye. Finally we all got dressed and sailed back to port. When the other couple left the guy finally looked at me, with something in his eye that said, “That was pretty hot, wasn’t it?’’ and then they left and I never saw either one of them again.
“I’ve never told anyone about this before,” I said. “I guess I’m drunk. You must think I’m weird.”
He shook his head. Then, after a long pause, he asked, “Did you ever do it again with a guy?”
“No,” I said.
Another long pause. I knew what he was going to say, willed him to say it.
“Do you want to?” he finally asked.
I looked at him. There was fear in his face, fear that what he had said might be angrily rejected, might ruin our budding friendship. But there was also desire, intense desire, and go-for-broke look that I kind of admired.
“Yes,” I said.
He stood up, picked up a towel, turned and headed for the rocks. I grabbed two beers and followed him. He moved faster than I did, and well before I got close to the sandy spot I caught a flash of his naked ass. Then I passed his clothes, strung out along the path like he’d shucked them off running, and when I finally came out of the bushes he was lying on the towel, naked, his cock rigid and straining, still breathing heavily from the exertion of the climb. For a second I stood there looking at him, the way he’d once looked at me.
“You look better even thanI imagined,” I said.
“You thought about me?”
‘Yes,” I said, looking away.
“You sure about this?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
I took another long pull of my beer, put it on the ground. I unbuttoned my shirt and shrugged it off, kicked off my shoes and dropped my pants and shorts. My cock was pointing almost straight up.
“Better than I remember,” Steve said.
I lay down next to him. We turned and faced each other. He reached over with his free hand, touched my hip, stroked my ass. Then my cock was in his hand, his grip gentle but firm. He stroked a few times, enough to coax a moan out of me. A drop of precum appeared on the tip; he touched it with a finger and spread it gently around the head.
“Oh, God,” I said.
I felt for his cock with my free hand. His dick was a little shorter than mine but also thicker. Precum was pouring out of it. I used it to lube his whole cock, and in seconds he was on top of me, grinding his dick into mine. We moved together, our rock-hard cocks sliding against each other, slick with precum, breathing rapidly. In less than a minute we were both near coming, and as I got close I put my hand behind his head and pulled him close. Our lips met, and as God is my witness it was the most electric kiss I ever had. We kissed long and hard, still thrusting our cocks, and when he pulled away for a second to breathe I realized he was about to cum and so was I. I felt that familiar heat in the root of my cock and that tingling in my balls, and I could feel the beginnings of contractions in his dick, and I felt a wave move through me from my feet to my fingertips, and I could feel one moving through him, too, and then we both exploded, clinging to each other and gasping as rope after rope of cum blasted out of our dicks. It seemed like forever before the contractions stopped, and when they finally did we lay there breathing quietly, still clinging to each other, our faces still close together. I kissed him again, gently, and he eagerly kissed me back. Then he rolled over on his back and looked at the sky, just starting to darken.
“Wow,” he finally said. “Wow.”
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