George Whitman was grateful for the window in his bedroom that looked out into a small green space between the rows of buildings. If he looked upwards, over the buildings on the other side, he could see in the distance the very top of the British Museum. Down below there was a small patch of mossy grass fringed with ferns, then tall shrubs and an old, blackened brick wall. It wasn't clear to which building the little plot belonged, but someone must cut the grass from time to time. Most of all George was happy that it was quiet back there and that he could leave his window open at night. Back in Boston he would have the air conditioning unit turned on at night, but here, without AC, only the cooler night breezes would make sleeping possible.

That first night, after getting some groceries and eating a quiche rewarmed in the microwave, he poured himself a glass of red wine and sat on a little chair next to the window. He had turned off the light on the table and was enjoying the restful sight of the greenery, that contrasted so much with the noisy traffic on the street side of the flat. After a while he heard some muffled laughter coming from somewhere below, and then he saw a couple of young men, boys really. They must have been nineteen years old. They were wearing jeans and dark t-shirts and each held a bottle of beer. They were joking and laughing and then one took off his shirt, followed almost immediately by the other. They sipped their beer and talked. George could not hear what they said. What do boys talk about at that age? Girls, cars, motorcycles...? At thirty-two he felt much older, a different generation. It would never have occurred to him, when he was their age, to get a tattoo, especially not such extensive tattoos. One of them, the blond, had an abstract pattern in dark blue or black ink all the way from his neck, over his shoulder and down his right arm to the elbow. The other had a large green lizard across his chest.

Their shirts were off because of the heat but also, George thought, just to show off their decorated bodies, which were, needless to say, also taut and muscular. Since he worked out regularly at the gym he knew that he was probably just as strong as they, but even so, a thirty-year-old body does not have the glow of such younger ones.

He sipped his wine and thought that it would be nice to be down there in the greenery. They had flopped down onto the grass and were leaning back against a lichen-covered squared stone that remained from some earlier building, perhaps, or had been the base of a sculpture now long-gone. George imagined the feeling of the cool stone on their bare skin. They had finished their beers and tossed the bottles into the ferns.

What happened next startled him. The boy with the chestnut hair reached over casually and without saying anything at all, leaned forward and bent sideways and started licking his companion's chest. The blond did not seem at all surprised, but instead put his right hand on his friend's head as if to urge him to continue. The brunette not only continued licking but reached down to the other boy’s crotch and began to caress the denim.

George felt a warm feeling in his own crotch. This surprised him and alarmed him a little, because as a straight man he didn’t think he’d be aroused by two boys together. Two girls, of course. That was his favorite. He had a large collection of videos of girls and women, some downloaded and some on DVD, back in his place in Boston. But he had never actually, in real life, seen two women make love. Kissing, yes, at parties, rarely. Now, though, he was riveted by the sight down below in the evening light.

Now the blond’s jeans were unzipped, and the other boy was stroking the white cotton briefs, grasping his friend’s erection through the fabric. In videos, George enjoyed very much seeing a girl’s fine hand press against the crotch of her partner’s panties, making a patch of damp appear. But the sight of an boy’s erection being caressed through the nubby white cloth was new and fascinating.

Was it the jet lag? It could mess with one’s mind, George thought. Or the prospect of being without his girlfriend Jennifer for two months? Or the wine? Or did he just feel somehow liberated by being in a new place? Something was making him feel very horny. He was far from home and no one could see him. His own hand was already feeling his erection through his chinos. His heart was beating harder, and it seemed to skip a beat when the brunette, who was now on his knees, grasped the elastic band, pushed the cotton down, and released the swollen cock, which spring to full attention.

George wished that it were brighter. Why couldn’t this have happened at noon, when the sun flooded into this little garden. Even now, though, he could detect the dark color of the cockhead and the paler shaft.

He had unzipped his pants and pulled out his own cock, which was rod-like. It felt good to stroke it. No one could see. He momentarily glanced away from the beautiful scene below to look at the surrounding buildings. There were several windows from which his own could be seen, but they were dark. The boys were probably out of sight of all but his own window and the one just upstairs. But he had heard no sound recently from above.

The scene was all for him! And he could enjoy it in solitude. They could surely not see him but he could see them. The freedom to masturbate undisturbed while drinking his wine with a real live show and not a video! George was very excited now, and the perverse nature of his excitement just increased it. Perverse? Not what the boys were doing. George was enlightened enough to think it normal, for some people. But perverse for him, certainly, a straight man, practically married.

Little drops of pre-cum were beginning to form at the tip of his cock. He could see the boy on his knees bend forward now to take his friend’s member in his mouth. If only he could change angle, because now he could not see the erection but only the chestnut head bobbing up and down. But the look on the blond’s face was astounding, a look almost of pain, his eyes closing and then opening, his mouth gasping for breath.

All of a sudden George wondered what it would be like to have a cock in his mouth. He had never thought this before. His mouth opened and he began to imagine that a stiff rod with a smooth, warm, fleshy surface poked in across his lips and then across his tongue. He imagined closing his lips tightly around the shaft, then moving his tongue against it.

Down below, thankfully, the boy sucking had released the cock from his mouth, and shifted so that George could see his tongue flicking against the cockhead. What an amazing sight! While he continued to stroke with his right hand, George put his left index finger to the very tip of his glans and brought it, coated with pre-cum, to his own tongue. It was salty and a little bitter. Exciting! He had tasted it before, a few times, mixed with a girlfriend’s saliva, in kisses, but never full-strength and undiluted. What would it be like to have a whole mouthful.

George was now in a euphoric state of arousal and longing. Just once! Just once he would like to have a large, stiff, young, clean cock in his mouth, like the boy below. They could share, passing the cock back and forth! Or the blond could suck George. No! Much better, George could be on his knees between them, alternating between them both, sucking the brown-haired boy’s testicles into his mouth and then the blond’s, comparing them. He realized that as he did this, their cocks would rub against his forehead.

He would play with them, trying to push both into his mouth at the same time. They would never go in, they were too big, but he could rub the tips together and watch the pearly drops ooze out. He would lick up the drops...

And which would be better? For them to each come in turn deep in his mouth, as they took turns fucking his face? Or for them to jerk off, using his mouth as a target, shooting most of their loads onto his waiting tongue, but also splashing over his face and dripping down onto his chest? He would be completely stripped, of course, and so would they, and maybe he would have to hold on to their strong thighs to steady himself as he knelt before them.

Just as he heard the blond exclaim loudly “SHIT! SHIT!” and saw him tense up and tremble, George himself shot a plume of white that splattered on the wall below the window, and then another that fell onto the floor.

That was the last he remembered. He woke up the next morning, still mostly dressed, with his pants down around his knees, on top of the bed. Had he dreamt all that? But he was straight! How could he... But it was only a dream.

He looked toward the window. There were dried patches of white on the wall and also on the floor.

He closed his eyes, and began to imagine the scene, while his hand found its way down to his limp penis. No one could see him. No one would ever know, he thought, as he began to stroke.