Summer "Lovers" Get In Final Trysts

In about a week, most public schools would be back in session, corralling hundreds of thousands of children and beginning another cycle of shoving reading, writing, and 'rithematic down their throats. The new school year would also mark a noted slow-down for summer-focused businesses like amusement parks, outdoor music venues, water parks, and "water sports" in general. So I talked to my editor and he agreed to let me do a feature on a handful of local businesses that still promise a few weeks of summer fun.

My first stop was a place called Sand Valley Marina, home of "The Catch Club." This business is owned by a retired navy officer who turned his boyhood love of the water and fishing and his skills as a "squid" into a thriving tourist destination.

I was dressed casually for the interview with Carl Jeffers, known to his friends as "Catch." I had on almond-toned cargo shorts and a new navy t-shirt that hugged my frame. I wore old loafers that wouldn't matter if drenched. I carried only a camera bag from work which cradled a water-proof digital camera and my notepad ... I didn't risk my digital voice recorder near so much water.

The Catch Club was located right on the end of a busy pier, surrounded by a few private boat slips. I had to park my car quite a ways back from the water, but I enjoyed the walk ... the warm sun on my pale skin felt wonderful. I don't get into the outdoors as much as I should and the breeze off the water was brisk and refreshing.

The directions I'd been given were to look for a large, pale blue "shack" with lanterns and a synthetic thatch roof. And flags ... lots of nautical flags from all over the globe. Even without the instructions, I could have spotted the thriving business just from the blaring music ... Beach Boys ... and the crazy amount of people.

The pier was jammed with families and couples and groups of energetic friends readying themselves for some time on the water. There were four gentlemen ... probably late 40s or early 50s ... talking animately on a bench, tons of tackle and gear at their flip-flopped feet. One guy even had the classic hat with several dangling lures. A small group of young ladies stood in a clump, giggling like little kids as they rented water skis and the services of a boat and driver to take them out. Off to one side, there was a line of older teenagers ... IDs in hand ... waiting to rent jet skis. And perhaps another 10 people meandered about, looking at schedules and price lists. Two little boys scooted off the pier as I approached to fly their colorful kites on the nearby beach.


Whatever The Catch Club had to offer, I was most impressed by the abundance of bare skin ... especially the various hunks parading around in board shorts, revealing square-cut swimsuits, and classic cut-off jeans and wifebeaters. As I walked up onto the rough-planked pier, I spied two such specimens behind the Catch's counter. One was on the tall side, bulky with sun-kissed brown hair on the wavy end of the spectrum. A smokey gray nylon swimsuit hugged his hairy legs, defining his impressive bulge as he handed out life vests to a number of customers. The other hottie was shorter ... darker hair set off his prominent nose and pillow-soft lips. He was busy helping a family of four sign up for a water safety course. As he spoke, he absently scratched the dark hair that fanned up from the top of his jean shorts to frame his sexy navel. I quickly checked the corners of my mouth for drool. Oh, yeah, there were two pretty girls helping out, too ... manning a "store" of sorts that offered snacks, sunglasses, ski wax, t-shirts, sun visors, lures, Styrofoam containers, and a ton of the usual beach trinkets.


I was waiting patiently, leaning against an old chest freezer adorned with an unappetizing sign reading "Ice/Bait." Suddenly, the taller Catch employee had a break in business, so I went up to the little make-shift counter and tried to get his attention. "Excuse me, I'm looking for Mr. Jeffers."


"You with the marina?" he asked in a snippy tone. Almost defensively, his posture stiffened and he straightened to his full height ... 6' 1" I guessed. I couldn't help staring at his large brown nipples as they protruded nicely from rounded pectoral muscles. Holy fuck! my brain screamed.


I acted completely nonplussed. My eyes lifted and focused on his sea-green irises. "No. I'm supposed to ..."


"With the health department? The water safety board?"


"Well, um, no ..."


With that, the young man's body deflated slightly and his whole form noticeably relaxed. The change in demeanor was strange and sexy at the same time. "Well, what the hell can I do you for, man?" he beamed at me with a smile that could power a small city. His hand shot out and coaxed my own into a shake. His forearm had loads of that sun-drenched hair, tendons playfully flexing just below the skin.


"I was supposed to meet Mr. Jeffers for a newspaper interview." I withdrew from his powerful grip and eyed him professionally ... I hoped.


His unruly hair swayed in front of his forehead as he nodded vigorously. "Well, Dad should have been back about 30 minutes ago, but he had some engine trouble. Uncle Danny hooked up with him and the problem's almost fixed. He should be here in about an hour. You wanna talk to him on the radio?" His tanned, sinewy arm gestured toward a beat-up CB-like console on a back counter.


"No ... I'll just wait around." He started to turn away. "So, Mr. Jeffers is your old man?" I queried, trying to maintain conversation with the handsome beach stud.


He stopped his body from twisting away and answered with another mega-watt grin. Make that a medium-sized city, I thought. "Don't let my Dad hear you say 'old' and his name in the same sentence. He's really sensitive about getting older ... and gray hair. Don't say anything about him going gray."


I was about to assure him that I wouldn't when he continued. "My name's Todd. I help Dad out during the summers, and when I'm off at college we still work on the books and make deals with suppliers and other boaters and junk. Mostly, I babysit the place when Dad's out on the water." Then he pointed over at the shorter beauty still assisting patrons. "And that's Gil, my college roommate and my 'first mate' when I'm in charge here." Gil looked over quickly and offered a sly look and a casual wave. "He's also responsible for all the tunes we play, so register your complaints ... or compliments ... with him."


I chuckled and took a moment to appreciate the smoothness of Gil's legs and his genuinely happy mannerisms as he explained water skiing rates to a slightly-overweight couple. He was such an attractive dude, almost feline in the way he gestured and bounced lightly on the balls of his feet. His skin was like porcelain, lightly tanned the hue of toasted coconut.


"He's a big help," Todd added, interrupting my ogling. "He's so good with people and helping Dad and me stock the place. I'd deny this if you quoted me, but this place runs the revenue we get from people forgetting sunglasses and sunscreen. And then Gil suggested we start caring the over-the-counter shit for nausea and seas sickness ... we can't hardly keep that little display stocked!" Almost like he was telepathic, Gil looked over again and treated us with a smirk.


I had a few other background questions for Todd, so I retrieved my notepad from the camera bag. He fielded my inquisitiveness like a pro. He explained how his father and his uncle, the aforementioned Dan Jeffers, had started the business on some cash inherited from a seldom-seen grandmother. They began small, offering fishing trips and lake tours to groups and local businesses. They started off with just word-of-mouth advertising, but then one day Todd and buddy Gil were sitting with the older Jeffers men and came up with a few clever low-cost advertising gimmicks ... like free water skiing lessons donated to area school raffles and boxes of cookies decorated with boats and water skis dropped off at area employers with business cards and a rate sheet. Uncle Dan got up real early several times to "appear" on four different local AM radio talk shows. And Todd and his Dad even taught a free boating and water safety seminar at the local American Red Cross center. The gimmicks paid off and business boomed, so Todd and Gil and Todd's sister, Frannie, started helping out each summer.


"It was some goofy stuff we came up with, but people liked it and word got around. Now we have customers we see every year on an ongoing basis and the people they send our way. And lots of them still talk about the cookies."


"So this is your fourth season in business?"


Todd puffed up with pride. "Fifth. And now we have some really cool stuff. We rent jet skis on top of the fishing charters and water skiing excursions. And we use to have to rely on just our two smaller boats for the skiers, but Dad and Uncle Danny spent one whole winter and spring networking with some other boaters and now we have a group of about 10 guys that take out our customers. A lot of it's reservation-based so they schedule their time accordingly and make easy money being out on the water, which is what they love to do. We make a nice percentage and take care of the money and stuff. I'm not sure of all the details, but it lets me and Gil and Frannie ... oh, and her buddy Samantha ... take care of the on-shore stuff."


As I listened to Todd describe what was obviously a fun-filled family business, I couldn't help but get caught up in his enthusiasm. And, of course, his body and his nearness had my dick plumped up and achy.


"So how much longer is your season?"


"Well, Gil and I head back to school in two weeks but we'll be coming back every weekend and help out through the last week in October. Then all the equipment and the shack 'goes to sleep' ... that's what me Dad calls it. He spends the late fall and winter fiddling with stuff and working for my uncle's contracting business."


I checked my watch to see that I probably had another 40 minutes until "Catch" came back to dry land. I was about to ask Todd if I could just wander around and observe the place when his eyes widened with a new thought. "I just thought of something. This past spring I was talking to Dad about buying a couple of canoes and kayaks for rentals, but he thought the wake from all the boats and Waverunners would make it too problematic. Uncle Dan said it would just be too fuckin' dangerous." His foul language popped my cock to its full stature.


Regaining my composure and quietly tamping down my junk, I encouraged him to continue his story. "So kayaks were a no-go project?"


"Dead in the water," he chuckled. "Too bad, because paddling really builds up your arms." And then Todd posed with his hands braced behind his head and his arms extended like triangular wings. His armpits were covered with lush, damp hair. I imagined that I could smell his sweet sweat. "But then I brought up para sailing. It's all the rage in the Carolinas and Florida, and our lake here is just big enough for it to work. So Dad bought the initial rigging this year and we're gonna offer it next season. Did you know this lake is one of the five largest in the state?"


Before I could answer him, Todd got Gil's attention. "Dude, I'm gonna show this guy the para sail rig ..." Then he looked back at me expectantly. "... if he's interested."


"Hell, yeah," I blurted more loudly than needed. "I'm interested." I looked briefly between Todd and Gil. Todd looked excited, like a kid with a new toy to show off. Gil gave me an odd conspiratory wink.


Todd came around the counter and took my camera bag. He spun around and really stretched over the wooden surface to stow my belongings out of sight. His thoughtfulness provided me with a dynamite view of his back, lats, and mouth-watering posterior. He sprung back up and led me a few yards to a walkway running down the side of the shop. I was full of apprehension because something felt just a little off ... just out of my control. There was a metal door painted a darker blue than the surrounding walls. Todd reached into his pocket and produced a small keyring. After locating the proper key he deftly opened the door and reached around to the left; pale light drove away the shadows in the doorway. "After you," he indicated.


The room was clearly used for storage, the old-style wood parquet flooring covered in a fine layer of dust and debris. One wall contained a work bench and peg board littered with assorted tools; larger pegs held faded orange life jackets in various states of disrepair. Boxes and cartons were stacked haphazardly along with a few lawn chairs, awnings, and assorted miscellanea. In one fairly clear corner sat a metal framework that resembled the harness and airframe supports from a hang glider. I moved in to get a closer look when I felt the absence of my escort. Turning slowly, I saw that Todd was a few paces back leaning against the closed door. "It's a beauty, huh?" he said without breaking contact with my eyes.


"I really have nothing to compare it to." My breathing was growing shallow, and I could feel perspiration pooling under my arms and beneath my throbbing balls.


"I meant Gil," he answered in an eerie deadpan. "I could see you looking at him out there. Checking him out ... checking both of us out."


Stammering and sputtering for an appropriate response, Todd took a step forward to silence me. "Don't worry, dude. Gil loves the attention. Hell, I've passed him around at parties and seen him take four big dicks in a row." I know I must have looked like an idiot standing there, horned up and slack jawed.


Todd took another step forward, untying his nylon shorts as he moved. Once undone, gravity took them to the ground and the young college student moved them off to the side with a sandaled foot. Todd stood costumed in gleaming red Calvin briefs, every contour of his cock and balls easily discerned. Careful not to scrape myself, I dropped to my knees and sniffed his groin noisily. Holding my head gently, Todd swayed his hips, buffing my face with his hidden hog. My tongue darted out as he moved, producing moist spots on the thin fabric.


"You want this, don't you? You want dick bad?" His questions held no menace. "I'm gonna show you how we do it at the beach. I'm gonna choke you with my thick peter. Gonna fuck your pretty face good ... cream all over that pretty face ... ALL OVER!"


After enduring his sexy taunts and gyrating crotch folong enough, I pushed my head back and lifted my hands. With almost painful slowness, I grabbed the black waist band of Todd's stylish underwear and lowered the front to where it rested below his ample nutsac. His cock bobbed up to celebrate its freedom. Thick and veiny, Todd's dick was a hefty seven and a half inches of uncut USDA prime. Although his whang was topped with an ample bush ... like his armpits ... his balls were clean shaven. Well, almost ... a bit of stubble had surfaced, like maybe he hadn't shaved in three or four days. I could care less floated through my brain as I plunged my head forward and devoured rigid cock.


"Oh, buddy ... you know what you're doing. Gil's my boy, but fresh lips feel so good ... so fuckin' good. Eat my shit, man ... eat me like you're starvin'. Eat my prick ... eat my dirty, smelly ... AGGGGGHHHHH!!!!"


As I worked my tongue to massage his fleshy tube, my taste buds were assaulted with a blend of man sweat and the sour taste of piss. My own dick spasmed slightly in my pants, but I wasn't in a position to "release the hound." I was determined to eat as much of Todd's heady stalk as possible.


As one hand gripped the base tightly, my mouth wrestled another inch down past my sensitive gag reflex. I want this one down to the fuckin' intestines, I thought as I savored the pounding of my pulse and the constriction of my nearly-empty lungs. Todd thrust forward at that moment, and impaled me on his meat. I held him for a few seconds ... pubes tickling my nostrils ... before my brain overrode my love of cock and forced me off to breath in a few ragged breaths. Todd's breathing was accelerated as well. "Dude, please tell me you swallow cause you've got me so notched up that I'm not gonna last much longer."


"I'll take it!" I panted hoarsely. "I'll take every motherfuckin' drop you've got!!"


With alacrity, I got back on Todd's dick, just not as deeply so I had room to maneuver. I looked up at him occasionally through watery eyes for signs of approval, but his head was thrown back and he had retreated into a world of sensation ... tethered to reality only by the connection of his pecker to my warm mouth. Cupping him lightly, I started tickling his fat nuts as I sucked, rubbling the coarse little hairs beginning to sprout. In my mind's eye, I saw the collegiate beauty standing in a dorm shower, stroking his cock to hardness and then carefully shaving his scrotum. Maybe Gil gets in there to help, I thought to myself ... the mental picture caused my suctioning to become frantic.


"Dude ... DUDE! ... oh, man ... OH, MAN ... OH, SHHHHIIIIIITTTTTT!!!!" The cum cascaded out of Todd's piss slit so fast that I could barely keep up, the thick splooge threatening to gag me. I calmed my panic and swallowed in slow, deliberate gulps. The built-up seed slid effortlessly down and warmed my entire body.


After he had wilted some, I released Todd's cock from my mouth and aching jaws. I lewdly smacked my lips and tasted a bit of run-off. I knelt there in sort of a hunch ... breathing returning to normal ... when strong hands grabbed me beneath my pits and lifted me almost effortlessly to my feet. In a flash, I found myself in a dizzying reversal of positions ... I was leaning against the cool metal door and Todd was down on one knee working open the zipper on my shorts. He worked both my pants and boxer briefs down my hips and legs; the shimmying fabric sent chills along my thighs as it descended to pool at my feet.


"Dude," he said, breaking the sexual enchantment that had engulfed the dingy storeroom, "we gotta make this kind of quick because I need to get back out there before the girls ask where I'm at."


That statement sobered me somewhat. "But what if they come looking?" I asked with a note of definite fear. "I can't ..."


"Relax ... relax ... the door's locked and Gil and my Dad are the only other people that have copies of the key. Plus," he stated, tapping the stucco behind me, "these walls are pretty thick. No one's ever heard me and Gil go at it!" His sexy leer put me at ease; his hands touching my unencumbered, juice-covered cock made me quiver in anticipation.


I wanted to tell Todd that I was pretty close to spewing from all my lavishings on his tool, but he beat me to the punch by swooping in and easing more than half of my uncut eight inches into his spitty yap. As he mumbled his pleasure around my stiff johnson, I was well on my way to breeding his tonsils. The rattle of a key in the door changed all that in an instant. Panicked, I stumbled away from the egress, too stunned to even think about covering my hard cock. Todd just stepped a few feet back looking unconcerned. "I thought you said ..." I stammered, "what the hell are we gonna say to whoever that is?"


The door opened and there stood Gil with a concerned look. "Dude," he said emphatically as he closed the door. "Your sister's wondering where you are." Then he broke into his own ohm-filled smile. "So I figured I'd come relieve you and take command of the situation." Todd laughed and shot forward to pound Gil's shoulders like a wrestler "tapping in" from the edge of the mat. I just stood there wishing I had access to that nausea medication out at the sales counter. What the fuck was going on?


"Dude, this guy is so fine," Todd recounted as he donned his board shorts and dusted them off with his palms. "He sucks wood like a pro. But you gotta tell me how good he tastes when he nuts 'cause I only got started."


"Every detail ... I promise." Todd thumped Gil's shoulders again and slipped out the door. Gil reengaged the lock and moved closer. My dick had deflated a little during the scare, but Gil began rubbing it briskly. "Let's get this soldier back in fighting form," he teased. "I have to keep my promise and get that load out of those pretty balls, now don't I!"


Gil led me by my pecker to a large crate. He hastily threw a blanket over it and pushed me down into a seated position. The dark beauty grabbed a second coverlet and placed it on the floor at my feet. I began stroking my dick to complete fullness while Gil unbelted his denim shorts; the pants slid down easily as he worked them below to mid thigh. While a bit smaller than Todd's, Gil's cock was full and dusky in color. And his flanks and groin were forested with dark hair. Even from a yard away, I could smell the young man's heady musk.


I thought maybe Gil wanted me to initiate contact, but after taking just a few quick strokes to stretch out his tight foreskin he dropped down on the blanket and moved his face to within inches of my straining manhood. "We're both gonna enjoy this, buddy," he stated crypticly.


I expecting to feel the cushions of his lips immediately, but Gil surprised and delighted me when he hawked a huge gob of spit onto my dick. He repeated this until my crotch was awash in his saliva. Then with little fanfare, he began to slobber all over my cock. Gil twisted my nads a little. He rubbed my perineum viciously. He was noisy and crude in his technique, but this young college man had my crank humming in seconds.


I sensed that Gil and I were a bit alike, not totally comfortable with taking too much shaft too quickly. But his wild treatment of my genitals had me rapidly moving toward orgasm. I gently pushed the hunk back on his haunches and told him I desperately wanted to blow him. He seemed disappointed, happy to keep my dick stewing in his grateful gob. But once he noticed the laser look of desire I was aiming at his crotch, he quickly acquiesced and stood. I also rose to my feet and directed Gil into a standing position leaning into the crate with his weight on his elbows and forearms. He peered over his shoulder in bewilderment.


"Just go with it, kid," I said with a chuckle. "Like someone once told me, we're both gonna enjoy this." Gil gave me a look that conveyed an unspoken Whatever! and faced away. As I dropped down onto the musty blanket, I glanced up longingly at this young man who was probably eight years my junior. His back was well muscled if somewhat thin, clearly defined vertebrea showing underneath flawless dermis. Gil's ass was like pale alabaster, smooth but also solid. I slapped his lump playfully. He let out a small yelp, no pain and all pleasure. I whacked him again and he thrust his glutes back toward me while bending his knees and spreading his thighs. In that stance, I couldn't help but be reminded of someone who'd been sent to the principal's office for punishment and then asked to "assume the position."


But this wasn't the principal's office ... this was a cluttered storage area that reeked of mildew and the smell of men. I was completely clammy, so I removed my shirt. I looked again at the beautiful body standing stooped before me as I roughly tweaked my touchy nipples. Little bolts of bioelectricity coursed through my body to discharge in my dick.


I climbed up onto my knees and ran a fingertip down Gil's hairless ass crack. It was moist and slightly pinkish, standing out from the surrounding flesh ... except for the red steaks raised by my earlier playfulness. Moving carefully, I reached my right hand through Gil's splayed loins and found his hardness. Slowly, using my other hand to reach up and gently push down on the middle of his back, I drew his cock back between his legs. The knob was slightly purple and bubbling pre-cum. I placed my lips against just the very tip and loudly sucked up the shiny moisture. Gil groaned and, for a moment, I though he might lose his balance and collapse. But I gripped his left leg firmly while I held his cock parallel with the floor and began to slurp and slobber with gusto.


Maybe three minutes later, I could tell that Gil's pecker needed a rest, so I let it plop from my mouth to hang hard in the cloying air of the room. Now, using both my hands, I pulled the hottie's buttcheeks apart to reveal a beautiful knot of crinkled flesh. It was one of the most spectacular gashes I had ever seen. Tentatively at first, I stuck out my tough and gave his anus a quick swipe. I was rewarded with a sexy muffled moan from Gil. I took another, slightly longer lick and the moan grew in volume. With a lusty smile, I gave up any pretense of patience and started eating his slick crevice, really nursing on his sweet little hole.


"Fuck, man ... that's ... that's fantastic. Eat me, dude ... lick my smelly hole. Eat me like you mean it!" His words sent me into a higher gear. I plowed my nose into his hole, working the index finger of my left hand up against my tongue to pop open his pucker and tease and rub his sensitive rim. My right hand, without any conscious thought behind it, had found Gil's cock again and was milking it vehemently.

Amidst his mumbled obscenities and flexing thighs, I pushed back and away. The air stung my face slightly, making me realize I must be covered in spit and pungunt ass juice. Gil's cock looked bloated and mad, a cobra ready to spit its milky venom. I decided to take the plunge. I ramped up the shucking motion on Gil's neatly clipped manmeat and worked the index and middle fingers of my left hand into my mouth. Once sufficiently coated, I placed the drenched digits lightly against Gil's hole. I tapped it a few times and it winked and pulsated in response. In sync with a downwork stroke on his rod, I plunged those fingers deep into his steaming pit. The scream he released made my own dick jump and gurgle, but I had no free hand to calm it down.

On the upward stripping motion of my right hand, I twisted my embedded fingers violently to roughly manipulate the lining of Gil's rectum. The sound that escaped from his chest was different, more of a lingering moan. As my hand slid along his puffed-up penis, I continued to saw and twist my fingers around in his hole. After maybe a dozen more strokes, Gil's body tensed and he silently pumped out stream after stream of watery cum. I tried to direct the discharge down toward the floor, but the runny seed flew in all directions, some of it dousing my cock. One hit from his warm juice sent me into a hands-free unloading of my own testicles ... something that has maybe happened three times in my life.

I got slowly to my feet, trying to avoid the puddles of clotted cream. I found a rag and wiped off my dick before pulling my clothes back on. Gil just sat forward on the crate, fingering the crown of his dwindling phallus. Like a child making mudpies, he played with the sticky mess decorating his bush and and lower abdomen.

I watched in awe, wishing I had a sampling of his cum to compare with that of his best bud. But just as I was forming the words to ask for a taste, there was a loud pounding on the door. It was Todd. "You guys! My Dad's boat just rounded the cove. He'll be on land in 10 minutes ... tops!"

I hurriedly finished throwing on my t-shirt. Gil stopped playing in his goo and looked at me with doe-like eyes. He wildly smeared his semen all over his hairy tummy before he stood and hiked up his jeans.

Moving toward the door, I was stopped when Gil called out. "Shit, I promised Todd I'd tell him about your swimmers, but that salad tossing caught me by surprise. He's gonna be pissed."

"Well," I stated seductively, "maybe we don't have to disappoint him. I could always swing by here after you guys finish for the day. Maybe we could grab a pizza ... come back here and play a new game. All THREE of us!"

"Dude," Gil beamed, "you are SOOOOO on!"

The two of us stepped out into the sunshine. While Gil hurried ahead to resume his "first mate" duties, I stood and cracked my spine while taking a huge inhilation of lake air. It may be a fresh-water lake, I mused, but I've still got the taste of salt ... Todd's salt and Gil's knob trickle ... on my tongue!

HEADLINE: Summer "Lovers" Get In Final Trysts

There's a New Karaoke King ... LONG May He Reign!

Stacy, the entertainment section editor at the newspaper where I work, usually covers stories like this, but she is swamped with reworking some major pieces as well as crafting her regular signature reviews. My queue was light this week, so I offered to take over on a review of a local karaoke bar that was turning out to be a real area hot spot.

For years, "Herb's Chalet" was just a quiet, no-nonsense restaurant that catered mainly to the over-50 crowd who enjoyed a leisurely business lunch, Sunday brunch after church, and "date night" with the spouse every Tuesday or Wednesday. The eatery's reputation was built on great steaks and seafood, a decent wine selection, and reasonable prices. But about four months ago, owner Herb DiNori hired his nephew Anton to work behind the bar. Now Anton was a club kid, and within a week dozens of his friends were hanging out and consuming large quantities of liquor.

Anton sat down with his uncle and suggested expanding the menu with lots of appetizers and finger foods. Herb saw the simple wisdom in that and readily agreed. Then Anton purposed buying some top-shelf liquors ... just a few ... that the bigger clubs were promoting. Again, Herb acquiesced to his nephew's experience on the club scene. And lastly, Anton suggested reorienting the restaurant's interior, knocking out a wall and absorbing some of the "private party" space that wasn't used very often. Uncle Herb had to think about that some, but Anton persisted and soon the bar area had new tables for about 50 more people, the dining room stayed essentially the same, and the "back room" now could only handle 80 people max for parties and special occasion catering. And Anton applied some additional pressure and twisted his favorite uncle's arm into purchasing a state-of-the-art karaoke package to be housed in an alcove near the bar that could easily be built up to look like a stage ... Anton offered to supervise the entire installation and do the carpentry work for the stage himself for free.

So now I was on my way to check out "Tunes," the revitalized bar at Herb's Chalet that served high-potency cocktails and intricate hors d'oeuvres all week and provided a singing showcase for all the drunk college kids, closet Streisands and Manilows, and American Idol wannabes on Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays, from 9 p.m. to 1 a.m., and Sunday evenings from 7 p.m. to 10 p.m. It was a Thursday ... about 10 ... and the parking lot was packed. It was drizzling and, of course, the only parking space I could find was clear in the back.

Within 20 feet of the door, I could hear the sounds of music and singing ... really bad singing, actually ... coming from inside. Upon entering, the volume jumped up several levels and it took me a moment to establish my bearings. Just inside the door was an unmanned lectern-like structure ... probably where a host or hostess stood guard to meet and greet hungry guests. Directly ahead was the restaurant proper. There were about four or five groupings of people finishing up their meals, the remaining tables sitting silently with chairs placed atop them. One server moved casually among the lingering diners seeing to their needs ... several other bussers quietly collected silverware and table decorations like candles and small bud vases. Through a doorway to my left was the source of all the raucous sound.

"Can I help you?"

I jumped, completely unaware of the approach of a very pretty girl probably in her mid 30s. She wore a cardinal cocktail dress that dropped very low between small-but-perky breasts. Glowing pearls decorated her ears and neckline. "Yeah, I'm supposed to be meeting Anton about a newspaper feature on the renovated bar."

"Oh, sure ... he mentioned someone might be stopping by. I think he's in the back getting some fresh bottles. Why don't you wait at the bar and I'll tell him you're here."

I thanked her and watched he move off toward the dining room but turn sharply into a barely-noticeable hallway to the right. Nice ass, I mused as she disappeared, just not enough up front to keep me interested.

Refocusing on the job at hand, I entered the noisy bar area and was pretty much assaulted by three young ladies standing and hooting as a fourth female stood on stage and butchered a Whitney Houston song. Oh, shit, I thought, this is gonna be one fuckin' long night!

The "performance" ended ... thank God ... and the woman rejoined her friends, all of them laughing and falling back into their seats. I moved quickly, taking advantage of a clear path to work deeper into the bar. Now I understood why the parking lot was so jammed ... the place was packed with people off all ages and appearances. There were older folks, probably unwinding a bit after dinner in the dining room. There were several tables decorated with pitchers of beer and stacks of greasy plates ... had to be college students. I also spied a spattering of clubbers, goths, housewives, and even an occasional clump of gays. A real melting pot with a love of amateur crooning.

With some zigging and zagging ... and a few precise surgical "strikes" at rowdy drinkers making their way back to their seats ... I managed to snag a seat at the end of the bar farthest away from the action. I only had a small pad and pen with me, and my digital sound recorder which isn't much bigger than a gaudy PEZ dispenser, so I blended in easily with the crowd. I was swiveling in my seat to look around more when an older lady bartender asked what I wanted to drink. I threw caution to the wind and asked for a gin martini. "And don't be afraid of the gin bottle," I added. Her eyes crinkled at my biting remark and she smiled to reveal front teeth accented by a touch of peach lipstick. As she moved off to fill my order, another woman ... much younger and less harsh looking ... took the small stage. Spotlights with soft pink gels immediately focused on her pretty, innocent face.

"Ladies and gentlemen," crackled a voice over the state-of-the-art surround sound system. "Give it up for Natalie singing Leann Rime's 'We Can.' " There was a hearty response of applause and a few distinct whoops. Blond-headed Natalie looked terrified, staring into a monitor. But to my surprise, she began belting out the song's first few bars.

I was actually starting to enjoy Natalie's interpretation of the sexy, upbeat number when a martini glass appeared before me. I was about to thank Peach-Teeth when I noticed that the hand pushing the glass and napkin into place was larger and covered with dark hairs. I looked up and locked eyes with a barrel of a man. He was thick and powerful looking and I felt my dick lurch with desire.

"You da reporter?," he asked and immediately offered his meaty hand like the question was just a formality. "I'm the bar manager and promoter, Anton DiNori ... Jenna said you wuz here to talk about the bar." He steps back and throws out his arms to indicate his surroundings. "It's fuckin' awesome, ain't it?"

I started to form a response, but again Anton cut off any chance for me to speak and launched into details about the renovation project. I struggled to get my pad open and recorder clicked on. I had to ask Anton to slow down and repeat a few things, but he just laughed good naturedly and began speaking at a pace usually reserved for the developmentally challenged. I chuckled right along with him, hoping he mistook my amusement for enthusiasm for his hard work on revamping the bar.

As he spoke, I found myself taking in more and more details about Anton. He was a shorter man with dark, slicked back hair and carefully defined eyebrows. He was beefy but I was sure he hit the gym fairly regularly. Standing behind the bar, Anton talked animatedly, catching glimmers of light with his gaudy pinkie ring, thick ID wrist cuff that jiggled as his hand moved, and two incredibly thick gold chains circling his thick neck. His shirt was too tight but he pulled off the whole "Guido" look nicely. He looks so gay there's no way he is, I thought, bet he's got a girl that picks out his clothes and trims his eyebrows.

Anton finally stopped rambling to bark something at one of his servers as she passed our end of the bar. I took the opportunity to ask some pointed questions about how much business had picked up since the addition of the new bar features ... particularly the karaoke ... and how the restaurant's "regulars" were doing with the changes.

"My uncle's a great guy and his customers are really loyal," the nephew answered. "Believe me, there was some major messes during the reno ... piles of shit everywhere. But nobody complained ... not much." Anton paused a moment and looked around before continuing. "In fact, I see close to a dozen people who stayed after dinner tonight to enjoy the fun in here."

I jumped back in immediately. "But let me ask you this ... your uncle's business really relied on an older crowd, right?" Anton nodded his lustrous head. "So how do you explain all the young people hanging out and spending their ... or their parent's ... hard earned money?"

"Lots of these people are buds or mine or friends of friends ..." the young Italian said, but then stopped and threw back his head, gesturing over his shoulder, "but I blame him for most of it ... And I thank him every time he walks in the fuckin' door!"

When I first arrived at Tunes, I noticed the cluster of people wedged between the bar and the short set of stairs leading to the performing stage. I assumed the close-pressed patrons were individuals waiting for their turn in the limelight. Now, encouraged to gawk by Anton's cryptic comment, I focused on that area and realized that the small throng was actually about seven or eight attractive young women crowded around a striking man sitting at the bar table closest to the stage.

He was tall and gaunt, cheekbones jutting against the strong planes of his face. His hair was a carefully-gelled light brown fauxhawk poised over a tan face that housed a smallish nose and intense, dark eyes that seemed to take in the whole room while still keeping the attention of the adoring females. A well-maintained goatee outlined his strong jaw and small silver hoops gleamed in each petite ear. On each side, a young lady held or stroked the man's trim but muscled arms, easily accessible because he wore a suede vest over a sleeveless white t-shirt. In the bar light, I thought he was unusually hairy, but as the girls surrounding him moved to reveal a better picture, I realized he had light tattoos crawling over a good portion of his forearms and bicep areas. Ten years ago, I figured, this dude would have been a clone of every "bad seed" in every boy band around.

I turned back to Anton and was about to ask about the hot attention hog in the corner, but of course, he was already speaking. "That's Lucas. He's a friend of a friend of a friend that I met a few months ago. Supposedly, Lucas was a big singing star in high school and then he worked the shows on the big amusement park circuit ... you know, Cedar Point, King's Island, Six Flags. Anyway, he's even been to Nashville and made it a couple a rounds into the American Idol auditions. My one buddy says he even heard that Lucas worked on a cruise ship down in Miami. All I know is the ladies love him. Hell, I'll fuck his sweet ass if he keeps bringing in these bitches that buy silly, expensive drinks!!"

My eyes had grown wide at Anton's last remark. In my head I was seeing studly Lucas up on the bar slowly impaling himself on my pale, uncut cock ... not Anton's. And he was liking it.

"Is he a local?" I asked Anton, trying to regain my focus.

"Don't know, but he must live close because I've seen him around in the clubs and, like, at the pharmacy and the deli and shit."

I asked more questions as I continued to watch Lucas soak up the attention of his fans. "How old did you say he was? And what kind of music does he sing? And why ..."

"Whoa, man!" Anton said playfully, his hands resting lightly on his hips. "Aren't you da reporter? Go ask him yourself ... and tell him I want him to say something nice about the bar." He dismissed me with a wink and moved over to confer with still another bartender, an average-looking guy in his middle 30s.

I had just started to shift my weight off the bar stool when the speakers came to life. "And now folks ... put your hands together for everyone's favorite ... LUCAS!!" I sat back and watched him push away from his admirers and jump straight to the stage. Everyone was clapping wildly, especially his uterus-bearing entourage, as he accepted the adoration like a true ham. But once he stood behind the mike and the lights dimmed subtly, a hush fell over the bar. Even the servers and bussers and bartenders seemed to be carefully avoiding making any noises ... a clinking glass or a sliding plate ... that might break the spell.

The opening measures poured out of the sophisticated sound system ... Jackson Browne's "Somebody's Baby" ... and suddenly Lucas was all business. All performer.

Well just-a look at that girl with the lights comin' up in her eyes ... his voice was rich and so smooth, notes seemed to play over the crowd's very skin. Lucas' eyes were half closed as he emoted every phrase ... every feeling of longing and being desired. She's got to be somebody's baby ... she must be somebody's baby ... I wasn't sure, but some of the bar patrons looked like they had stopped breathing. I glanced over and saw Anton staring intensely toward the stage. He wasn't even blinking. Maybe not totally straight, I mused.

I sat mesmerized for the remainder of the song. When he finished, Lucas stood with his head bowed. There was an elongated moment of silence before the crowd began whooping and cheering. My own hands clapped emphatically.

No one took the stage immediately following Lucas ... who would want to? ... so after he resumed his "throne" amidst his fans, I threw back the rest of my drink and crossed the bar toward his position. The number of female fans surrounding the singer had dwindled, so I inserted myself into his immediate vicinity and cleared my throat loudly. "Excuse me. Lucas, is it? I'm a reporter with the local paper and I'm doing a story on the karaoke craze here at Tunes. Anton was hoping you'd answer a few questions, maybe talk up the bar a bit ... and I'd love to get some background on you. I'm sure an up-and-coming singer like yourself could use all the publicity they can get!"

Eyes the deep color or caramel locked with mine. "Buddy, I don't talk a lot between sets ... keeps the strain down on my vocal cords. I just mind my own business, sip a little lemon water, and think about my next song." His attitude surprised me a little ... I had pegged him for a glory hound, but not necessarily an asshole. "Besides," he continued, "I was on the radio last weekend at that festival over in LaRue, and the week before that my hometown weekly did a big write up ... it's all in my blog that I keep so my fans can follow me." And the asshole has a major ego, I stated to myself.

"Sorry to bother you, Lucas," I said with obvious steam in my voice. "What I'm working on goes into our Weekender guide ... it goes to about 80,000 households and gets about 4,500 hits a day on our Web site. We're pretty proud of our work and just thought we could highlight something of interest. My mistake."

I retreated back to the bar, but I hadn't moved fast enough to escape hearing the crooner mutter a "whatever" to my retreating backside. I ordered another martini and decided that I'd at least get a bit more info from Anton before departing ... maybe he knew another regular singer ... someone with a soul ... I could talk to for the article.

It was maybe 10 minutes before the stocky Italian moved close enough so I could flag him down. Drink number two was almost gone and I was contemplating a triple play. And during the whole time, I couldn't help but steal an occasion glance at Lucas sitting smug and secure amid his groupie harem. Fucker!

"Get what you need?" Anton's shrill tenor shocked me out of my journalistic snit.

"Not one usable world ... 'Precious' likes to save his voice for important people." I sounded like a scolded child, but Anton just smiled a toothy grin. "He's like that, gets to thinkin' he's the shit and all. You just gotta get his attention."

I took a deep swig of my biting drink and hit empty glass. "Not worth the hassle."

"It is to me," Anton retorted while making another martini magically appear. "Lucas really is important to this club. He brings in a lot of friends and a lot of fans. I've even seen him be really sweet and encouraging to someone who wants to get on stage but is really scared of embarrassing themselves. He can be a nice fuckin' guy." I gave Anton a withering look that I hoped conveyed my disbelief in his line of bullshit.

Then, suckling a deep sip of Sapphire, a plan surfaced in my brain. I whispered into Anton's ear and he literally sprinted to the other end of the bar and returned with a thick black binder. I looked over its contents quickly and pointed to one particular entry. With some remorse, I pushed my drink away, briefly considering sprinting over to Anton, who was speaking to another gentleman seated near the controls for the lighting and sound systems, and stopping him. Instead, I let out a small belch and felt my balls shrivel in their hairless sack.

My whits were about 75 percent collected when a smattering of applause accompanied a heavy-set middle-aged man off the stage. His complexion looked pasty and his forehead was dotted with sweat. In my foul mood and conversation with Anton, I hadn't even paid any attention to the gentleman's song stylings ... he might have sang an Alvin and the Chipmunks holiday tune or belted out a hearty Guns 'N' Roses medley for all I knew. The man was greeted by an attractive older lady ... his wife, I assumed ... at a table-for-two and was barely seated before the speakers began a new announcement. "Folks, we have a special treat for your ... we have a member of the local press who will be appearing for one night only ... like, next." Their was a small burst of confused laughter. "Give it up for Aaron singing Heart's 'Nothin' At All.' "

I slowly walked the length of the bar ... my personal "Green Mile" ... and carefully mounted the stage. With the angle of the spots, the crowd appeared like a collection of construction-paper cutouts. But I knew where my prey sat. I looked Lucas' direction, pointed my hand for a quick second or two, and then nodded to the control area to my right. The musical accompaniment began immediately, moving more quickly than I remembered. I wasn't a big Heart fan, but my oldest brother was. He'd seen them in concert and even had a greatest hits CD he played around the house when I was younger. I had selected the song because a) it was the first song in the karaoke catalog that I spied which I was familiar with, and b) I was pretty sure I knew the words and wouldn't have to be totally dependent on the monitor screen. Sure sign of an amateur, the liquor in my system giggled.

Then it was time ... I WOULD WALK HOME EVERY EVENING, THROUGH THE PYRAMIDS OF LIGHT ... I WOULD FEED MYSELF ON SILENCE, WASH IT DOWN WITH EMPTY NIGHTS ...

I felt my guts unclench and my voice evened out as it grew accustomed to the bigger, richer sounds of amplification. I sounded smooth like I did in high school show choir (think "GLEE," but much sadder) and the big men's chorus I joined in college for the easy credit and the chance to hit on bi-curious music geeks. My body started swaying to the rythm ... I added my own flourish to the phrasing ... I trilled on a couple of end notes. I was rocking the fuck out of the song!!

IT WAS NOTHIN' AT ALL ... LIKE ANYTHING I HAD FELT BEFORE ... Truer words had never been uttered, I thought. No wonder people got into karaoke ... you felt free ... for a moment, you were bigger than life. In the rush of watching the lyrics screen and getting through the rest of the number, my heart even softened a little toward that asshole Lucas.

When I finished, I was dizzy and a bit disoriented. I only became more confused when the crowd let loose with a tsunami of clapping. They hooted ... they yelled ... a few people clapped my on the back as I made my way back to the far side of the bar. I attempted to order an ice water when I sensed a presence beside me. Lucas was there, his body tense and focused. "Let's talk," was all he said.

Anton agreed to let us sit in the back of the restaurant ... the private event area ... where it was relatively quiet. My heart rate was just returning to normal when we took seats right beside each other at a small table-for-four butted up against a wall. All the lights had been extinguished except for a row of six cans crossing over our table. I tried to trace the intricate runes inked into his arms before meeting his gaze.

I pulled out my notepad and prepared to take down all the basic elements that would frame Lucas' story... full name, age, high school and/or college, when he started singing, stuff like that. Lucas apparently had other things on his mind.

"You can sing, man ... I was actually pissed when you got all that applause. That shit's usually just for me or some drunk chick with big tits and a loose pussy."

I thanked him for the compliment, such as it was, and asked him to spell his last name. "You could tell you were feeling the music. It showed in your face ... it definitely showed in your voice."

Again, I acknowledged his flattery and proceeded to inquire about his musical influences. "Bet your dick got nice and hard," he added. And the interview came to a screeching halt.

"Excuse me."

"Your cock ... hard ... wet ... excited by braving the unknown." He giggled. "Shit, man, I can see it written all over your face. You knew you were good and it got you off!"

I would have denied it if it wasn't true. I had felt a tingle in my prick from knowing the crowd had grown quiet to listen to me. My balls had shifted a bit because I knew there were people envying my confidence for going on stage and belting my heart out. But what I didn't tell Lucas was that the semi-wood I'd thrown ... and still had ... was mostly from knowing that his fans had "switched ponies" for a moment and were mooning over me ... not him!

Then out of nowhere, Lucas reached over and rubbed my crotch with his delicate fingers. "You're still hard, dude! ... I knew it! I fuckin' knew it!" He continued to laugh at his discovery, but his hand lingered. And then the rubbing grew more deliberate. "Feels nice, man ... an artist's dick ... turned on by beautiful sights and beautiful sounds." His eyes bored into my own as he traced my now fully-aroused tool. Soft moans escaped his lips and I kept waiting for him to unzip my pants and haul my pecker out into the open air.

Lucas must have sensed my anticipation. "Sorry, man, I'd really love a taste of what you're packin' but I gotta be real careful with the pipes ... germs and straining and shit. It's the same reasons why I don't kiss." Okay, I listed off internally, he doesn't like to talk much because of his voice, and now he doesn't kiss or suck dick because of it. A high price to pay for carrying a tune.

I grabbed his hand and moved it onto his own knee. I batted my eyes a bit, trying to look unconcerned by his offputting "vocal" issues. "That's a drag, dude," I declared, "but will it hurt your precious throat if I try my luck at what you're hiding behind Door #3?" His huge smile was all the encouragement I needed to drop to my knees and wrestle his dark jeans and boxer briefs past his knees.

His cock was pale and slender, about seven inches in length jutting defiantly from a dark strip of carefully-coiffed pubes. Lucas was cut and his knob was dusty red and much wider than his shaft. Like his tattoos, tiny veins and capillaries wound around his dick, creating barely-visible patterns of lust and vitality. I dove right in.

"Yeah, of fuck, man ... that's it ... get on it ... eat that shit!!" Lucas moaned in a husky voice that seemed strained from my initial suck job. I licked and licked on his meaty knob, nudging a few inches back toward my throat but careful not to take too much ... unfortunately, I gag easily.

While I continued to pipe Lucas' organ, I loosened my own pants and freed my 8-inch crank which was slick with goo. Slowly, I began jacking the tight folds of skin around my cock, causing myself to groan. The vibrations of my growls seemed to further rile Lucas as the sensual vibrations moved from my mouth and throat up along his sensitive shaft.

"You're fuckin' good dude ... no one's hummed me like this for quite a while. Fuck ... I needed this ... needed it bad!!" I mumbled something approximating a "thank you" and suctioned his member with more force. Lucas rewarded me with a hissing intake of air and a small laugh.

Our little tug of war session ... my giving and his taking ... went on for another five minutes before I released his dick and took in a few deep breaths. Lucas just sat there with a dreamy, blissed look on his sexy face. Almost smug ... and that rallied me into action. "Okay, buddy ... I let the kissing and blowing thing slip because of your budding 'career,' but I think you owe me something."

Lucas's eyes shot open and he looked angry. "I don't fuck, man ... no matter how good of a cocksucker you are."

I just smiled and held out my hand for his. "I've got another idea. Just get the fuck up!" Lucas hesitated a few seconds but finally took my offered grip and rose to his feet. I was up beside him in a flash, helping him slip off his vest and t-shirt. His chest and back were toned and smooth ... not a blemish in site. And his whole torso was interwoven with those subtle tribal patterns.

While continuing to admire him, I moved Lucas' chair and guided him to a kneeling position facing into the seat. He was balanced over the chair back facing the room's entrance. My chair was pulled right up behind his with my back to the wall. Once seated with my cock dangling all plumped up between my legs, I was presented with a true treasure ... Lucas' luscious pale ass.

Unlike the rest of his body, Lucas' can was dusted with warm brown hairs. With the palms of my hands I touched the fleshy globes, subtle ripples developing from my manipulations. With barely-checked restraint, I pulled Lucas' ass cheeks apart. His ass ring pulsed and flexed, light brown in color with the knotted flesh surrounded by a mossy ring of hair. His hole was damp with sweat and excitement; my tongue hung out and my cock dripped more milky fluid onto the carpet. I broke the magical moment by leaning forward and blowing air across his pucker ... Lucas spread his legs wider apart and said something low and unintelligable. It sounded like "Yeeeessssssssss!"

With slow licks, the rough surface of my tongue navigated shapes around his molten opening. I explored his entire crack, sniffing and lapping like a crazed animal. In a mindless reverie, I took in everything about him ... the moist folds, the subtle textural differences between cheek and chute, the rich meld of scents like soap, sweat, and sexual funk. I ingested his ass and only dug deeper when he pushed back against my face.

Between my tongue and the tips of my two index fingers, Lucas' gash became open and pouty. I leaned back a bit and slid one finger into his heat completely. His head shot up and his spine straightened in surprise. "God damn, you ... you fucker ... that feels so damn good ... stop or I'll ... stop ... don't stop ... don't ever stop!" Lucas' head dropped back down and swayed a bit from side to side as I started slowly sawing the finger back and forth across his sensitive tissue.

With a harsh jerk, I removed my finger and stared at the slow-to-close hole. I quickly spit a gob into my hand and inserted two damp fingers back inside Lucas' chunky ass. My strumming speed racheted up and soon I was really ramming my digits as deep as I dared. Both the singer and I were grunting, mine small and focused on the moment when my fingers went deepest; his groans timed to when I was on the backstroke and really twisting his ass lips.

"You like this, pretty boy ... like getting that tight little ass reamed open like those bitches that hang all over you. You're pussy's gonna be just as sopping wet and used when I get done back here. Little pucker's gonna be smartin' for days!" I was thrilled and almost a little scared at how mean I actually sounded. And when Lucas' body tensed up, I knew he was a bit worried too.

"I said I don't get fucked!" He alsmost screamed.

"Oh, I'm gonna fuck you good, Lucas ... just not ... with ... my ... DICK!!" I nearly shouted as I added a third finger to the mix and plunged deeper than I had gone before.

"AAAGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!!!" Lucas howled while holding perfectly still, overwhelmed by the bodily intrusion. My juiced fingers held their position, slightly flexing as he adjusted to the new sensation. After no further verbal protests surfaced, I slowly renewed my attack and Lucas relaxed into the increased waves of pleasure wracking his body.

As I continued sawing into his reddened hole, my other hand grabbed my prick and began jacking violently. My breathing became ragged and I lost contact with my surroundings. I bit my lips to contain my screams as I started spewing, pressing up against the hand working Lucas so that my jizz flew onto that paw.

After my twitches and unconscious thrusts subsided, I started working my load into Lucas' furry can with earnest. The slight wet noises of my penetrating pointers now rose to a sloppy, squishy, and totally sexual crescendo. My fingers blurred as I rammed full speed into Lucas' widened gash. "Fuck, man ... fuck ... I'm ... I'm ... AAAAAGGGHHHH!" Lucas shot against the dining chair while still forcibly working his hole over my hand. In awe, I watched his back heave and his flanks throb as he released his come and tried to draw in gulps of air. It was during this time that a movement off to the side caught my attention. To help customize the space, the restaurant used folding screens as a method of dividing the room into smaller areas. These screens were closed and clustered near the room's main entrance. Hiding behind one stack was a barely discernable shadow. In the darkened room, Anton watched Lucas and I while jerking a very thick uncut cock in his meaty hands.

Seeing that he may have been spotted, the stud moved deeper into the gloom and cut of my view of him coming to climax. Oh well, I thought in my contented head, that little glimpse of sausage would stick in my memory for a good long time.

With a knowing smirk, I sat back in my chair and gave my moist prick a few loving tugs. My fingers came away sticky and I snuck a few sludgy drippings into my mouth while Lucas popped up off his knees and stood, his groin spackled with thick clots of splooge. Although I wanted to, I decided not to give him the satisfaction of me licking it off. I'd just have to settle for the spreading warmth that my own little "snack" had produced.

"You're a mess!" I said with a smile that felt good playing across the worked muscles of my jaw and face.

Lucas had a beaming grin of his own. "You think? ... I can't get dressed like this!"

Without thinking but hoping he was still within earshot, I removed the expensive linen tablecloth from beside me and tossed it at Lucas' decorated crotch. "Here, use this ... just tell Anton it's the price of publicity." We both chuckled as the gorgeous crooner began mopping up his own dick slime. I was fastening my pants as I noticed a few sticky spots beside my feet. "Kinda like the cost of carpet cleaning." Lucas' stopped his efforts and looked over at me with some confusion. His eyes dropped to where I was indicating and then we both laughed louder. And I swear, from out of the dark, I heard a groan that could have either meant there was another puddle to clean up or Anton was calculating cleaning fees. I couldn't have cared less ... for several reasons, I felt like singing!!

HEADLINE: There's a New Karaoke King ... LONG May He Reign!

Cali Lawyer Has Tight Grip On Crime

Well, my employers sent me to Ft. Wayne ... that's in Indiana ... to drop off some press parts. My stories were all filed and another paper ... one owned by a good friend of one of our top managers ... was about to lose some cog or widget or gasket or something. And I guess we had several spares in inventory, so it's "Errand Boy" to the rescue. I suppose FedEx or UPS just weren't quick enough options, but me and my Chevy were headin' west ... slightly west!

The drop off went great ... the press jockeys in Ft. W couldn't shake my hand fervently enough or squeeze my shoulder in a vivacious enough manner for coming to their rescue. Too bad neither of the old timers I met rocked

my rod, because the press room sure looked like it had a lot of little dark corners where a pair ... or trio ... of dudes could pass some time and some salty spunk between them!

Anyway, I was told to wait for a few minutes because the owner had something he wanted to send back with me. It was maybe five minutes before an attractive secretary or assistant came down to the press room exterior door where I was loitering and handed me two bottles of expensive-looking wine ... one plain and one affixed with an intricate bow that included a small card.

"We can't thank you enough for making the run over here," she praised with an earnest alto voice. "Our guys say we were probably looking at a breakdown in 12 hours or less." She then indicated the bottles. "The one with the bow is for Mr. Edwin at your paper ... and please tell him how much we appreciated his aid. The other bottle is for you ... my boss, Mr. Henrick, is a collector of wine so I'm sure it's something special."

"Why, thanks ... I'm just glad I ... uh, we ... could help you guys out in a pinch." She smiled and then turned to walk back the way she came. I closed the heavy door and walked into the late afternoon sunshine. It was only a short jaunt around the corner of the old newspaper building to my car. I unlocked my automobile and placed the bottles of wine carefully in my backseat, wrapping them in a heavy gym towel to keep them out of direct sunlight. Guess I'll be running the air conditioning all the way home, I mused, because I think wine gets nasty in the heat.

I pulled away from the newspaper and had maybe traveled five blocks when I noticed the vents were not putting out much cool air. I was just adjusting a few knobs and dials when I saw a warning light spring to life on my dashboard and my car started to lurch. Luckily the street I was on wasn't busy ... I got myself quickly to the curb and popped the hood.

By the time I got myself extricated from the seat belt and was rounding the front of my vehicle, a continuous gout of steam was seeping out from under the hood. I went to my trunk and found a pair of work gloves ... I have no idea why they were in there ... and put them on to protect my hands. Like a demented surgeon, I went back to the front of my car and got the hood propped up on its spindly support arm. Then I just stared ... like something would magically turn color or make a noise that told me how to fix the problem and be on my way.

Within an hour ... it was now about 5:40 p.m. ... my vehicle and I were at a car dealership garage courtesy of the corporate AAA account number I called from my cell. A studly young mechanic began talking in "enginese" about what he had deduced about my malfunctioning ride. As he continued to explain, my eyes glazed over. Bottom line ... the problem was an easy fix but one they couldn't complete until first thing the next morning. The buff technician assured me that I could be on the road by 10 a.m.

Just then, a slim, middle-aged woman stepped over and introduced herself. "I'm Lyla, a sales agent here. I heard you two talking and I think I can help out. I'm leaving for the day and there's a decent motel about a mile from here. If you like, I can call and check on vacancies, but they always have them. And if it's okay, I'll drop you off and Devin here can come by and get you in the morning when your car's ready."

I reluctantly agreed ... I was flustered and just wanted to be in my own apartment. Lyla smiled sweetly, like she understood my pain, and went back to her cubicle to contact the motel. Some 20 minutes later, she was waving goodbye to me as she pulled away from the central office of Peterson's Budget Inn, her 2010 fully-functional vehicle gleaming in the early evening sun as if mocking me and my situation. I stood there for a moment, clutching a travel bag I kept in my truck for emergencies ... soap, deodorant, shaving supplies, and a change of casual clothes ... and my laptop and camera bags which I had rescued from my car, before I went inside. A friendly hawkish man of probably 50 ... his name tag said "Hamish" ... walked me through the basics of registration and detailed the amenities offered. I was to be residing in room 7, almost to the end of the bottom floor extending to the right of the office. "Room 7's right beside the ice and vending machines," the part-time manager announced, "which is good because the restaurant down the block closes at 9." I asked Hamish about the cuisine at this place he mentioned because my stomach had started to growl on the ride over from the dealership; he sort of scowled and asked if I liked pizza. "Between you and me, you're better off grabbing a pie or a sub from one of the places that delivers." I left $20 with Hamish and he agreed to order me a medium sausage and mushroom deep-dish and call my room when it arrived. "And I'll be sure to get you a receipt." I thanked him and suggested he give the delivery person a $2 tip.

My room ... a double with two twin beds ... was very basic but cool and, at a glance, clean. I dropped my stuff on the bed nearest the door and made my way to the bathroom area. The light buzzed a little when I turned it on, illuminating a wide counter area with a sink, large mirror, and soaps and shampoos wrapped in plastic. To my right was a metal rack with several hangers for clothes and a small pile of whitish towels. A door to my left revealed a compact toilet and tub-and-shower area tiled with dingy off-white squares. I stepped in and relieved myself, then unwrapped the clear drinking glass from its protective covering and drew a cup full of cool tap water.

I took the glass to the small dinette set near the room's only window and sat gingerly in one of the fragile-looking chairs. As I sipped the water, I parted the curtains and looked out at the bleak surrounding buildings ... abandoned industrial hovels ... and the mishmash of cars parked alongside the hotel. The heavy brown curtains fell back into place when I stood and moved over to sit on the farthest bed facing my scant belongings. Sitting my glass on a marred side table, I unearthed the two thin pillows from their cage of tightly-made bedding and propped them against the headboard. I heaved my legs up onto the bed and sprawled out. Grabbing the TV remote, I turned on the bolted-down set and flipped through the channels. I spent a few moments watching bad weather pummel southeast Asia and then jumped to a campy episode of "The Nanny" ... I guess they're ALL campy ... before letting my mind go fuzzy and settling on the antics of one "SpongeBob Squarepants." I felt my eyelids drooping slightly when the shrill bleating of the room's phone startled me to instant clarity.

"Hello," I answered sheepishly.

"Front desk, sir ... your pizza and change await." There was a mixture of humor and boredom in the voice.

"I'll be right there."

It took me about two minutes to lock my room and get to the motel office. Hamish sat behind his small desk beaming. "Smells great, huh?" he declared, making his nose flare. The heady aroma of garlic and herbs had smelled glorious filling the small space.

"Hell, yeah," I answered enthusiastically. "I didn't realize how hungry I was." I started to pick up the box when I noticed Hamish's small, dark eyes focused longingly on the white cardboard container. "I appreciate you taking care of this ... uh, would you like a slice?"

Almost before my lips and tongue formed the last word, the motel worker whisked a paper plate and napkin from behind the registration desk with the flourish of a stage magician. "If it's no trouble, I'd love a small taste. My wife packed me an egg salad sandwich and an apple. She keeps forgetting that she's the only one in our family that likes egg salad." The weasel knew I was gonna offer him some, I laughed to myself.

I presented the box to him and like Julia Roberts reaching for the necklace in "Pretty Woman," Hamish reverently reached in and took a slice of steaming crust and toppings and put it on his plate. I closed the box with purpose, out of fear he'd take another. I haven't had anythig since lunch, dammit, I thought to myself, and the fucker can eat his stinky egg salad if he's that hungry. I turned to exit, but Hamish stopped me to give me my receipt and change. He also asked if I wanted to exchange my $5 for ones for the soda machine. I thanked him for his quick thinking and accepted the monetary switch.

Soon, I was back in my room with my shoes off and MTV playing videos of groups I'd never heard of on the TV screen. I ate the pizza like a desperate man enjoying his last meal. I guzzled the two Pepsis I'd purchased with equal gusto until my throat burned and my tummy felt sated. I lazily tossed the pizza box onto the nearby table, the remaining piece and a few orts of crust rattling as it landed. Now I turned my full attention to the TV to see what I could make of my evening in the Hoosier State. Fox ... maybe later ... MSNBC ... to heavy ... Cinemax ... maybe some softcore hetero porn after midnight. And like a bolt of lightning, my mind brightened as the word porn forged several connections in my apathetic brain. I sat up quickly to assemble what I needed.

First, I rummaged through my belongings and dug out my shiny silver laptop. I also delighted myself by discovering the two bottles of wine I had absentmindedly placed in my emergency duffle when I was giving my car a final check. I extracted the one meant for me and sat admiring the thick label and it's skecth of an attractive Italian villa. Spinning to the side, I then grabbed up the phone receiver. I punched "0" and waited only a few seconds.

"Front desk," came Hamish's clipped words. "how can I be of ..."

"This is the pizza guy in room 7 ... by any chance do you have a corkscrew over there I can borrow?'

A brief pause followed. "I believe there's one in one of these drawers. I can call you back when I ..."

"I'm on my way!" The phone hit the cradle with a sharp crack. Without locking my door or even putting on my shoes, I sprinted the short distance in my socks to the office. Luckily the path was graveled or I'd be throwing away a pair of tar-covered dress socks ... it was still very warm out and it was nearly 8:15 p.m. Hamish looked up just as I entered, and soon his hand followed with a slightly-tarnished version of the "kitchen aid" I requested. I crossed the room and snatched it from his hand. Hamish looked like he wanted more of a story or, at the very least, a little conversation to break up his shift, but "Thanks" was the only explanation I gave and scampered back to my room.

Once the door closed on #7, I turned the lock and engaged the security latch. Let's get this show on the road, I silently smirked and began to remove my clothes in a hasty fashion. My shirt, pants, briefs, and socks formed a pile right there by the door. Once unencumbered, I glanced down at my thickening cock and literally jumped to the bed. I switched off the television and, after only a few minutes of work, had the wine open and my water glass filled to the brim with the cloying-but-welcome intoxicant. I took a sip. Damn, my mind sang, I could get used to this stuff!

After a more substantial dreg, I pulled my laptop over and got it booted up. As my computer sought any available network connections, I continued to stroke my uncut pecker and thanked my agile mind for remembering Hamish's registration spiel ... "free wireless Internet in ALL 32 rooms!" Once connected, I turned over onto my side and arranged myself so I could manipulate the keyboard and my genitals with ease ... as well as reach the wine. I immediately went to an amateur porn site I had been frequenting for a few weeks and looked over the "Recent Vids" section. I clicked on the first one that caught my attention ... a hot Hispanic teen rimming an equally young and chiseled white guy ... and commenced to rubbing my dick lovingly. No real hurry, I thought as I began to squirm from my own touch, I've got all night!

After the vid was done ... it ended with the wiry Hispanic guy dousing the white boy's pink hole with torrents of cum ... I took a moment to read the comments. The second or third posting was from a user named "ItalianSteve8" and it was hilarious. "Now he looks like a bakery cupcake ... good enough to eat. I might have to put on a chef's hat and come over and fuck you both!" From the icon to the side of the comment I saw that ItalianSteve8 was actively online, so I clicked on the e-mail link and responded, "I've got an icing gun primed and ready, so can I come help!!" I hit the "send" tab.

I perused a few more videos, edging my tool and then backing off to keep from popping too soon. Every so often, I spit into may hand and coated my shaft with the thick wine-tinged drool. I was between sips of wine and fingertips smeared with pre-cum when I got a signal that I had a new message in my site account ... "blow322." I eagerly opened the message center and saw that the missive was from none other than ItalianSteve8.

LUVD YOUR NOTE ... I ALWAYS APPRECIATE A HELPING HAND. OR HOLE.

Shit ... my dick jumped in my hand, in serious danger of erupting. I quit touching myself, taking a huge gulp of wine and collecting my thought. My fingers danced over the keyboard of my laptop. THNX. I KNOW THIS IS KIND OF A CLICHE, BUT WHAT'S YOUR STORY? TELL ME SOMETHING ABOUT YOURSELF. I sent the reply and hoped that my cyber pen pal wouldn't bolt.

Close to a minute later, the alert sounded to acknowledge another message. I'M A HORNY ITALIAN WITH 8 INCHES OF HUNGRY, UNCUT SPICY SAUSAGE LOOKING TO GET OFF AS OFTEN AS POSSIBLE! My staff grew much harder from his lusty words than from my previous stroking. I imagined a gruff voice saying those words out loud.

With a wicked grin, I clacked out a suggestive response. I MEANT LIKE LOCATION OR OCCUPATION, BUT A HEAVY 8 WILL DO JUST FINE ... REAL FINE! And we were off and running. For probably 15 minutes, ItalianSteve8 and I exchanged all kinds of information. He gave me little snippets about being a busy lawyer on the West Coast, while I provided glimmers into the average life of a budding journalist who had lived in Ohio almost all his life. And in these playful e-mails, I also confessed to being a hungry bottom with a love of rimming and studs in jock straps. He, in turn, supplied me with graphic details about how he was a boisterous masturbator and an outrageously loud lover.

Then, ItalianSteve8 upped the ante with two simple words: WANNA CAM?!

It felt like a devil was leering up at me , telling me that I had struck gold! But since the universe is all about balance, there was also an irksome angel putting his halo in my business by reminding me of the reality of the situation. DON'T HAVE ONE. FUCK THIS CHEAP LAPTOP!! AND FUCK CHEAPASS ME FOR NOT EVER BUYING A WEBCAM!

Now, I figured this guy was gone for good. I wasn't sure if he'd send a final message before moving on to another, more assertive online dude or just not message me anymore. But I should have considered my gut and its feeling that ItalianSteve8 was a cool guy. After a brief respite, my computer flashed and I just about broke my knuckle punching the "accept" icon. WILL A PICTURE DO? This message came with an attachment, and I started stroking my cock again as it slowly downloaded. And there before me was ItalianSteve8 ... all of him! Fuck ... he was beefy with hair in all the right places lying in thick patches. His build was natural and so alluring, appearing to be about average height. His tool was what had me riveted to the screen, though. It was so painfully hard looking ... almost red with anger from needing a wet hole to punch and jab. And unlike a lot of online strokers, ItalianSteve8 showed his handsome face in his pic. But who the fuck wouldn't when they looked like that, I thought ... brooding, dark eyes and a cut jawline covered with the sexiest beard I had seen in ages. This was a man who could fuck and ... I hadn't dared to ask ... maybe occasionally GET fucked!

Looking at the pic on my laptop screen, my pud physically ached. This dude is really pushing my buttons, I thought, and he keeps upping the chip count ... what can I do to ... I jumped up, almost knocking the laptop off the bed, and grabbed the camera bag. I got out the expensive little digital jobby that the paper supplied me with and set it on AUTO. Then I adjusted a knob to a MACRO setting for capturing close-up images and started snapping photos of my dick. I took about 10 and then switched the camera over to DISPLAY to see the results of my testosterone-driven photo shoot. Two photos made me look deformed ... and small, three were so blurry that the subject matter was lost, but the rest were actually pretty sexy. I chose one that actually looked shiny from the pre-cum on my cockhead. With an audible laugh, I shut the camera off, dug out the memory card, and plugged it into the front reader port of my laptop. A few minutes later my dick-pic was on its way with a message reading, MY EDITOR SAYS THAT I SOMETIMES BURY THE LEAD OF MY STORY ... ALL I WANNA DO TONIGHT IS BURY MY COCK UP YOUR HAIRY ASSHOLE! I couldn't believe I was being so bold, but I was a little tipsy from the extravagant wine and ultrahorny from my "flirtations" with this beefy California stud.

His reply was just another pic ... this time of his hairy, filled-to-the-seams nutsack. I sent him a different cock shot from the original 10 and then hurriedly reinstalled the memory card into my camera so I could attempt some different poses. My feet ... the tattoo on my upper left arm ... I even tried to get a shot of my ass, but none of them were that great. What I didn't do ... because although I'm an okay-looking dude, I still have plenty of issues with confidence and inner-courage ... was send any shots of my face.

So ItalianSteve8 and I continued rapid-firing pics across the nation. He must either have some pics on file or he spends his off-hours in a God damn photo studio, I thought, because the images he's sending me just keep getting more and more stunning!! Most of the messages we sent were just attached images. Occasionally, he would add something like MY BALLS WANNA DROP A SALTY NUT ALL OVER YOUR HOLE AND THEN SHOVE MY SEED DEEP INSIDE, BITCH BOY!, and sometimes I would type something like YOU MAKE ME SO FUCKIN' HOT! ... or I CAN'T KEEP MY FINGERS AWAY FROM MY STEAMY MANPUSSY! Seriously ... I wrote that.

And inbetween sends and downloads, I was pumping my rod rigorously, trying to think of something to do to put this fucking tease session over the top. I riffled through my belongings looking for inspiration. I had a few condoms and a couple of packets of lube, so I tossed them on the bed. Socks ... fresh boxer briefs ... a spare belt ... cologne ... a small first aid kit ... a Mag-Lite in case of emergencies ... MAG-LITE!!

Like a gymnast, I vaulted over to the bed where my laptop purred, bringing with me the good-sized black metal flashlight and a paclet of lube. I took the camera and tried to remember how to set the DELAY TIMER mode ... I knew the mechanism could be set to wait up to 30 seconds and then take a series of five shots at two-second intervals. I clicked what I thought were the right buttons and set the camera at the bottom of the bed. Like an animal in heat, I tore open the lubricant and smeared some into my sweaty anus. One finger slowly worked the gel into my hairless crevice ... another soon joined it and I was gasping like a fish out of water. I brought myself back into focus and spread the remaining lube on the cool barrel of the six-inch flashlight. Holding it aloft like Lady Liberty and her mighty torch, I leaned down and clicked the little button on the side of the camera to activate the one-touch function I had set. A futuristic "beeping" began as the 3o seconds wound down. I went back onto my side, raising one leg up to spread open my crack and pushing my bottom out provocatively. I puressed the Mag-Lite into my rectum in a bit of a rush ... I was on a timer, you know ... and the sides of my asshole complained momentarity before letting the slick metal sheath invade my sphincter. The feeling was hot and cold, painful and delicious ... I just pumped my makeshift "toy" in and out, trying to lose myself in the sensations. The camera emitted different sounds as it took the pictures.

In rapid succession, I leaned up and hit the timer button several times, trying to shift my position slightly but always keeping my now-dripping hole facing the camera. On the third "take," I heard the modulation in sound that the camera made when snapping images but I didn't care anymore. My eyes were glued to my laptop screen where I had called up that first sexy image of ItalianSteve8, my mind overwhelmed with connecting his hairy body to the nerves firing in my anal cavity and the powerful pressure building in my balls.

It took only a few seconds to climb the mountain of passion and jump off cock first. "AAAHHHH!," I screamed. "FUCK ME, STUD ... FUCK MY TIGHT BITCH HOLE!! ... SHIT, HERE I ... AAAAGGGGHHHHHHH!" Cum rocketed from my piss slit and rained down on my stomach and closely-trimmed pubes ... maybe five or six silky spurts of babies-that-would-never-be. I was gasping from the exertion and the fact that I'm pretty much a "dribbler" ... this orgasm truly rocked me to my core.

I don't know how long I laid there in that dreamy state where your pulse slows and your dick begins to shrink. Between lolling my head from side to side and cracking the bones in my toes and ankles like a cat, I was barely aware of my surroundings. I know I trailed my hand through the drying cum and popped several coated fingers into my mouth to enjoy. I was just scooping some of the splooge on my tummy up when I noticed the computer letting me know I had a message ... maybe more than one.

Overlooking the mess on my abdomen, I sat up and started to reach for the camera. Feeling kind of drowsy and so very satisfied, I bypassed the camera and rolled my body forward to check the wine bottle. There was still about a third of the fine dark spirit left and another still-sealed drinking glass on the bathroom-area counter. I knew my first duty was to see if I had captured a suitable image to send to ItalianSteve8 as a proper "thank you" for inspiring me to such an explosive nut. But once that was done, I had to get dressed and take Hamish a glass of wine in honor of "free wireless Internet in ALL 32 rooms!"

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