Conrad Part One                                                        


    I was fifteen when my mother remarried.  His name was Conrad, Conrad Pruitt, and I guess to Mom he was everything my father was not.  He wasn't bookish, he wasn't intellectual, and he didn't wear horn rimmed glasses or boring gray suits.  No, Conrad was a pilot for American Airlines, complete with navy blue uniform, aviator shades, and a Rolex watch on his broad and hairy wrist.  Before flying for American, Conrad had been a pilot in the Air Force, and even as a civilian pilot the military aura still clung to him. 

    One look at Conrad told you he was the Right Stuff.  He stood tall and broad shouldered, and a smile came readily to his lips.  Conrad's blond hair, just graying at the temples, might have been curly if he hadn't kept it cropped short.  His perpetual tan, and the squint lines around his light gray eyes – eyes shaded by a pair of straight blond eyebrows – came from a lifetime spent outdoors.  He was from Texas originally, and he had a hint of a cowboy drawl – not much, but enough to make his voice naturally soothing to the passengers he shepherded six miles high through the blissful American skies.  Conrad was a man's man.  I hated him. 

    No, scratch that, I didn't hate him.  But he made me feel gawky and insignificant.  None of the things that mattered to me meant anything to him, and I didn't care about the stuff he liked either, like fishing and football.  To be fair, Conrad never belittled me or my interests, and he never pushed me to toss a ball around, but we had nothing in common.  And on top of that – or beneath it – was the simple fact that he had horned in on me and Mom.  Of course I was happy for her, or tried to be, because she was obviously in love with him, but it still felt weird having this stranger around all the time and everywhere, for our house was now his house too.  So Conrad was in the kitchen.  By the pool.  In her – their – room.  Don't get the wrong idea, I never heard crude moans through the walls or anything like that.  But of course I knew the story; I mean something was bringing that contented smile to Mom's face.

    I beat off a lot – every day, often twice, and always before going to sleep.  I'd draw my legs up so that my feet were together and my knees apart, and then vibrate two fingers on the spot below the head of my cock, holding it with my thumb.  Flicking rapidly back and forth, I'd let my thoughts wander.  Usually I thought about my favorite cuties at school, guys I'd seen naked in the showers, or guys I'd never seen naked but wanted to, guys with pert butts and narrow hips.  In my fantasies I had x ray vision and could see through their jeans to their underpants, and through the underpants to the boy beneath. 

    Once a friend of mine, Barry, told me he got a ride from some guy in a red sports car. When the guy shifted gears he put his hand on Barry's knee.  Barry told the fag (Barry's word) to let him out right away or he would hit him, and the guy had let him out.  Barry didn't know about me, nobody did, at least I didn't think so.  Anyhow, Barry's story provided me with j o fantasies for well over a month.  What if Barry hadn't said anything, and the man had driven them to a secluded spot and sucked his cock? I tried to imagine the stranger fumbling with Barry's zipper until he got Barry's cock out, tried to imagine him taking it into his mouth and sucking on it.  What would it feel like to get my own cock sucked?  Would the guy doing the sucking bob his head up and down in my lap, or would he hold my cock and lick it?  For that matter, what would it feel like to close my lips around Barry's boner?  Would there be a taste? 

    But after Mom married Conrad, when I beat off I couldn't keep from thinking about them doing it together.  I would imagine him lying on top of her, covering her body.  She'd have drawn up her legs, maybe even lifted her heels off the bed, and spread her legs wide apart to give him access.  Her fingers would dig into his back.  In my mind I could see his butt lift and push back into her, his butt cheeks clenching together in order to wedge his cock in up to the hilt.  I imagined her abstracted look as she concentrated on the sensations inside her, eyes glazed, maybe her mouth a bit open.  Would she fuck back, clutching and grinding up her hips, or would she just lie there beneath him, giving herself up to the passive enjoyment of his thrusts?  I imagined it both ways. 

    I was horrified at myself, and I knew I must be depraved to visualize such things, but the thoughts were so exciting I couldn't stop myself.  As my own climax approached I imagined him starting to really fuck her rough, both of them sweating and rutting like animals.  I put the sluttiest phrases I could think of into her mouth, egging him on:  "Oh Conrad, fuck me, fuck me, that's right, fuck me deeper, deeper, Oh God I'm cumming again, I'm cumming, Conrad fuck me, fuck me, Oh God fuck me or I'll go crazy."  

    In my fantasies he picked up his tempo in response to her pleas.  I saw him ram his cock way into her, and then buck forward a jot more, so that his pubic bone mashed against her clit.  "Oh Christ! that's right, that's right, ooooooohh that's right, oh yeah, like that, nnnnnnnhhhh, nnnnnnnnnhh, nnnnnhhh, oh Conrad! unh . . .  unh . . . unh . . . unh"  I'd make her moan, beside herself, as Conrad's butt rose, sank and clenched, rose, sank and twisted.  He mashed into her, churned her pussy, made her snap her head back and forth on the pillow and plead for it and call his name.  Afterwards, as I lay panting with cum all over myself, hot cum going cold and runny, I felt sick with self disgust, and vowed I'd never wallow in those fantasies again.  Sometimes I kept those promises a day, sometimes half an hour.   
              
    At some point I became obsessed with seeing Conrad's cock.  I had to know what Mom was taking inside her.  Judging from the rest of him it would be large – he stood well over six feet tall.  I'd seen him in a bathing suit often enough, and secretly admired his hairy slab pecs and the ghost of a washboard stomach.  The broad wrists and long, thick fingers suggested a large penis, but I had heard such proxies were unreliable. 

    How different we were!  A thin layer of baby fat lay under my skin and hid any trace of musculature.  My skin was as soft as a girl's.  Worse, my eyebrows were thin and feathery, and the wretched peach fuzz sideburns I cultivated trailed off into nothingness.  To top it off, my cheeks had a constant pink blush on them, like the dots of rouge on a toy soldier's cheeks, and when I was embarrassed the pink would deepen to crimson and spread over my entire face, in miserable contrast to Conrad's manly tan.  Even my dick was small, less than six inches fully erect, I'd measured it. 

    It wasn't going to be easy to scope out Conrad's equipment.  I considered bursting in while he was drying off after a shower, but I couldn't think of a pretext for being in their bathroom instead of my own.  Luck finally gave me the opportunity I needed.  I was walking down the upstairs hall when I heard the sound of a man pissing.  It had to be Conrad, and more important, he must have left the door at least part open for the sound to be so clear.  On cat's feet I made my way down the hall, heart pounding for fear of going too fast . . . or too slow. 

    I reached my goal and yes, the door was open about a foot, and yes, I was in time!  The yellow stream was just trailing off.  I stared, bug eyed.  I could see his trunk reflected in the mirror in front of the toilet.  In his hand he casually held the manliest cock I had ever seen.  Nothing I had glimpsed on my classmates in the gym showers came close.  The circumcised head was like a soldier's helmet, full, round, and flared where it met the weighty shaft.  The blond thatch of his pubes surrounded the base like a glory.  Jesus, I thought.  Jesus fucking Christ.  So that was what she was taking inside her.  I was mesmerized by the sheer beauty and power of it.  To possess such an instrument!  My imagination couldn't encompass it.

    Conrad shook out the last few drops.  I came to my senses, walked briskly down the hall and into my room, leaned back against the door, wrenched my pants down about my knees, and jerked off.  I was so aroused by what I'd just seen that I didn't try to prolong it, but just whipped my dick like crazy, frantic to cum.  Seconds later I shot long stripes of cum onto the rug.  I wiped it up quickly, then got naked and lay down on my bed to do it again, properly.  That night, when I jerked off yet again before going to sleep, my fantasies were still of Conrad's hand shaking the last drops of piss from his glorious thick helmeted cock. 

    Over the next few nights, however, images of Conrad making love to Mom crowded back into my j o thoughts.  But now, in addition to imagining the rear view of his ass plowing into her crotch, I fantasized about the heart of the matter, about his large penis (for erect it must be truly monstrous) actually parting the lips of her vagina.  Her pussy would be wet and slippery with her juices, for Conrad would have warmed her up with his fingers before he pushed up her knees, crawled forward, and put his cock to her pussy lips. 

    Maybe he would tease her for a while, nudging his head at the folds, seeming to enter her and then pulling back, dipping the head in and then withdrawing it again, like a swimmer testing the water with his toe.  Would she beg for it, beg him for God's sake to do it, to fuck her, to fuck her with his big cock before she went crazy with desire for it?  Suddenly and with no warning he would follow through on one of his teasing strokes, and plunge his cock all the way in. 

    In my mind I would follow his cock as it slid deep up her pussy, pulled up, and sank back into her again.  I imagined it parting the folds deep, deep inside her, lunging and dragging along her sensitive inner walls.  His cock gleaming with natural pussy lube.  Maybe he would grasp her by the tits and kiss her, filling her mouth with his tongue while he rammed her with his cock. How would it feel to be supporting that massive hairy body, to be gripped by those big hands? 

    He would surely grow sweaty with the exertion of it.  I saw her buck her hips up against his to force the utmost penetration, saw her grasp and knead his muscular butt, saw her face contort with agony as she came, milking him with the salmon contours of her innermost cunt.  And still Conrad would fuck her mercilessly, making her cum and cum and cum.  The hair at the base of his cock would become matted with her juices.  This vivid image disgusted me and yet aroused me almost more than I could bear.  And eventually he would shoot his sperm deep up her, feeling the same contractions of overpowering pleasure that would any minute send my own load racing up from my nuts, and he would jerk spasmodically and shudder as jets of cum coursed out through his cock, drenching the depths of her cunt.  He wouldn't make crude sounds, he was far too manly for that, but his eyes would squeeze shut as he tasted the summit of his pleasure. 

    By then I was whipping my cock like a demented person.  The pressure in my cock and balls grew so strong that it momentarily verged on torment.  A quaking spasm, release, and a wad of cum flew past my field of vision and splatted on the headboard, followed by several more quick contractions that coated my chest and belly with pearly swags of cum.  I wiped it off and fell asleep, my consciousness slipping down, down beneath my shame and into contented slumber.    

                      .       .      .       .      .       .      .      


    One weekend towards the end of the summer the three of us together went to the beach.  Conrad rented a cottage.  From the beginning, Mom made it plain I was grown up now, and wouldn't be expected to cling to her apron strings, in fact I got the impression that, apart from meals, they didn't expect to see me much at all.  That was fine by me, in fact, that made it tolerable.  After dinner on Saturday, Mom and Conrad "took a nap" and I walked the boardwalk, watching the crowd, looking for cuties.  Eventually I got bored with watching people, but kept on walking.  I guess I wanted to be alone.

    Night had fallen by the time I got to the end.  The boardwalk extended quite a distance in either direction from the swarming center, and as I walked, fewer and fewer people were to be seen beneath the streetlights.  Towards the end, the boardwalk was deserted except for an occasional drunk.  Not long after turning back I was surprised to see Conrad walking my way, alone.  Had he followed me?  As he approached I was once again struck by how utterly unlike we were, he the cowboy exec in his madras shorts and alligator shirt, me the would be punk in oversized tee and cut off sweats.

    "Hey Josh, how's it goin', Sport?"  Conrad came up to me, his hand raised in friendly greeting.  He was going to give me a comradely punch, either on the arm or the stomach, as was his manner.  The first few times he had done this I was appalled by the jockish gesture, but there was something disarming about the way he delivered it.  A friendly fist to the body came naturally to him, and I grew to recognize that these punches were an attempt to establish some sort of familial warmth between us.  It was brave, really, in the face of my unwavering unresponsiveness.

    But I was wrong.  His hand didn't form a fist and it didn't land on my arm or my stomach. Instead, Conrad thrust his open hand up between my legs, and gently but unmistakably squeezed my cock and balls.  "On a night like this, we need to go out and find you a chick." 

    He had felt me up!  A thousand thoughts exploded through my mind:  What was this about a "chick?"  Obviously a cover, in case I freaked.  No real man ever felt another guy like that, not ever. So what was up with Conrad?  He couldn't be gay . . . could he? And what made him think he could touch me that way?  Did I have to hit him now, or at least threaten to, the way Barry had threatened to hit the guy in the sports car?  Or was it already too late?  Yes, too late, too late, surely that had to be done immediately, in the first instant or not at all.  And anyhow, I wasn't sure how to hit with a fist, I could only slap him, which would hardly establish my manliness.  But did this mean he knew I was gay?  Could he tell?  Had others then guessed as well?  Had he – sickening thought – discussed it with Mom?  Or she with him?  Or – O Jesus, not this, not this – had he seen me that day when I watched him take a piss?  Had he glimpsed my face in the mirror, transfixed as he shook the last few drops from his cock? 

    All those thoughts and more exploded in my brain.  Suddenly the surf seemed far away, and even my field of vision seemed to have come unmoored and float before me.  Blood was pounding in my ears.  Conrad's smile had melted into a questioning look.  It washed over me how much he'd risked.  Yes, how daring he was!  I felt unsteady on my legs.  The landward rail offered support and was mercifully out of the light . . . I didn't want Conrad to see how badly I was blushing.  With effort I unfroze myself and walked over to the darkness.  I leaned back against the rail, and gazed across the boardwalk and out to sea.  In the distance there were lights on freighters.  Conrad came over and leaned back against the rail too, close beside me.

    "You know, Josh, when I first came here, twenty years ago or so, none of that stuff on the other side of the highway was built yet.  The first thing to come was that shopping center with the drugstore in it." He talked on like that, blandly, irrelevantly, as if nothing were happening, and as he talked he put his hand to my crotch again – and this time left it there. 

    I didn't move; I let him do it.  And that was that.  There was no going back, Conrad was feeling my penis, rubbing it to throbbing hardness, and I was letting him.  It felt wonderful, but I could hardly concentrate on the sensation, so many questions surged into my mind at once.  If a masculine man like Conrad touched other guys' dicks, who then did not?  Did Mr. Hartmann, my History teacher?  Did Mr. Marsh, the Coach?  Was there a vast conspiracy of silence I knew nothing about?  I surrendered to the thrill of Conrad's hand on my cock – I'd have to sort the rest out later.

    Conrad's hands explored my crotch purposefully, like a blind person reading a face by touch.  Through my sweats he made out the length and thickness of my cock, discovered where the head began, felt for my balls.  Had he perhaps been curious too?  Through the pliable material he felt the head with his fingers.  The sensation of another man's hand – of Conrad's hand – touching me was astonishingly pleasurable, and strangely unlike the feeling of touching it myself. My cock strained forward to meet his touch. 

    When he was satisfied with his exploration, Conrad began to squeeze my cock gently up and down through the cloth.  It tented out the loose material.  Conrad ran his fingers down to my balls and then pulled up with the flat of his hand over the shaft and head, over and over, in easy strokes.  And all the while his voice murmured on about unrelated things, when restaurants had come and gone, storm damage in previous years, as though his hand demanded cover not only of darkness but of small talk, too, as I let him stealthily squeeze and pleasure my stiffened cock.

    I let him ramble on as he stroked me.  But what was expected of me?  Was I likewise permitted to feel his cock through his pants?  If Conrad could touch me like he was, what then was forbidden?  I reached over and put my hand against his thigh, and haltingly brought it to the fly of his pants.  In a trice (and without breaking the flow of irrelevant pleasantries) Conrad clapped his free hand over mine, securing it to his groin.  So then this too was allowed, in fact, desired.  My tentative touch steadied to a grip as I processed the information that Conrad wanted me to play with his cock.  I swallowed hard as I took in the size of him.  It felt like a baseball bat. The thick tube reached from his groin practically all the way to his hip bone, his jockey briefs crushing it flat against his belly.  It was hard as stone, as hot, living stone.  As he had mine, I read the size and position of his cock with my fingers.  Then I did my best to mimic Conrad's rhythmic stroke. 

    I would have liked to have run my hand up under his shirt as well, run my fingers through his chest hair, and felt his pecs and nipples, but I wasn't sure of the rules to this new game, and didn't dare risk it.  Maybe dick rubbing was okay, but betraying further interest would shock and disgust.  Anyway, Conrad stroking my cock and me stroking his was excitement enough for now.  He thrust his hips and cock gently forward to meet my hand, signaling me to rub it harder.  My own dick quivered under his masterful massage.  Fortunately no one came by, because although where we stood was dark compared to under the streetlight, it wasn't dark enough to hide what we were doing.

    In the distance a lighted Ferris wheel and a few carnival rides marked the center of the boardwalk; there was a pier there.  It seemed unnaturally far away, as did the crashing of the surf.  The freighters at sea passed each other.  I felt as if I were on some powerful drug.  Conrad drew back his hand and stuck it under my sweat pants, touching my cock flesh to flesh, the first time anyone had ever done that.  My breathing had gone uneven.  His fingers closed around my cock and began to pull.  The heightened intensity frightened me.  I wanted to respond in kind, but surely he didn't expect me to unzip his pants right there on the boardwalk?  Had he gone berserk?  Yet how I longed to touch his cock for real, and not through his shorts.  Oh God, to make him shoot!

    I stole a glance at his face, but his eyes were focused on the far horizon.  He had stopped talking now that he was sure I wouldn't bolt.  I looked back out to sea myself, afraid that if I continued looking at him he'd turn and look me in the eyes, and maybe the magic spell would break.  The insistent tug of his hand on my cock was unspeakably pleasurable.  The full handed skin to skin stroke intensified the sexual ache, and my nuts were drawn up tight.  Suddenly Conrad was rubbing a drop of something wet and slippery onto the head of my cock:  pre cum.  He rotated his moistened thumb around and around the underside of the head.  A sharp stab of pleasure emerged through the more general ache, and it flashed on me that I was very close. What then?  Was I supposed to walk back through the center of town with cum all over my shorts?  Was I supposed to pull down my shorts and shoot it right there on a public boardwalk?

    We were both of us breathing pretty hard by then.  I caught his glance:  "Do you . . . do you want to walk on the beach?" 

    "You bet, Josh."  His tone was suddenly entirely different from before, focused, with me.  I felt reassured, and realized I had for the first time given him verbal permission, even an invitation.  Now it was up to him – he knew I would let him do anything he wanted.  We broke apart, and he led me across the boardwalk to the stairs to the beach, led me down to the sand.  The moonlight seemed brighter away from the streetlights on the boardwalk.  The crash, boom, and slow withdrawal of the surf seemed closer, yet still unreal.  Conrad drew me along the boardwalk, his hand against the small of my back.  He took my shoulders and leaned me back against a massive wooden pier.  As my eyes adjusted I could see the beach was bright with moonlight, but it was also totally empty, and we couldn't be seen from above. 

    In one adroit movement Conrad hunkered down in front of me and tugged my shorts down to my ankles.  My cock stood out from my body at an upthrust angle – small, but straight and eager.  Before I knew what was happening, Conrad had taken my whole cock into his mouth so that his nose crushed against my belly.  The sensation was strange to me – wet, warm, yet strangely empty.  The touch of Conrad's hand had been recognizably like my own, but this was new and different.  So this is it, I thought, a blow job.  But it wasn't "it."  Not yet.  In a moment I found out what a real blow job was, when Conrad began to suck in earnest. 

    The vacuuming sensation as he devoured my cock was a hundredfold more powerful. Conrad rocked his head back and forth rapidly and purposefully, sometimes twisting it slightly to suck me even harder.  "He's really gobbling it" I thought to myself.  I could feel his tongue working the underside of my cock.  At times he seemed to lodge my cock in the back of his throat and actually milk it by swallowing, but mostly he just sucked back and forth on it quickly, almost deliriously.   

    I looked down.  Somehow he'd loosened his own pants too, I could see his arm jacking back and forth.  I wondered what to do with my hands.  I laid them on top of his head, but lightly, not wanting to impede his sucking, and then drew them around to the back. I realized I had always wanted to touch the nape of his neck, where the hairs formed a golden chevron.   I ran my hands through the locks of hair on his head, stroking it.  How soft his hairs were!  I had imagined they would be bristly, but they were soft instead.  I was short of breath by then, almost gasping.  Conrad's vigorous sucking was pushing me nearer to the brink.  No one had ever made me feel that way before, and at that moment I adored him.

    The insistent pressure in my cock and balls rose to a dangerous pitch.  I was afraid I might not be able to get my dick out of his mouth in time.  What if I ended up spraying cum all over his shirt!  What a geek he would think me!  "Conrad" I said.   At the sound of his name he seemed to suck even more intensely, if such a thing were possible.  "Conrad . . . I  . . . uh . . . I need to pull out.  I . . . I can't hold it." 

    Evidently he was so lost in what he was doing that he hadn't heard me; he was sucking like crazy.  "Conrad?" I said again, the pitch of my voice rising. To my own ears I sounded like a little boy begging to be taken to the bathroom in time.  "I'm gonna . . . I'm gonna . . ." Conrad seemed to nod without breaking his rhythm.  I fought desperately to choke back the surge rising inside my cock.  Then Conrad reached up behind me, grabbed me firmly by the butt with both hands, and pulled me to him, forcing my cock all the way into his mouth, making it absolutely impossible for me to withdraw.  The message was unmistakable.  Conrad was telling me to cum in his mouth!

    The thrilling lewdness of the thought brought me up and over the edge.  Conrad wanted me to shoot in his mouth, wanted to feel it spew onto his tongue and throat, to taste my cum, to eat it!  He grasped my butt and sucked like crazy.  I was close to losing consciousness with shock and need and pleasure.  I couldn't hold out for another second.  Mighty contractions racked my groin and balls, and my pleasure tortured cock squirted streams of cum into his mouth.  The first spurts shot out with enormous power.  Conrad swallowed and swallowed.  I surrendered to it, heaving and gasping for breath. It was so strange, to cum and not to see it fling itself up my chest.  Instead, I was feeding Conrad my cum!

    Gradually the force of the spasms diminished, until just small amounts of cum were hiccupping out.  I consciously contracted my pelvic muscles to squeeze out the last drops.  Finally he let my cock flop out of his mouth, ran his tongue around inside his mouth, gathering the rest of my cum, and swallowed it.  I looked down at my cock, amazed, and then at Conrad.  I slumped, spent. 

    Conrad stood up.  He fisted his cock furiously for a few seconds.  Still panting, I marveled at the sight of it.  His cock was easily twice the length of his fist, and his hand, the hand that had so easily circled my cock, didn't reach all the way around it.  He stood with his feet some two feet apart and his knees slightly bent, maybe a yard away, jerking his big cock, holding it underhand, his thumb against the head, and aiming downward.  He was breathing hard and his chest rose and fell quickly under his shirt.  He looked at me, taking in my face and body in a raking glance.  My pants were still crumpled at my ankles.  A drop of after cum hung at the tip of my deflating cock.  Then he shut his eyes and locked his handsome face in an expression of deepest concentration.  A few more pulls and he froze.  His body went rigid, and he trembled almost imperceptibly.  He stroked himself again and stopped, his face twisted, his lungs expelling short, shuddering gasps of air. Then he pulled one final time, hard, and let it happen, strafing the sand with cum.  Later I would replay that image many times in my mind's eye.

    He opened his eyes and looked at me.  I looked back.  I couldn't read his face.  Perhaps like me he was totally drained, beyond thought or feeling.  Recovering somewhat, I bent over and pulled up my pants.  I was no longer dizzy with lust, and the significance of what had just happened seized me by the throat.  I had just had my first sex, and with a man, a grown up.  With Conrad.  With Mom's new husband.  There came to me the image of her leaning back against him, laughing, happy and secure in his love.  What had we two done?  We had betrayed my mom.  "Conrad, I gotta go" I said, seized by guilt and horror, and I lit off down the beach in a desperate sprint.  I didn't look back until I was far far back towards town.







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