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
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 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
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
"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
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
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
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
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
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
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,
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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