Page 14 - Leather Blues
P. 14

2                                           Jack Fritscher

               In those weeks, Denny watched the peaks of that ass, the
            way it looked good, tight and rounded, in the thin cotton
            shorts. Afternoons, playing ball, he caught himself watch-
            ing the older boy’s buttocks squeezing and expanding in the
            faded and shrunktight denims he wore. Those afternoons
            he thought of the nights and the muscular ass pushing the
            large equipment under it into those sixteen-year-old hands.
               He and his cousin never spoke about the nightly ritual
            and when the month was over, the cousin departed with his
            parents and Denny never saw him again. The adult relatives
            had had words. At least he got his bed back permanently. But
            this particular morning, Denny fell in and out of conscious-
            ness, dozing and waking with jagged starts. Each time he
            woke he felt his hardon lying long and cool beneath him.
            His eye checked the clock. Once he touched its back to make
            sure he had not unswitched the alarm. The second waking
            from his doze he considered tripping out through his par-
            ents’ bedroom to relieve the usual AM pisshard. He judged
            his discomfort not yet worth the walk and rolled over.
               In his sleep he met himself. He dreamed this dream often.
            The plot never changed. Always he saw himself lying naked,
            except for a worn jock under a tight pair of faded gym shorts.
            He lay catching the sun behind the family garage. The old
            outbuilding, hardly more than a large shed, had once been
            a small stable and carriage barn. He liked its look. He liked
            its smell. He liked the familiar view of his own body brown-
            ing on the khaki blanket. He ran his eyes like hands over
            himself. He touched his shock of dark hair reddened slightly
            by the sun. Light hair, almost golden down, defined the lean
            mounds of his chest. The same neargold furred down into
            his shorts. A patch of white untanned skin below the usual
            waistline contrasted sharply with his otherwise even bronze.
            He lifted his rump to adjust his cock inside the sweaty jock.
            He hitched the shorts to the tanline he desired. The motion
            tensed out his thighs. It arched up his generous basket.

                ©Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved
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