Now Available!

Sometimes a bar is more than a building. Sometimes, it's a belief.

Outland
by Kiernan Kelly
Available in print and ebook at www.Torqeurebooks.com
www.Amazon.com, www.BarnesandNoble.com
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 Bits and Pieces
A collection of erotic gay romance short stories
by Kiernan Kelly
www.KiernanKelly.com
Copyright 2008 by Kiernan Kelly
All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in newspapers, magazines, radio,
television, or online reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any
means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or information storage or
retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

Published in the Untied States.

Kiernan Kelly, P.O. Box 722, Loughman, Florida, 33858.
Printed in the United States.

Cover design: Kiernan Kelly

Cover photograph: www.IStock.com
Interior cover designs: Kiernan Kelly
Interior cover photographs: www.IStock.com, www.Dreamstime.com
First Edition
 Introduction
by Kiernan Kelly

"A dirty book is rarely dusty." ~Author Unknown

I love this quote. It's funny, it's easy to remember, and most of all, it's true.
Romance novels used to be -- and still are, by some -- called "trashy" because of the
erotic nature of the genre. They're the dirty little secret that few people are comfortable to admit
indulging themselves in; they're the books taken out in the dark and read with a flashlight under
the covers. They used to be called "bodice rippers."
I don't write those.
I write "codpiece rippers."
My books are gay erotic romance. It's not porn, it's not one-handed reading…it's not even
really erotica. Oh, there are sex scenes in my stories – absolutely, and in graphic detail, might I
add. But they're surrounded by rich characters and detailed plots, and only happen as a natural
progression of the story. In other words, you won't find page after page after page of sex in my
books, but the sex you do find will be fulfilling and satisfying.
I currently have six full-length novels out in paperback and e-format - Riding Heartbreak
Road, In Bear Country, Seti's Heart, and In Bear Country II: The Barbary Coast, In Their Own
Skins: Shifting Sands, and Outland. I also have a plethora of novellas and short stories
available. Some are available in print anthologies like Love in a Lock-Up, Unmasked: Erotic
Tales of Gay Superheroes, Don't Ask, Don't' Tie Me Up, and Ride Me, Cowboy from StarBooks
Press, and Hard Hats from Cleis Press, as well as Torqued Tales, Flipped Fables, and Animal
Attraction II from Torquere Press, and Studs and Spurs, from MLR Press, among others.
All of my print titles and many of my e-format stories are available through the
publishers, as well as Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble Online, Border's Online, and nearly every
other online bookstore.
Bits and Pieces is a collection of stories that have appeared on my website, free stories
written as bonuses for my readers. Read one or two. Read the whole lot of them. Decide for
yourself if you like my style of writing. If you do, hop onto my website,
www.KiernanKelly.com to see a complete list of my work to date, and to find links for
purchase.
Remember, gay romance isn't fiction.
It's right here.
Read on.
 F.B. detested Starbucks.
Not because of the clientele (mostly preppie clones and businessmen and women, cool
and briskly efficient, even when placing their coffee orders) or because of the décor (early blah
was how F.B.’s sister, an interior designer, described it), or even because the bulk of their
attendants were wet-behind-the-ears college kids who reminded him of green recruits.
It was because of the smell.
The hearty aroma of fresh-perked coffee permeated every inch, every napkin, every
molecule of the shop. He could smell it as soon as he pulled his Hummer into a parking space
out front and opened the door, and it only grew stronger and more potent with each step he’d
taken toward the shop’s entrance.
F.B. had been caffeine-free for over a year and yet the aroma of coffee still made him
salivate like Pavlov’s dog. His body’s reaction made him feel weak, and that was why he
detested Starbucks, the demi-god of all coffee shops.
Ex-Marines did not tremble simply because they were within sniffing range of a tall low-
fat latte.
He clenched his teeth, forcing himself to ignore the enticing smell and the tempting hiss
and sputter of the steaming foam from the machines as they spat out orders, F.B. contortioned
his six-foot, two-inch frame into one of the tiny, blonde wood chairs, stuffing his legs under the
kindergarten-sized table.
Honestly, who designed these places? The Lollipop Guild of Munchkinland? F.B.
seriously doubted that even Toto could sit in one of those chairs and actually be comfortable in
it. His own Dobies would use it as a chew toy. The chair added insult to injury by creaking
when he shifted his weight, and he growled, low in his chest.
Why he’d ever agreed to meet his date in this den of caffeine iniquity was beyond his
reasoning. He must have been temporarily Section Eight. That was the only explanation.
Normally, he’d have agreed to meet at one of the off-base bars frequented by former soldiers
like himself, such as the Peacekeeper - someplace dark, loud, and comfortingly Marine.
 A voice called his attention from his internal dialogue. Looking up, he found himself
staring at Matt, his date.
Suddenly, F.B. remembered why he’d agreed to meet Matt at Starbucks.
For a guy who looked like Matt, F.B. would have met him stark naked in Times Square in
the middle of the fucking blizzard, if that’s what he'd asked.
“Hey,” F.B. drawled.
His accent always got thicker in direct proportion to his level of horniness and at that
moment his cock was getting ready to bust the fly of his camos wide open, making F.B. sound
like Texas personified.
“Hi,” Matt grinned, his low-pitched, gravelly voice shooting straight from F.B.’s ears to
his groin, electrifying every inch along the way. He slipped into the seat across from F.B. –
much more gracefully than F.B. had managed to do – folding his hands on the table in front of
him. “Have any trouble finding the place?”
“Nah, I found it all right. What do you want to drink?”
“Nothing right now, thanks.” Funny, but to F.B.’s ears it sounded like Matt had said,
“Your spunk, right now. Plop it up on the table, soldier.” Of course, F.B. knew that that was
only his libido’s wishful thinking, but…damn, this boy was hot.
F.B. had first seen Matt during routine shopping maneuvers last weekend. He’d needed a
few things from the supermarket across town that his local grocery store didn’t carry. There,
standing in the fruits and vegetable aisle with a casaba melon balanced in each hand, was Matt.
Six-foot, dark haired, he was a hundred and eighty-five pounds of solid muscle wedged inside a
white wifebeater and a pair of thin, worn Levis that might have been painted on. One of his
muscular arms was covered in a colorful, full sleeve tattoo, and, if F.B. wasn’t mistaken, that
was a nipple ring outlined under the thin cotton of his t-shirt.
Matt’s dark eyebrows had been knitted in a perplexed frown as he’d stared at the melons
in his hand, weighing one against the other. Looking up, his green eyes had sparkled and his
stubbly cheek had creased in a boyish, sheepish grin when he’d seen F.B. staring at him. “How
do you tell when these damn things are ripe?” he’d asked F.B.
F.B. didn’t know casaba melons from pinto beans, but within five minutes he’d
bullshitted his way into helping Matt choosing the one in his left hand, and had walked away
from the fruits and vegetables aisle with the other casaba melon and Matt’s phone number.
He’d called that same night and made a date with Matt for today.
At Starbucks.
“Aren’t you drinking anything?” Matt asked.
“I’m off caffeine,” F.B. grumbled. It sounded more like a growl, and he cleared his throat
to try to cover.
Matt laughed a deep rumbling sound that thrummed in F.B.’s bones and his cock. “They
do have decaf, you know.”
“Decaf if for wusses,” F.B. said, and winced as soon as the words had left his mouth.
“Not that I think you’re a wuss if you drink it…I mean…”
“I know. Its okay, F.B. So, what do you do for a living?”
“I’m a retired Marine. I own a computer repair service, now. Rebuild and reprogram
them, and upgrade client’s existing systems.”
“Cool. I own a pet store over on Fifteenth Street. Puppy Love,” Matt said, smiling.
 “I like dogs. I have four, myself.”
“Really? What breed?”
“Dobermans. Four from the same litter, as a matter of fact."
“Oh, I love Dobies! What are their names?”
F.B. grinned. “Fuck, Me, Hard, and Now.”
Matt cackled, actually snorting and drawing the attention of everyone in the room.
“Sorry, but that’s really funny. What do your neighbors think when you call them?”
“Don’t know, don’t care,” F.B. shrugged. “But I do know that mothers keep their rugrats
away from my house because of them. Not that the Dobies bite…the parents just don’t want
their kids naming goldfish after them.”
“Well, they have to be coolest names for dogs I’ve heard in a while. Speaking of names,
what’s “F.B.” stand for, anyway?” Matt asked.
Oh, God. How the fuck did F.B. explain how he got his nickname? It had been given to
him by his C.O. during F.B.’s first tour, and it wasn’t exactly a shining example of the Marines’
Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy.
F.B. stood for Fuck Buddy.
His C.O.’s Fuck Buddy, to be exact.
Somehow the nickname had stuck to him like white on snow, and even now, at forty and
retired from active duty, he still went by it.
“Er, it was given to me by my C.O.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, um…I need to use the head. Be back in a minute,” F.B. muttered, hedging on
answering. He stood up and made his way to the Men’s Room at the back of the coffee shop.
Inside the restroom, F.B. stared at his reflection in the mirror over the sink. Shit. His face
was beet red. He hadn’t blushed since his first day in boot camp, but Matt’s innocent question
had him flushing like a schoolgirl.
He pulled his prick out and pissed, hoping that Matt would have forgotten the question
before F.B. made it back to the table.
F.B. was so flustered that he’d forgotten to lock the bathroom door, and he twisted
around, dick still in hand, when the door opened.
It was Matt.
And he was staring at the hunk of meat F.B. had fisted in his fingers.
“I, uh…ordered you a…uh…decaf latte. I know you think decaf is for wusses, but I felt
funny ordering without getting you something. You don’t mind do you?” Matt asked, his green
eyes darkening as he continued to stare at F.B. cock. He didn’t attempt to leave the bathroom,
instead slipping fully inside and closing the door behind him. F.B. heard the lock snap into
place.
Matt was fairly bouncing, rocking back and forth and shifting his weight from one foot to
the other. “Didn’t know if you wanted sugar or cream or what, though. Do you want? Sugar or
cream, I mean. Or do you drink it black? I like mine light and sweet. Sometimes with cinnamon
or chocolate…”
Shit, the boy is jazzed on caffeine, F.B. thought. Still, he noticed that, caffeine high or no,
Matt’s eyes hadn’t stopped looking at F.B.’s cock.
 F.B. felt his dick grow hard under Matt’s intense gaze. Shit. He's going to think I'm a
goddamn pervert. “No, thanks. That’s great.”
“F.B.?”
“Yeah?”
“I…um…I mean, you…um…”
“Yeah?”
“Oh, fuck it,” Matt growled, dropping to his knees. F.B.’s eyes rolled to the back of his
head as Matt’s lips closed around the head of his cock. His tongue was like velvet sin, curling
and swirling over F.B.’s prick, sliding up and down its length from his balls to the tip and back
again.
Lord, the boy was talented.
F.B. reached down and grabbed Matt’s ears, pulling until Matt growled, letting F.B.’s
cock go and standing up. With his hands still on either side of Matt’s head, F.B. smashed his
lips against Matt’s, tasting himself on Matt’s tongue. He ground his cock into the denim of
Matt’s jeans, knowing that the precome that slicked its head would leave a wet spot on them.
Matt tore at F.B.’s shirt, breaking their kiss only long enough to get it up over his head.
His lips went for a nipple, his tongue tracing the Semper Fi tat F.B. had over his heart. Each lick
sent an electrical jolt to F.B. cock, making it twitch hungrily.
“Naked. Get naked. Now,” F.B. ordered, his voice thick with need. He smirked when
Matt straightened, cheekily saluted, and stripped down to his skin.
Lordy, Lordy. Matt’s body was chiseled, each muscle perfectly defined. F.B. counted an
eight-pack, something he’d never been able to achieve himself despite a life in the Marines and
a daily regimen of heavy exercise.
Those abs were genetic, someone had once told F.B. Right now, all that F.B. cared about
was the fact that those abs were right there in front of him, begging to be touched.
Licked.
Nibbled.
He worked his way slowly down the center of Matt’s chest, pausing to take his silver
filigreed nipple ring between his teeth and pull, eliciting a hissed oath from Matt. Grinning, F.B.
continued on, licking every inch of Matt’s delectable skin all the way down to paradise.
Paradise hardly described the thick, long hunk of meat that rose between Matt’s thighs
like a tank gun, and ready to fire by the looks of things. F.B. opened wide, swallowing him
whole right down to the root.
Matt’s fingers tried to twist in F.B. hair, but found little purchase in his brush cut.
Instead, F.B. felt them push down on his skull, as Matt’s hips bucked upward, fucking F.B.’s
mouth. Thick drops of precome filled F.B.’s mouth as Matt began to moan.
“Gonna come soon,” Matt groaned, his fingers tightening over F.B.’s skull.
“Do it!” F.B. commanded before attacking Matt’s cock again with the single-minded
focus only a Marine was capable of achieving. He sucked hard, drawing Matt’s cock as deeply
into his throat as he could.
Matt’s fingers dug into his scalp as he came, semen filling F.B.’s mouth with salty-bitter
ambrosia. He drank it all, thinking that it was a helluva lot better than anything Starbucks could
possibly brew.
 Standing up, F.B. caught a still-trembling Matt by his broad shoulders and spun him
around, bending him over the small sink. Kneeling, he spread Matt’s cheeks with his fingers,
eyeing the ridged flesh of Matt’s umber-colored asshole. Sweet. It was as clean as a whistle.
Not a single hair clung to the puckered hole, just the way F.B. liked it. Flicking out his tongue,
he rimmed Matt’s hole with quick little laps.
Musky and heady, Matt’s flavor blended with the taste of his semen that still clung to
F.B.’s tongue, creating a potent cocktail that set F.B.’s cock to full attention. Curling his tongue,
F.B. thrust it into Matt’s tight little hole, tongue-fucking him with gusto. He’d been blessed
with a very talented tongue, nearly prehensile, and F.B. used that talent now to its fullest
advantage. Within only a few moments, he had Matt moaning and bucking back against his
face.
“Wanna fuck you now, boy,” F.B. growled, standing up. Matt’s only answer was a half-
strangled mewl as F.B. quickly digging out a condom from his jeans' pocket. He rolled it over
his length in record time, nearly coming in the process. He didn't waste anymore time - he
aligned his cock with Matt’s asshole and pushed right in.
“Fuck!” F.B. gasped as Matt’s body wrapped itself around F.B.’s cock, tight and silky,
and burning hot. He pushed in as far as he could go, his eyes rolling to the back of his head. “So
fucking tight, Matt,” he sighed, pulling back and slamming himself back in.
He established a rhythm that had his pelvis slapping against Matt’s ass with loud cracks,
quickly nearing the point of no return.
When F.B. came shortly after, it was in great, shuddering spurts that filled Matt’s canal
and leaked out over his balls.
Drained, F.B. leaned against the cool wall of the bathroom, his muscles trembling and
twitching in the aftermath of his orgasm. Matt lifted himself off the sink and sat down on the
closed lid of the toilet, his head hanging low.
“You okay?” F.B. asked, sounding a little breathy since he was still panting from his
exertions.
“Yeah, just…wow. That was fucking fantastic.” Matt had stopped bouncing at least.
Great sex will drain even the strongest caffeine high in an instant.
“I know the feeling. Man, you have a sweet ass, Matt.”
Matt smiled up at him, reaching for his clothes. F.B. zipped himself up and waited for
Matt to finish dressing. “Helluva first date, huh? I never knew Starbucks could be so much
fun,” he grinned.
Matt nodded, and unlocked the door. They slipped out, trying not to make it conspicuous
that two men had been locked in the john together, which was nearly impossible since they
were both six feet tall and built like a pair of proverbial brick shithouses. Eyes followed them
all the way to back to their table.
“So, what would you like to do now?” F.B. asked, downing his cooled decaf latte in one
long swallow.
“I could eat,” Matt said. “I seem to have worked up an appetite.”
F.B. laughed, nodding. “Yeah, me too. Where? You’re choice and my treat.”
“Doesn’t matter to me,” Matt said, winking at F.B, “as long as they have a bathroom.”
 F.B. felt his cock twitch. This might very well go down in the annals of history as the
world’s best first date. For Matt, he might even consider taking up caffeine again, if it meant
more trips to Starbucks with him.
Or, more precisely, more trips to the Starbucks’ bathroom with him.
Hitting the Showers
By Kiernan Kelly

I'm thirteen years old. Not physically, of course – I've been walking this planet for
twenty-five years – but mentally. I'm absolutely adolescent when it comes to sex. Not doing it –
I'm hardly a virgin – but talking about it never fails to reduce me into a snickering kid, blushing
and sporting wood at the same time.
This tends to be a problem in my line of work. I'm a pitcher for a minor league baseball
team, and any guy who's ever played on a team knows what happens between players after a
game. There's a reason they call it "locker room" language, you know.
It never fails. We'll trot into the locker room, sweaty, dirty, euphoric if we've won,
pissed-off if we didn't, and hit the showers. Jerseys are stripped off, cleats tossed, pants
dropped, cups removed. Suddenly there's naked man-flesh everywhere, and all of it's honed and
chiseled. Chests and backs covered with a slick sheen of sweat, asses twitching, cocks bobbing;
balls hanging low…you get the picture. Add to that the bawdy talk, the towel-snapping and
ass-swatting, and you can imagine my discomfort. Within minutes, I'm giggling like a
schoolgirl and trying to hide an erection that's so hard I could use it to hit a home run.
That's the crux of my problem. I'm gay, and being in a roomful of naked, ripped men
takes me straight – no pun intended - to my happy place. I try to be the first one into the
showers so that I'm not tempted to stare – or worse, touch – any of the eye candy parading
around me. Believe me, there are plenty of guys on my team who I fantasize about, and whom I
wouldn't mind grabbing a handful of now and then.
Bubba Forester, the team's catcher, heads off that list. Lord, that man is pure perfection,
from the top of his head to his little pinky toe. He's well over six-feet tall, and every inch of him
is sculpted and defined. He's so hot he was asked to pose for a "Men of Baseball" calendar last
year. He was Mr. January, posing in nothing but his catcher's mask and mitt.
 I keep that calendar pinned up on the wall next to my bed. It's been January in my house
for almost eight months now.
Anyway, we'd just won an away game, and everyone was in a great mood. Trotting off
the field, we headed en masse to the locker room. In my mind I was picturing my route through
the locker room to the showers. I always tried to plan it ahead of time, so that I could strip
down, shower, and get the hell out before anyone noticed that I had a stiffie. Sometimes it
actually worked.
Not this time.
It had started raining shortly before the winning run was hit, and was coming down in
buckets before the end of the game. The ground was turning into a frothy sludge, slippery as
butter on a hot skillet. I was running along behind the other players, when suddenly my foot
skidded on a muddy patch of ground. I went airborne, and landed hard, flat on my back.
I think I might have actually blacked out for a second, because the next thing I know,
Bubba's handsome face was hovering inches away from mine. Did I mention that Bubba has the
most amazing eyes? They're a brilliant green, absolutely mesmerizing, framed by lush, black
lashes.
I could smell him, strong and rangy after a hard played game. His scent filled my nostrils,
adding to the discomfort that was growing between my thighs.
He has full lips, too, the kind that made a man want to pucker up and start kissing. At the
moment, his lips were moving, and he was asking me if I was alright.
"Peters? Peters, answer me, son!"
"Hey, Bubba."
"Jesus, kid! You gave me a scare, for sure. Thought maybe you snapped your neck falling
like you did. Can you move your toes? How's your neck feel? Should I call the coach?"
"Nah, I'm okay," I said, flexing my fingers and toes. I gingerly tested my neck, rolling it
from side to side. Nothing creaked or cracked, and there wasn't much pain. I figured I'd live,
and sat up. My ankle was sore, and I hoped it was just a strain and not anything more serious.
Bubba helped me to my feet, and I swayed a bit, suddenly dizzy. His strong arm wrapped
around my shoulders.
"Maybe I should call the coach, Peters."
"No, I'm fine. Just a little dizzy, is all." No coach. No medics, no hospital, no being
benched for six weeks because I was fool enough to slip on a patch of mud.
Besides, it was worth the pain to feel Bubba's hard bicep digging into my back and his
strong fingers holding my shoulder. Not to mention his body heat, which I could feel right
through our uniforms.
"Come on," he said, helping me limp toward the locker rooms. Inside, he sat me down on
a bench, sitting next to me. "Just breathe. You look a little green around the gills, Peters."
"I'm okay."
"That ankle feeling better?"
"Yeah. It's fine," I lied. It was sore, throbbing. I only hoped it wouldn't swell. I decided I
could elevate it and put some ice on it back at the hotel.
"Well, let's give it a few minutes. I want to make sure you're not going to pass out under
the showers and crack your noggin open on the tiles."
 His few minutes stretched to thirty. By the time Bubba was convinced I hadn't concussed
anything in my fall and let me up, the rest of the team had showered, dressed, and gone to the
hotel.
It was just me and him, all alone in the locker room.
Well…me, him, and my hard-on, which was growing big enough to qualify as an extra
person.
"You need help getting undressed?" Bubba asked as he stripped off his jersey. Suddenly
my vision was filled by a broad expanse of silken skin, brown nipples, and a ridged stomach.
"N-no. I'm good," I managed to squeak.
"Shuck them clothes, then. We can share a cab to the hotel, since we done missed the
bus." He took off his cleats, and dropped his pants. Standing next to me, his cock was at eye
level. Thick and meaty, it hung down over his balls. He had big balls, too, more than a
mouthful, shaved clean, just the way I liked them.
My problem got decidedly worse.
I nodded, wondering how in the Hell I was supposed to hide my hard-on. I had to do
something – the cup I was wearing had grown far too tight for comfort. I slowly lifted my shirt,
giving Bubba time to turn and walk to the showers. My eyes followed his ass as it hitched up
and down with every step.
Naked, my cock was at full mast. I picked up a washcloth and held it in front of my
crotch in a sad attempt to hide my raging erection.
Keeping my back to Bubba, I stepped under the showerhead opposite his, and turned on
the cold water. It didn't help. Leaving the washcloth hanging over my dick like a cape for a one-
eyed, chunky, eight-inch superhero, I reached for the soap.
Suddenly a wet towel snapped against my butt, making me squeal and nearly lose my
footing on the slick tile floor. My ankle, sore from my last fall, twisted again and I felt myself
going down, grabbing frantically at whatever my fingers could find purchase on. The last thing
I needed was another fall – for sure I'd be spending the night in the emergency room.
"Oh, shit! Sorry, Peters! Oh, man…I wasn't thinking!" Bubba said, catching me in his
arms. His skin felt slick and hot against mine, and suddenly I was only too aware that the only
thing that separated my cock from his was a thin swatch of terrycloth.
He looked down between us, his eyebrows arching. Reaching between us, he plucked up
the washcloth. "Holy shit, Peters," he mumbled.
I noticed two things, then. First, he used Irish Spring Soap. I could smell it. Secondly, he
hadn't let go of me, even when he'd spotted my erection. In fact, he was staring at it as if he'd
never seen one before.
Considering he had a substantial one of his own, I doubted that was the case.
Bubba's full lips tilted in a small smile, and his green eyes locked with mine. "Didn't
know you was that way," he said. "Pretty good at hiding it, huh? Me? I ain't too particular, if
you know what I mean."
"You're bisexual?" I asked incredulously. Then I giggled – the thirteen year-old in me
coming out again. Luckily, Bubba laughed along with me.
"It don't matter much to me. If'n it's human and has a hole, I don't mind sticking it in for a
taste," he grinned.
 Well, lube me up and call me power-bottom! I giggled again, and looked down between
us. Bubba's cock was filling, and he was rubbing it against mine. I found myself fascinated by
the similarities and differences between our shafts. Both had nice, rounded heads. Both were
about the same length and thickness. His dick was darker in color than mine, a nice rosy red,
and it made a wonderful contrast against my pale cock. My balls were dusted with hair; his
were clean-shaven.
Suddenly, Bubba leaned in and kissed me. It wasn't sweet or tender; it was hard and
sloppy and hot. His hands slid around my hips and cupped my ass, squeezing and kneading
them. It didn't matter that my butt was still a little sore from my fall – his fingers were magic,
rubbing the ache right out of them.
I groaned, letting my head fall back so his lips could go to work on my throat. His teeth,
good, strong, white ones, nipped; I knew I was going to have a few hickeys the next morning.
Not that I cared – the only thing I was thinking of at the moment was his flesh, and how much
of it I could wrap my hands around.
"Suck me?" he asked, and I jumped to it. Or rather, I lowered myself to it, as in sinking to
my knees and opening my mouth like an obedient cocker spaniel.
He tasted of soap and musk, salty and bitter. I took him in all the way, until the head of
his cock brushed the ridged flesh at the back of my throat. Using every trick I could think of, I
strove to give him the best blowjob he'd ever gotten before. I sucked, I licked, I swallowed and
hummed. My fingers worked his smooth balls, gently pulling and kneading them. Then I
ducked my head lower and sucked them into my mouth for good measure.
Suddenly, he pulled away from me. He gave me a wink, then trotted out into the locker
room, dripping puddles on the tile floor. For a minute, I thought the whole thing had been some
sort of cruel joke. I was as hard as a college-level calculus problem, dripping more fluid than
the showerhead. Was he going to leave me like this?
He returned moments later, his cock sheathed in a condom.
I felt immeasurably relieved.
"How do you want to do this?" Bubba asked. "Against the wall or out on the bench in the
locker room?"
Both options were intriguing, but the wall was closer, and I needed him now. I didn't
bother to answer. Instead, I turned around, braced my hands against the shower wall, spread my
legs and stuck my ass out at him.
He took the hint.
A big hand massaged my ass, separating my cheeks. A thick finger tickled at my hole
then pushed all the way in, a precursor of what was to follow. My cock dribbled precome as a
tingle of pleasure flashed into a bolt when he curled his finger and found my prostate.
Bubba wasn't too keen on prep work, it seemed. His finger retreated, replaced in short
order by the head of his cock. It stretched me wide, burning, slowly inching its way into my
body.
He was taking his sweet time getting inside me, and by the time he was in balls-deep, I
was backing into him, trying to get him to move.
"Fuck, you're tight!" He groaned from behind me. His hands massaged my lower back,
then gripped my hips as he began to pump into me. I could hear his flesh slap against mine,
muted only by the splashing of water from the shower. He moved slowly at first, then faster,
until he was pounding himself into me.
Slap. Slap. Slapslap. Slapslapslapslap.
It has a good beat and I can dance to it, I thought wildly, the teenager inside me giggling
like crazy. Then I didn't have any thoughts at all as I came hard, my head spinning, stars
winking on behind my eyelids.
I was so wrapped up in my orgasm that I almost missed Bubba pulling out, ripping off his
condom and shooting hot semen over my back. I didn't miss his scream, though. Bubba was
very vocal when he came. I thought the team probably heard him all the way over to the hotel.
We grinned at each other afterwards, both too sated to say much. I was still limping, and
Bubba noticed that my ankle had swelled up. He helped me limp to the bench, then called for
the coach.
By the time the coach got there, we were both dressed, and Bubba's condom had been
flushed down the toilet. There was no evidence anywhere that two of the coach's best players
had just fucked like rabbits in the shower room.
***
The docs said that I'd shredded a tendon in my ankle, and I wound up sitting out the rest
of the season. I still went to all the away games, though. Not because I was particularly excited
about sitting in the dugout watching the other players, but because I found that I could be of
help after the games. Bubba would invariably need a rub-down, or a massage, or at very least, a
shower, and I was always very happy to give it to him, and vice-versa.
I've still got Bubba's calendar up in my room, although more often than not, I've got the
real thing in bed next to me.
I mark off each day with a red felt marker, counting down to the start of the next season.
Every time I do, I turn back the calendar to January, and flick a finger at the catcher's mitt that
covers Bubba's privates.
He giggles every time.
Ink
by Kiernan Kelly

God, I hate the rain.

It pounds against the plate glass windows at the front of the shop, a warm tropical rain
that was typical for this time of year. Every late afternoon like clockwork, thick black clouds
drift in from the Gulf and dump an inch or two of rain in about an hour. The temperature drops
ten degrees, the streets flood, the roof leaks, and an hour later the broiling sun will return.
Within twenty minutes it will be as dry as a bone and as hot and muggy as hell outside again.
That afternoon was no different than any other day. I watched the rain begin to sluice
against the glass, illuminated by flashes of frequent lightning. Thunder pealed, loud enough to
rattle the windows and my bones, both. The streets were deserted - not even the tourists were
brave enough to be out and about in this storm. They were no doubt huddled in one of the many
small cafés along the main strip, drinking lattes and bitching about the prices of the kitschy tee
shirts and souvenirs they'd just bought.
I'd just turned away from the window, heading toward the back of the shop to snag a
Coke from the fridge when the bell over the door jingled. Sighing, I rolled my eyes, thinking
that a tourist had decided that my tattoo shop would be a wonderful place to wait out the storm.
It happened all the time - they'd dash in out of the rain and spend an hour perusing the catalogs
and photos of clients on the walls, asking a million questions (Question: Does it hurt? Answer:
Duh. Question: Can I use your bathroom? Answer: Only if you get a tattoo, which brings us
back to Question #1) and generally wasting my time.
Turning back, my face already creasing into a scowl, I saw a young man of no more than
eighteen or nineteen standing nervously by the door. Tall and lanky, his tank top and cargo
shorts were plastered to his lean body from the rain, along with his shoulder-length blonde hair.
Rivulets of water dripped down over his tanned shoulders and arms. His wet clothes clung to
him, outlining some very nicely toned abs and pecs.
Okay, skaterboy, come on in, I thought, feeling the urge to frown slip away and a smile
tilt my lips. If I had to be bored by a tourist then at least I'd get in some eye-candy time in the
process. He flashed a crooked, shy grin at me that was innocent and sexy at the same time, and I
was suddenly very glad that the counter hid my bottom half from him. Wouldn't do to frighten
the kid off with the monster that was beginning to rear its head in the crotch of my Levi's.
Well…perhaps monster is a bit of an exaggeration. Still, my cock at full mast was
nothing to sneeze at.
"Come on in," I said cheerfully. Cum on, cum in - whatever's your pleasure, I continued
in my head, eyeing his chiseled biceps and sinewy forearms. The kid worked out, so it seemed.
I wouldn't mind lifting him for a few reps myself, come to think of it. "What can I do to
you…er…for you?"
"Um, well…I was thinking about getting a tattoo. I mean, I want to get a tattoo.
Definitely. Right now," he stammered, as if still trying to convince himself that he wanted one.
"Then you're in luck - I just happen to have one I could part with," I laughed. "What did
you have in mind?" I asked him. I knew what I had in mind, and it only involved one painless
needle - the one that was currently pressing up against the zipper of my jeans.
"Nothing too big. Not for the first time, anyway," he said. His voice was slightly raspy,
reminding me of the sound a zipper makes when it's unzipped slowly, one tooth at a time. Then
again, that might have just been my wishful thinking exerting itself.
"Ah, a virgin," I laughed, then raised a brow as his cheeks flamed. Uh oh. Something was
telling me that a tattoo was not the only thing this young man hadn't tried yet. I cleared my
throat and continued. "Okay. Have you thought about what design you'd like to get? A tribal
maybe?" I suggested. I quickly scanned the shelf behind me for a catalog of designs, spreading
it open on the counter. "I'm Craig, by the way," I smiled, offering him my hand.
He took it, smiling that sexy half-smile again. "Mark." He eyed my forearms and
shoulders, his hand still gripping mine. "Whoa, your's are awesome, dude."
I shrugged. I was used to people ogling my tats. Two full sleeves worth, and although my
tank top hid most of them, they continued up across my chest and back . Had a few more on my
legs as well, which he'd see when I moved out from behind the counter. Which would be as
soon as I could get my cock to stop trying to jump up out of my jockeys.
"I kind of like that one," he said, pointing to a small tribal flame design.
It was a good choice actually, for someone's first tattoo. It was small, with crisp, easy
lines. It would be a snap for me.
"Great! Let's get going," I said, finally coming around from the back of the counter,
hoping that his eyes didn't drift south to where the bulge at my crotch was threatening to bust a
seam.
They did.
He blushed crimson, but didn't stop staring at my groin. I was willing to bet that he was
wondering what else I'd had tattooed, and I was sorely tempted to drop my pants and show him.
The kid was hot, and I was bored and horny, a dangerous combination.
Professional, I thought to myself. You're a professional. Act like it. I sighed and ushered
him into my workspace, a partitioned section near the rear of the shop. Sitting Mark on my
worktable, I jogged back into the shop and locked the front door. I didn't want to have to stop
once I started to ink him, should anyone else come in.
"Okay, now where are we going to put this?" I asked, holding the stencil of his chosen
tattoo in my hand.
 He blushed again. The kid blushed more than a virgin on prom night, and I was beginning
to think that the only thing he might have had experience in was being a virgin.
"I wanted it somewhere that wouldn't show," he said softly. "You know, in case I didn't
like it." He bit his plump lower lip and I nearly came in my pants.
Oh, please, I prayed, let it be where I hope he wants it to be.
It was.
His long slender fingers dropped to the waistband of his cargo shorts, unbuttoning and
unzipping them quickly, as if he was afraid that if he took too long he'd lose his nerve. He
exposed the silky tanned flesh of his right hip.
I nodded, unable to speak for a moment. He wasn't wearing underwear and I could see a
few curling, light brown pubic hairs peeking out as he pulled his shorts to the side.
"Okay. Um…you're going to need to lose the shorts, though," I said. "I can't work with
you holding them open like that."
Mark's eyes widened a moment, then he nodded. Lifting his hips up, he pulled his shorts
down and pushed them to his ankles.
Oh. Dear. God. Remember what I said before about a monster? It wouldn't have been an
exaggeration on Mark's part. His dick hung between his legs like a long, thick sausage. How did
the kid manage to keep that tucked in his shorts without wearing underwear? Strap it to his
thigh? My own cock saluted his accomplishment by springing to rigid attention again.
Mark's cheeks flushed bright fuchsia as I helplessly stared at his well-endowed package.
Under my gaze, it suddenly began to stir to life, growing hard before my very eyes and he
mewled, a sort of half-strangled groan.
"I'm sorry!" Mark gasped, as he reached for his shorts to pull them up. His blue eyes were
as wide as saucers, and I realized that he was scared shitless that the big, tough, tattooed guy
was gonna deck him for daring to get a hard-on while sitting half-naked on said tattoo guy's
worktable.
That was it. My brain ceased to function altogether at that point, ceding all rational
thought processes to my crotch.
"Don't be," I whispered, smiling gently. "Maybe we should take care of this before I
tattoo you," I grinned, shrugging. "It'll make you relax. If you're tense, it'll only hurt worse."
"But…but…"
"Butt? Later. Right now, I think I'll just use my mouth," I interrupted, effectively shutting
him up as I settled myself on my swivel stool. I placed a hand on either of his sculpted thighs,
spreading them as I scooted in between them. I could nearly hear his heart hammering in his
chest as I slid my hands up over his thighs to his groin, brushing my fingers across his pubic
hair. I did hear his moan, sweet and soft, when my calloused fingers wrapped around his thick
length.
I had me a double-handful of burnin' love. So hot that I could feel it scorch my palms,
Mark's cock spat a few drops of nature's lubricant the moment I touched it. This was not going
to take long. Not at all, I thought as my mouth hovered over the dripping head of his massive
erection. Flicking my tongue out, I lapped at the pearly drops that seeped from the tiny slit,
before opening wide - and I do mean w-i-d-e - and swallowing him whole. Or rather,
swallowing as much of him as I could.
It was enough, though. Drawing my lips back I let my teeth graze lightly across his
delicate, velvety-soft skin. My tongue swirled around his cock's head, curling under its ridge,
before my lips once again closed and I drew him into my throat.
Mark was bucking under me now, his hips rising to thrust himself as deeply into my
mouth as I would allow, his hands sliding between his legs to fondle his furry sac. He was quite
vocal, which I liked. Moaning louder, groaning, growling, making a complete symphony of
sounds as I sucked hungrily on his turgid dick. My own cock wept in sympathy, and I released
his length just long enough to free my own.
He was going to come soon, I just knew it from the way he was writhing on the table. Not
a chance of me letting that happen, not until I'd had a shot at his tight little ass. I let go of his
erection - much to his obvious and loudly voiced protests - and opened one of the drawers of
my workstation.
Flinging unwanted items over my shoulder like a madman - cotton balls, alcohol swabs,
Q-tips, a half-roll of butterscotch Lifesavers - I finally found a cellophane-wrapped condom and
a small tube of lube with just enough grease left in it to do the deed.
Thank God, because I really didn't want to resort to lubing him up with 3-in-1 Oil.
Urging Mark up onto his hands and knees, I tried to allay his fears by getting up close
and personal with his asshole. It seemed to do the trick.
After only a few moments of licking at his winking little hole, he was back to groaning
and wiggling his hips. Squeezing out the last of the lube along with a burp of air from the tube, I
coated my Trojan-sheathed prick and his puckered little rosebud. Slipping my finger into his
asshole, I ignored his surprised yelp. God, he's tight enough to cut off my circulation! I thought
as I slowly finger-fucked him. I took care to prepare him as best I could in under sixty seconds -
since that was all the time my cock was going to allow me before taking control of the situation
and ramming itself into his ass.
Rotating my finger, I stroked his prostate and lowered my mouth to nip at the soft flesh of
his asscheeks. Mark had taken to stroking his cock, evidently completely out of patience with
me for leaving him hanging the way I had. Shrugging mentally, I added another finger, slipping
it in next to the first. Twisting them, I elicited another yelp from Mark, and peeking between his
legs I watched his hand jerk his cock furiously. He was gonna blow, and any minute now.
Removing my fingers with a well-lubed plop, I replaced them with my cock. It was like
fucking a furnace. His rectum was so hot and clenched so tightly around my dick that for a
moment I feared it would either lop my cock off altogether or cause it to spontaneously
combust.
I pushed myself into him to the root. Okay, I thought. I can die now. Right now, and I'd
die a happy man. Almost surprised to find that I was still breathing and still the owner of a
raging hard-on and a pair of balls that had swollen to roughly the size of cantaloupes, I began to
rock my hips, thrusting deeply into him and withdrawing, again and again. My hips slapped his
ass with loud cracks, until he screamed as he shot his load in great white streaks across my
worktable.
I'd thought that his ass was tight when I'd first entered it, but it was nothing compared to
the waves of vise-like contractions that squeezed my cock as he came. It was too much - way
too much. No normal human being's ass could squeeze like that, I thought wildly as I pulled out
of his ass and ripped off the Trojan. Who was this kid? He was like fucking G.I. Joe-with-the-
super-kung-fu-asshole-grip. I barely had time to give myself one good stroke before I came
hard, coating his back with about a gallon of good old-fashioned joy juice.
We were silent for a few minutes, both of us panting and wheezing and trying to breathe.
Mark lay facedown on my table, unmindful of the lake of sperm that squished beneath him.
"I'm feeling relaxed now," he said, his voice muffled by the leather of my worktable.
"Really relaxed. Really, really relaxed. Really, really, really- "
" I get the point," I interrupted, "You're relaxed." Standing up, I smacked him playfully
on the ass. "Ready for that tattoo, now?" I asked, ready to get back to business. The rain had
stopped outside, and I needed to get him done before any potential customers came pounding at
the door.

****
Mark took it like a man - and he did well with the tattoo, too. He's been back many times
since then, going bigger and bolder with each visit. We're working on a sleeve for him now.
I'm the only one that he allows to ink him, and he always arrives when I'm alone in the
shop, just as it's starting to rain.
And he always needs to relax first.
God, I love the rain
Visit www.KiernanKelly.com for more erotic gay romance!