Treading Water

By Tony Malone

Published on Jun 3, 2000

Gay

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This story tells about sex between men. If this offends you, or if you're too young to be reading this kind of stuff, please hit "Back" right now.

Treading Water

My last summer in high school I was invited to spend two weeks with my Aunt Gladys at her farm in Maryland. Aunt Gladys was not a farmer, far from it. She was not even my aunt at all, but my uncle's wife's mother. But we got along, she and I, and she seemed to enjoy my company. She had a lot of stories to tell. She had been a top debutante, presented at Court, the whole works. Her husbands had been rich, upper-class, high-placed, well-educated americans, and each one of them a thorough-going eccentric, if not a maniac, which led to unusual situations at the Hotel Ritz, at the Colony Club, in the Royal Enclosure and at other aristocratic hang-outs. Each of her stories, naturally, placed her at the center of one of these exalted settings; but swallowing this narcissictic subtext was not too high a price to pay to hear some real dirt from someone who had really been there. My willingness to listen, and my willingness to play Canasta, was why I was down on Aunt Gladys' farm.

The farm itself was quite small as farms go. Aunt Gladys had inherited from the husband before last (a Senator) a herd of twenty or so Black Angus and a farm to keep them on. These were show cattle. The main activity was buying them, breeding them and grooming them for competition. The farm had a few fields of feed corn which would be ground up for silage, but the animals mostly ate expensive mixes of enriched and medicated grains.

The feeding, the grooming and the showing were done by Wilson and Rhoda, a couple who had worked for the Senator. The field work was contracted out to a neighboring farmer; this was the way it had always been done. During the summer the couple's son Kevin would join the crew. He would mend fences, re-dig post-holes that had gone loose, paint, mow lawns, garden, a mix of seasonal chores and yearly maintenance that kept him very busy.

Watching Kevin at work was one of the few selfish pleasures I could enjoy on Aunt Gladys' farm. Maryland is hot and humid in July; Kevin wore faded blue jeans and worn work shoes, but, most of the day, no shirt. He had tanned while working in the sun: his upper body was a deep reddish brown, except for the underside of his arms and a small patch by each armpit, which were naturally shaded when he was standing. Under that skin the torso was nicely developed and sharply defined. Luckily for me, almost every day some chore brought him close to the main house. I could look out the window and watch the rippling in his back as he maneuvered the lawn-mower around the flower beds, or see the muscles in his sides alternately popping and subsiding as he spaded mulch under the rhododendron and the magnolias, or raked new gravel into the drive. Aunt Gladys had an excellent pair of binoculars. Using them I could follow individual drops of sweat down his shoulders. If he squatted to work facing away from me, I could focus the glasses at his waist. He seemed to be wearing no underpants, and the exposed wedge of butt-skin flashed lily white in the sun. Every once in a while he would give me a special treat by reaching down and shifting his balls around in his jeans. I would blush with excitement and feel my cock stiffen, as if it had been my hand in his crotch instead of his.

There was another time each day when I got to see Kevin, but that was quite different. The drill at Aunt Gladys' farm on workdays was that everyone ate dinner together in the kitchen of the main house. So Kevin and his parents, Aunt Gladys and I sat at a large round table and were served by Aunt Gladys' cook and upstairs maid. The meals were not very fancy, but they were usually good. The conversation was dominated by Aunt Gladys; it was addressed mostly to Wilson and Rhoda and concerned the farm and farm business. I was surprised when I first realized that Aunt Gladys actually understood the fine points of breeding Black Angus. Almost every meal, she and Wilson would get into what seemed to me interminable and erudite arguments about strains and traits. Meanwhile Kevin and I sat in silence. I would sneak a look at him now and then. He would have showered before the meal, and his close-cropped black hair would still be shining with moisture. He would be wearing fresh jeans and, usually, a faded western-style shirt. I could have stared at him the whole time, except that every time I looked his way I felt my cock twitch, and I was sure I was starting to blush. I tried to keep my eyes on my plate as much as possible. Every so often Aunt Gladys would try to involve one of us in the conversation. That was how I learned that Kevin was a college student, at Dartmouth, no less. When I asked her about it later, she let me know that she was helping with his tuition, but that otherwise he was "working his way through." So Kevin was not the high school drop-out I had imagined, but a college man! This made him even more irresistable and even more inaccessible.

He actually talked to me once. "Why don't you tell my nephew what life is like at Dartmouth," Aunt Gladys had prompted. Kevin put down his fork, looked over at me and began to speak. He had very dark eyes, so dark that you could barely distinguish the iris from the pupil. I had never looked straight into them before, but he caught my glance and held it. As his voice went on in a friendly, matter-of-fact way about dormitories, requirements, sports and examinations, his impassive gaze never wavered from my eyes. The other three at the table had resumed their bickering about chromosomes, I could hear silverware scraping against china as they ate, everything was outwardly normal but inside I was standing in a rushing wind looking over a precipice. I felt that turning away would be cowardly, but I was sure that my shameful longing for his body was screaming out from my face, even though of course I was politely nodding or shaking my head as appropriate and uttering the standard banalities: "Really!" "I didn't know that!" "That must have been fun!" My penis had gone beyond twitching and lay hot and rigid against my leg. I could feel my neck starting to redden. I thought of staging a coughing fit, anything to stop the tension, but at the same time looking into his eyes was delicious and I wanted it to go on. Suddenly I heard him say: "Well, I guess I've told you all I know." With that he looked down at his plate, retrieved his fork and went on with his meal. I said "Thank you very much," and went back to mine.

After dinner Wilson and Rhoda would go back to their cottage (actually a good-sized house) and Kevin, who had his own car, would drive to Kingsport to hang out with his friends. At the table there had been some mention once of a girlfriend, but the conversation took another turn and the topic never came up again. When Kevin and his parents had left, Aunt Gladys and I would head upstairs for a couple of hours of Canasta.

Each working day here was a rest period after lunch when all activity on the farm came to a halt. I had noticed a small pond, just a long stone's throw from the main house, tucked behind a thick stand of trees and shrubs. The pond looked over the main pasture, but it was out of sight of the cottage or of any of the barns. An old rowboat was moored to a weather-beaten dock; where one would row to was hard to imagine, the pond was so small. A large cottonwood grew to one side, so close that its roots were almost in the water. I found I could sit comfortably and read, leaning against the tree, and that was where I would spend the daily siesta-time.

I did not lack for interesting things to read. Aunt Gladys had a lively interest in deviant sexuality (another surprise!) and in her library I found books I would never have found at home. I knew that my fascination with men was not "normal" but I had never dared discuss it with anyone. Here were weighty tomes on the subject! I was so ignorant that Kinsey and Kraft-Ebbing became my tutors in homosexual practice. There I learned, not only what "fellatio" meant and what the prevalence of fellatio was, but the very existence of the act. There I finally understood a joke I had heard about the number sixty-nine ("67, 68, Vive la France, 70"). Anal intercourse, bondage, homosexual foot-fetishism, it was an undiscovered continent for me. And my companion in this mental exploration was Kevin. Each new wrinkle I learned I visualized with him and me. He was sucking my cock, I was fucking his ass, I was licking his feet, he was trussing me up and torturing me with pinches and love-bites. Has anyone else ever masturbated to Psychopathia Sexualis?

So the two weeks went by. Towards the end, the weather got even hotter and even more humid. Sitting under my tree I had thought about taking a dip in the pond but I was put off by the water. It was cool but very murky. When a sunbeam hit the surface you could follow it for a foot or so: it started off yellow but darkened quickly through shades of green and brown before dispersing completely. On the way it lit the hazy dance of thousands of particles. The surface itself was heavily strewn with the leaves of tiny algae, bright green and almost circular, like split peas. Over this soup scurried boatmen and striders, what we kids called water spiders. It was not very appetizing. But it happened on my last day that the book I was reading began to seem meaningless, that sweat was trickling down my spine, and that I decided to give the water a try after all. I looked around to be sure I was alone, left all my clothes by the tree, walked to the end of the dock and jumped in.

The pond is surprisingly deep. My jump takes me down several feet without my touching bottom. Below the surface the water is even cooler, cold in fact, and I shiver slightly from my plunge. There is nowhere to swim to so I stay where I am, treading water. The murkiness is still very disturbing. I cannot see beyond my elbows and I wonder if anything lives in the dark depths below me. I feel slightly panicky as I do swimming in the ocean whenever I think of the possibility of a shark. Just then something large brushes against my backside. I whirl around kicking and sculling and there is Kevin's head, wearing a huge grin, bobbing in the water before me. The adrenalin rush has me speechless; all I can think is, "Is he naked?" It is very unlikely that he would have come down to the pond with a bathing suit, but maybe he is swimming in his underwear. The thought of those white loins is making me dizzy. My question is answered quickly. "Okay, city boy, let's see what you've got!" says Kevin as he puts his hands on my shoulders and vaults up, pushing me under with all his weight. As I flail around blindly, one of my hands strikes what can only be a penis, and an erect one. I fight my way up to the surface, gasping frantically. So Kevin is naked, and Kevin has a hard-on! My own cock is immediately stiff and throbbing, even in the cold water. I feel myself blushing, and curse myself for it. Kevin keeps grinning. He reaches out, takes my hand and wraps my fingers around his penis. I have never touched another man's cock before, but it feels perfectly natural, and even more perfect and more natural when he puts his hand around mine. By now we are chest to chest, both treading water so as to keep afloat. "What about you do me and I do you?" he says. "Let me show you." He reaches down with both hands. One cups my balls from below, with the thumb and forefinger circled around the root of my cock behind them. The other starts moving the skin forward and back along my shaft, the classic jerk-off. At each forward, my foreskin is pulled over the tip of my glans; at each back my glans is naked in the cold water. Kevin's hand at the base of my cock is pulling me down, so I have to kick in place even more vigorously to stay afloat. The cold shocks on my glans, Kevin's fingers pinching my testicles and caressing my cock, my own thighs working hard against the water, and Kevin's beautiful smile all combine to put me over the top. I feel my seed spurting into the water, and wish I could see it go. A few million more little creatures joining the life of the pond.

I am supercharged. I have the energy of a cyclotron crackling in my body and my brain. I pull Kevin's head to mine and kiss him on the lips. I wonder if he can feel the electricity. "Now it's my turn," I say. I figure it will be more natural for me if I turn him around and work from the back. Just like jerking myself off. I still remember from Junior Life Saving how to safely turn a struggling swimmer who is facing you. You take his left arm with your left hand, and pull. It works. But instead of segueing into the under-the-chin carry I reach around and grab his cock. I press my other hand against his abdomen, holding him against my body. Just as happened with me, the extra weight is forcing Kevin to kick harder. But now each kick sends one or the other of his muscular buttocks kneading into my groin. My cock, dangling in the water between his thighs, is whipped this way and that by the motion. I am in seventh heaven. But I want to make this good for Kevin, as good as I can. I think of all the tricks I play with my dong and do them to him. "The acorn:" I cup my fingers around his foreskin and swirl it back and forth over his glans. "The jackhammer:" I work the base of his penis, crashing my fist onto his balls with each stroke. "The tiger's claws:" I let my fingernails trail up and down against the thick vein on the underside of his shaft. Kevin groans. I know I'm getting to him. I switch to straight pumping and milking. Suddenly my other hand feels his stomach muscles knotting. He's coming. I slide my head up and bite his ear, hard. He howls and bucks and the sperm comes roaring out of him in five, six great pulses. I hang on tight and ride my naked stallion to the finish. Afterwards he hangs in my arms for a moment. Then he twists around and grabs my head. He is still panting from the orgasm but he crushes his lips against mine, rubbing our mouths together as if he wants some indelible mark to be transfered between us. He pulls back, still holding my head, and looks into my eyes. I let our gazes lock together and I feel I am back on the precipice. Except this time I have him in my arms and there is nowhere to fall. And another difference: he is grinning from ear to ear and so am I. We are still both treading water.

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