Red Surfer   Excerpt of First Chapter

X-Rated

Red Surfer

A Bisexual

Australian Teen Footballer Tale

by

Jack Lewis

GLB Publishers e-book

Feeling

When I was born they called me Red. I was supposed to be called Stephen, but when I appeared with red skin and blazing red hair, they called me Red.
A lot of people they call red heads have orange hair but mine is as red as a fire engine and I copped a lot of shit at school for it, even from the carrot tops.
I never thought that I was a good looking guy. I used to be a bit thin at school, a bit average height, dark green eyes, no body hair to speak of, white as
white skin and very freckly, especially around the face, legs and arms. I've been told that I'm good looking but I can't see it myself. I hate the way my lower
lip sort of protrudes, crimson, slightly more than the upper out of my lean angular freckled face. I've always been super fit though, well cared for and healthy,
a fast runner, a competent swimmer, a pretty good surfer, I reckon, and a valued Aussie Rules Footballer which was my Dad's passion. I always sort of
had a girlfriend in high school before I left. Well to say that I left, is a bit of a lie, because I was told not to bother going on because my marks weren't up
to much. My Mum was a bit upset but my Dad; a hard working man, just shrugged and said it was about time I got a job anyway. As long as I was good
at football, that's all he cared about.

Yeah, I'd get a job, but it was school holidays and I was having too much fun hanging at the beach. The hot part of summer had started early that year and
I had been practically living on the shoreline with my mates, splashing around in the cooling, crystal-clear water, lying warm in the soft white sand and
washing clean in the freshing ocean before bravely walking home for lunch, barefoot on the burning pavement, while we crystallized under the blazing
midday sun. Then heading back with our boards to surf the sea breeze chop stuffed full of lunch. The sun was fierce at the height of summer and I always
had to wear a navy blue lycra shirt with my white boardies because my skin was so fair. When I took my shirt off you could see the lines of it with ruddy
freckles patch-working my arms, face, neck and legs. My body remained white except for the light dusting of freckles across my shoulders and on the
top of my biceps from the rare occasions when I took my shirt off.

There hadn't been much surf locally but my mate Matt had gotten a skimmer board and we spent most of our days running and jumping on that. Matt had
shown me how to flow on to the lip of the little breaker that lapped onto the shore. I was stoked about all this because Matt was one of the cool kids from
school and I had always been seen as a bit of a dork. I was so late to mature and it was only this summer that we started to hang together at the beach,
now that I was finally starting to fill out. Hanging out with Matt made me feel great, and hanging with a legend made my raging hormones settle into a
pleasant buzz, like I was somebody, all of a sudden. The water was cool and the days were warm. The glass-like Indian Ocean would lap lazily onto the
white sand as we took it in turns to skim across the pool of retreating water and then cut sick across the small face of the tiny shore break. If the swell
came up, we'd float on our surf boards, just on the other side of the reef and wait for waves to come through, in the blearing sun. For several weeks now,
I seemed to always be wet and my hair crusty with salt. Left to grow long, it bleached into hues of strawberry blonde where it was straight around my
cranium, and multi-colors of red, orange and blonde where it kinked out in curls, waves and frizz around the lines of my face and neck.

I used to look in the mirror and think that my hair looked like some abstract radiant sun had been stuck on the top of my fiery head. At school my hair was
always short and straight, because my Mum would always cut it the night before term started, and if it started to radiate out from my head, she would
always snip it back. She was a really good cutter, too, and I never looked like a joke, I mean, you got to look respectable, don't you? Now I didn't have to
go back to school, I was free to do what I wanted and planned to just hang with all the other sunny boys on the wave line, or so I thought. The very next day
after my exam results, my Dad came home and said he'd found me a job at the cement works and that was that. You didn't speak back to him for fear of
the back of his hand. So my mum cut my hair and the next day Dad took me to work and dropped me off outside.

It was alright. Hanging out with the boys, working up some sweat and muscle behind a shovel, joking around, talking shit and exciting each other with
stories of our sexual experiences (so I made up some lies, big deal, get over it). The blokes I worked with weren't like the kids at school or down the
beach, they were men, no matter how young some of them might have been, and being with them taught me how to act like a grown up. I was making
some good money, too, and my folks let me keep all of it so I could get ahead. I started saving up for a Panel Van to take me down south to the surf
whenever I felt like it.

Yeah the boys were great, except Kevin, who was a bit of a wanker nobody liked. He was always ragging on everything; everything was shit according
to Kev. He had to work with Rob, a giant of a man who seemed alright, but rumor had it he'd grown up in juvenile detention centers; it was a well known
fact he'd done hard time at Casurina Maximum Security Prison for Grievous Bodily Harm. He still sported a prison-looking, closely- cropped cap of jet
black fuzz on his cranium. Rob was OK but bloody scary looking; everyone was on their guard around him. His tattooed arms were bigger than my legs
and his black eyes were set under a heavy brow, he looked like he might have some Aborigine in him but was too tall and well stacked to pass as one.

There was an odd thing about him too; he never said much but he was always fiddling with his dick, and by the bulge of it, it had to be some kind of
monster. He always wore the same pair of old school, cotton short-shorts that were encrusted in cement dust—cement and who knows what else.
He was always playing with them. Pulling at them, putting his hand down the front to adjust himself. We all did a bit of that at work but his constant
fiddling with his jellies was outstanding and made me feel uncomfortable when I looked at him. Everybody was too scared to say anything about it,
even behind his back. Truthfully, there was something fascinating about him, mesmerizing even. When he was around, I was always looking up to see
what he was doing and embarrassingly catching him at it. I guess I admired him.

Rob and Kevin used to go out in one of the mixers together, to lay cement, at least until the end of one very hot clear dry day when Kevin bursts out of
the truck all in a sweat, and says he's not working with that "wanker" anymore. He had a barney with Fitzy, who reckoned no-one else would work with
him either, and he stormed out the gate. Rob climbed casually out of the cabin with a wry smile on his face and, catching my eye, gave me a wink, and
I swear he had a bit of a hard on; you could see it pushed sideways into a pair of tight red underwear, showing at the top of the rear of his shorts and
clinging to the fabric when he began to hose down the mixer and himself. He was shirtless and had been all day, his skin burnt dark. I don't know why
but for some reason I was hypnotized by his actions and kept looking up at him while I shoveled blue metal. I had a funny feeling I couldn't explain as
anything else than, he sure was something to look at. Six and half feet easy, strong shoulders, a huge chest, twice the size of his hips which were narrow
for his size, sitting beneath six pack abs and on top of piston legs, driven by a tight little butt stacked high. If it wasn't for his brooding brow, dirty prison
tatts and buzz cut, you would consider him a hero at a an ancient legend level. No matter how filthy he looked, a three-headed pit bull the size of a lion
would certainly think twice about having a go.

The next time I snapped a look at his crotch it was all back to normal and pulled back into place. He looked at me, grabbed his shorts and pulling them
down at the crotch flashed some black short and curlies in what I felt to be an intimidating gesture, causing me to have an unwanted hormonal flush at
the sight of them, and went in to see Fitz (the Supervisor).

We were all glad Kev had left and didn't care what had pissed him off; the only thing important to us was that he had pissed off, but Fitzy burst our balloon
by saying he'd probably be back in the morning.

Six AM the next morning it was pretty clear that Kevin was not coming in. The guys were all joking about it and our humor was high. Fitzy and Rob talked
while they waited on the off chance that Kev would show. They kept looking at me and I even caught Rob nod his head at me, like he was saying
something about me to Fitz, which made me nervous because I was always checking Rob out and I think he was starting to notice. The beach boys
were always checking each other out and it was sort of acceptable, as long as you never said anything about it. But this was a man's world and there
might be a problem and I could be getting the boot.

Then at about a quarter past six, Fitzy comes over to me and asked if I would like to learn how to lay slabs for houses. The extra dollars flashed before
my eyes and I jumped at it, relieved without thinking. Then it suddenly occurred to me that I was going to have to spend the day with Rob, which quite
frankly, scared the fuck out of me. Working with the boys was one thing but Rob was another.

He didn't make things easier in the truck either; he didn't say anything, he just sat there, grinding through the gears staring sternly forward under that
heavy brow. At the site he was a bastard, pushing me to work harder, shoveling and screeding (the screed was three long planks attached to a metal
pole, pushed like a huge heavy broom to flatten and smooth the lumpy cement) which was back-breaking work, and he himself worked like a man
possessed, almost naked in his tight shorts, work socks and steel capped boots. At one stage he ripped the screed out of my hands, growling,
"Not like that, like this," and going at it three times as fast. At lunch he just sat there, looking me over with his coal black eyes shaded by his heavy
brow so you couldn't see where his pupils ended and his irises started.

I felt so small, my arms ached, and I felt like sleeping. As he ate his lunch I kept looking at the tiger, beautifully tattooed on his right arm, which always
caught my attention because I played football for the Tigers. Its spine was aligned with the muscle that comes around from the back of the bicep and
it stalked while he worked. Beneath it were coils of barbed wire, not so professionally done, that wrapped around his arm down to his elbow. I'd seen
barbed wire tatts before but not so much of it; it must have hurt getting it done. Underneath that was the word FREEDOM emblazoned on his forearm.
I was never able to make that out before ‘cause it was in heavy Gothic script and I had always assumed it said something Arian, but now I could see it
closely, I could work it out. On his left arm was a naked big breasted women in a provocative pose which always stood out over the others, but now
that I could see it up close, there was something cheap and amateurish about it. Underneath that was the word PRISON in the same Gothic script but
on the underside of his forearm were three roughly drawn, little butterflies, without any expertise. The largest centered and in ascendance, with a small
one chasing after it from the left. A slightly smaller butterfly than the one centered, was to its right and a little below. It was like there was some hidden
meaning to it and yet it was so small, I'd never noticed it before.

On his left hand between the thumb and forefinger knuckle was a squiggly line, like he had sat bored one day and carved it out. On his left calf was
another tiger and under his left arm and most notably crawling down the left side of his body was a big Black Panther, its face looking down the front
of his shorts and its tail draped over his left shoulder. On his left breast were the four stars of the Southern Cross and on his back and across his shoulder
blades a round sun with curly waves emanating from it. Obscured by his shorts and jocks line was the same bold Gothic script, that after some analysis,
while he was bent over the screeder, I finally worked out, threatened AT OWN RISK (Australians call all men's underwear, jocks, except for boxer shorts
which are called boxers).

He caught me watching the tiger as it moved when he put his sandwich in his mouth and he made it stalk by flexing and straightening his bicep in
response to my interest. "I play for the Tigers," I blurted out the first bit of conversation we ever had.

"I knew youse had some Tiger in ya, I can see it." He said obscurely with me not knowing what he meant.

"What do those butterflies mean?" I asked pointing, not knowing why but it was nagging at my curiosity because they were out of place, while the rest,
kind of made sense.

"Its personal," he side-glanced me, and then he suddenly stood up, turned around and pulled down the left side of his jocks and shorts, revealing
another one on his upper left buttock in the same amateurish style. "I got them in Canningvale." He said as he pulled up his shorts and sat back
down, leaving me gob-smacked.

Canningvale was the juvenile prison for boys. The idea that he had let some other boy not only touch his naked bum but linger over it for ages to
create that figure in some darkened cell was an image without precedent for me, and the sight of it caused a strange chemical reaction in me I'd
never felt before. It was like endorphin mixed with adrenalin radiating from my chest. Kids got bored in prison, I rationalized, trying to calm down,
but why put it there?

Meanwhile, he told me about the rest of them. The stars he got in Canningvale and the barbed wire. The woman he got at Casurina (men's maximum
security) with the Gothic script from another bloke who was actually a tattoo artist. The tigers he got when he first got out of Canningvale, the sun
when he got out of Casurina, and the panther he had just got done over Christmas and had been a present from a girl he was seeing.

"Who did the woman?" I asked because I was curious about that one also.

"This bloke who owed me a favor for taking care of some trouble for him. I wanna get that one done over." He frowned and we sat silent again.

You know, seeing him close up like this, he was a pretty good looking guy. If it wasn't for those scrappy-looking tatts, especially those on his left arm,
which honestly looked like crap.

At the end of lunch I stood up, bent over, holding my crippled and aching back, and he slapped my little arse with the open palm of his huge hand,
forcing me upright. He said, "Come on, let's get back at it."

It was so hot, my T shirt and quick-dry board shorts clung wet to my body. How my body ached was all I was aware of, but I still worked hard because
I wanted to impress Rob. It was not so much because I was afraid of him, but because this hard working hard man was quickly becoming my hero
and I wanted to show him that I could be tough like him.

It was a big slab but we got it laid. All day I wished I could strip down to my shorts and boots like Rob but my skin was too fair for that kind of exposure.
As soon as I got into the cabin of the truck, I tossed my soaked shirt and stuck my freckly arm out the window. Rob climbed up to the driver's seat
and he was smiling, making his coal-black eyes look unusually warm and friendly. "Ya did good today," he said looking at me.

I shrugged an eyebrow at him in disbelief and he laughed. I'd never heard him laugh before. It burst out of him free and liberated and without cynicism
and then he pushed me, laughing. I looked at him with that big grin on his otherwise grim face and I laughed. I laughed loud and with great relief.

"You'll do," he grinned at me, messing up my hair. I was alright, I got the job. Rob revved up the truck and started groping at the jellies in his shorts.

After that weekend, Rob came into work with his left arm all strapped up. He said he'd had some work done on his arm and by the look of it, he'd
had a complete shoulder reconstruction but he worked ok, favoring his left arm, which gave me the opportunity to step up and impress him by
picking up the slack. The next day he came in with his arm now exposed and still looking pretty raw. A tattooist had completely worked over his
arm which was now covered in clouds, and spiraling up through the clouds was this amazing-looking, intricately-scaled dragon that came to rest
on his shoulder, like it was chasing the tail of the puma. Which was funny because I'd only been thinking a few days ago, how shit that arm made
him look. Now it looked so totally amazing, his right arm looked half naked now his left was covered in ink.

Like he could read my thoughts, the following Monday he comes in and very cleverly, the same artist, in just a few lines, had constructed a mountain
on his upper right arm, with the tiger now perched on a crag of the mountain. Now far from looking like a cheap ex-con, he looked like a million bucks.

"That must have cost a fair whack?" I commented, but he casually replied, "Nah, it was all free. I know the artist and he'd do anything I asked. I just
said clean that up and he had a free hand. Same for the right."

I didn't query that. He made me feel the same. Some times I thought I was incapable of doing things or was afraid of doing them because it was risky,
but if he asked me to do it for him, I'd just do it. I don't know exactly why, because I didn't want to let him down maybe, or I didn't want to appear small
in his eyes, or something, but if he asked me to do it, I just did it. You could draw the strength from him because he believed you could.

Rob and I had become a team. Red and Rob, that's how it was; we laid the big slabs. Rob was alright, he never said much, you had to ask him
something and the answer was short and to the point and often obscure without explanation. He was always fiddling with his dick and his tits but
he was alright. I quickly grew to really like him and, by the way he would always smile at me, he always reassured that he liked me too. It was rare
to see him smile. It was like someone had told him to wipe the smile off his face so many times, he'd scrubbed it off but, I always knew that there
was one lurking behind that stern exterior. He was a good bloke. Behind his gruff convict hard man act was a warm and generous heart.

He'd had a lot of experiences. I was fresh out of high school and let's face it, I had honestly lived a very sheltered home life with very few real sexual
experiences. I was learning a lot from him about girls and shit. I always had a sort of warm feeling in my chest when we worked together and it gave
me a warm feeling when I thought about him when I wasn't at work, but I often felt, I don't know, I want to say confused but that's not it, strange maybe;
like while he was directing the chute he would put his hand down his shorts and you could see him pulling up and down at his dick, literally wanking
his dangler in his shorts, right in front of me. He let it bulge in his shorts while he fiddled with the levers. It would shrink while he shoveled so he would
often squeeze it to make it fatter. It made me feel weird, kind of shaky. He was a top bloke, a real man with a great stature; I was in awe of him, but
when he fooled around with his tits and his shorts, my heart would start to race and sort of skip, and a somehow nervous and yet unacceptably
pleasant sensation would start bubbling around my groin region. After a while, this strange, embarrassing, oily substance that I'd never experienced
before would start to dribble down my boxers, and I would grow more and more nervous about looking in his direction.

He was my hero and it felt great being with him otherwise and yet uncomfortable when he chubbed up in front of me; Finally I asked him why he was
literally wanking on the job, and he just said unashamedly, because it felt good. That kind of put him at ease with me, him being so relaxed about it,
and I got to admit, eventually it felt OK being allowed to watch him do it.

It was about this time that we were driving back from the site one day, listening to the radio, and there was this talk-back show, talking about sexual
problems, with listeners calling in to discuss their problems. We were listening intently when this one bloke calls in and says he liked to talk things up
with his mate. That he actually enjoyed talking about it rather than the act itself, because he'd been living with his girlfriend for a while now. He had
become bored with the sex and he was running out of excuses to explain his occasional impotency, and his mate talking about his multiple partner
experiences was helping him get it up for his girlfriend. The female psychologist acting as the expert for this session asked, "Have you been able
to talk to your girlfriend about this?" and he responded that he didn't want to hurt his girlfriend by telling her that she wasn't always attractive to him.
The psych had to agree and was a bit stumped by the dilemma the caller had presented her with, when Rob pipes in with, "He should stop fantasizing
about his mate having sex with other people and get it on with his mate to get some excitement back in his sex life."

His statement was so shocking, stimulating that heavy nervous feeling in the top of my chest that he often created. I mean, let's face it, he just openly
stated that it was OK to have sex with a bloke, like that was OK. I missed what advice had actually been given to the caller and now some woman
was talking about the embarrassment of having to return a faulty vibrator when I finally retorted, "I don't think fuckin' up his social life is the answer."
He said, "It beats the shit out of paddlin' up da Nile."

It took a while for me work out what he meant by that, and I took it personally. I got the hump with him with my legs feeling wobbly, that congested
feeling in my chest and my throat becoming hoarse. I would like to say that I was angry with him but the feeling was confusing.

We'd been laying slabs together for nearly a fortnight, by then. First thing Friday morning we were back in the truck, the big mixer full of cement and
rolling. Rob started up the truck, shoved it in gear, and we rumbled off. Rob opened his legs, pulled down his balls and I watched his dick grow from
soft to hard in seconds, right in front of me. I couldn't not look, because he gave me a goofy, "Look at it," directing for me to look at the action with
his eyes traveling to the sight.

I didn't have a girlfriend, I'd been so tired I hadn't jerked off for a couple of days, and I was feeling undeniably aroused by what I had seen. I put my leg
up on the dash board so he couldn't see the swelling in my boardies (board shorts). Rob changed gears, gave his hard on another caress, and then
steered with both hands. He changed gears again and then pushed my foot off the dash board.

"Enjoy it, mate," he said. "That's what its there for. I don't care." I pushed my dick down to placate him and it did get a little harder but the whole idea
of playing with my dick in front of someone made it go soft. That was a relief because there were some things I just didn't want to get into.

I mean, I liked Rob, he was my mate. My Mate, the meanest son of a bitch in the valley was my mate. I admit I liked the way he looked, with his huge
chest and tight waist and the way his shorts clung to his crack and underwear, oh shit, I was getting hard again. I started to think about the van I was
going to get and I started talking about it. Rob seemed to understand and stopped rubbing his cock at every opportunity, but that fat wasn't going down,
it stood there, threatening everything I believed in. I mean we'd all been there. We'd all had a stiff that wouldn't go away and it was admirable for a man
of twenty-seven years of age.

Well, that whopper stayed relatively fat all day. It was making me feel sick to my stomach watching him fuck his shorts all morning and sit right in
front of me at lunch getting bonered up. In the afternoon I'd catch him pulling on his balls—it seemed that every time I would look up, there he was
yanking on his testicles. It made me sick; juice was dribbling into my well lubricated boxers again. How could my head know it was so wrong while
my dick wanted to join in? I was going to have to say something because I was starting to hate him. That was definite, I was fucking pissed off with
him now, I had to be subtle but to the point. I looked up at him. He was bent over about a meter in front of me, the seam of his little tight, rough cotton
shorts clung to the crack of his ass. A wave of pure ecstasy washed over me, my legs were shaking with it. I had a sudden urge to hug him from
behind and intuitively knew he'd let me. Another gush of greasy juice pumped out of my penis like piss, dribbling down my boxers and wet onto my
leg. I started to grow furious, obviously with myself but definitely with him for making feel like this about him.

We packed up and got into the truck. Rob pulled on his balls making his dick so hard pressed against the cotton there was no mistaking the shape
of it. It was big but not as big as I thought it would be, I mused sardonically. Right, that was it, I'd had enough. "If you pull on that dick one more time
its going to explode!" I complained sarcastically. He gave me that wry, ‘I just fucked Kevin' smile, pulled out his dick, stiff as a board, gave it a couple
of tugs and cum shot out, no gushed out, well it sort of shot a gush, no joke, a meter high. I'd never seen anything like it. I didn't have anything to
compare it too, really. I'd only ever seen myself cum, where it kind of oozed out in globules, but Rob came like a geyser and it kept pumping; he'd
been working that up for a week, that's for sure, and yep, I was right about those shorts, I now understood the streaks and some of the crusty bits.

"Shit," he said with that wry smile again. "You were right." It was like a breaking of tension. That wave of cum had washed away all the stress that had
been building up in me all day and I laughed like he had cum, in a huge wave of great relief. It was bizarre, I'd watched Rob ejaculate right in front of me,
and now nothing mattered. It just all seemed so natural after I'd been assured all my life that it wasn't and that there was a time and a place and the
need for the presence of the opposite sex for it to be so.

"So you're gettin' a PV eh?" Rob focused on the road and didn't look at me.

"Yeah."

"What color?" We talked, he talked and we joked and laughed all the way back to the yard. When we pulled up he pointed at my shorts, "You better fix
that pretty soon." I looked down and there was a pool of damp cotton surrounding the head of my dick. That was it, suddenly we both knew.
He was turning me on, and it came to me in a flash, the day Kevin didn't show up, while we were joking about it and he was talking to Fitzy,
he kept looking at me. He was deliberately turning me on and had singled me out from the other boys for the job.

The bastard, he liked me, you know, that way. That nervous, shaky hormonal overdose feeling was welling up inside me again and I finally
worked it out, I desired him, also. I'd strongly desired girls before but it didn't feel like this. This was somehow spicier, more taboo-like, like
rum and raisin ice cream when the desire for girls was like a Sunday roast on a winter's day.

When I got home I called my mates from school to see what was happening. I admitted to them I had to get a girl and it was urgent, so we all
went out pubbing and clubbing on a mission but with no luck. I came home and dropped into bed with my balls swollen and aching. I reached
into my boxers and felt them; they were bloated beyond ridiculous, so I started to work my dick hard to give them some relief, but every time I
closed my eyes I saw Rob's dick grow from soft to hard in his shorts, from that morning.

I couldn't get it out of my head. I'd start thinking about old girl friends and see his shorts on his arse, clinging to his tight briefs. What had been
haunting me all night and making me feel very adolescent, like the breaking of puberty only a couple of years ago, pumping testosterone through
every vein in my body, was that burst of cum coming from that big hard dick; it was embedded in my mind and wouldn't go away.

Rob wasn't a poof. No man could be more man than Rob. He was everything a man strived to be, strong, hard working, mechanically minded
and built…I mean he'd done time, hard core. He confided in me that his old man, a country town Minister, had put him in a boy's home at the age
of twelve. I could just imagine what he got up to in juvey as that little butterfly fluttering on his butt came into my head… Whack, a huge load of cum
hit me in the chest; it felt so good, just like Rob's cum only hours before. I was cumming, I mean really cumming, like Rob had. I was having the best
cum ever. Rob was right. It felt so good, so really good.

"So how was your weekend?" Rob and I were standing in the yard, arms folded, while they were filling the mixer. "Didja get out at all?"

"Yeah, went out with me mates Fridee and just chilled at home on Saturday."

"Get off?" he asked.

"I took care of it."

"Sweet. Well another day, another disorder. We gotta move it before this cement dries. Gotta big trip out, Woop Woop."

We got up in the cabin and Rob went straight for his dick but it only swelled a little. Hey it felt good, so I put my thumb on my dick and cupped my
balls and started working on a fat and it felt good. I'd copied Rob and had worn a tight pair of briefs leftover from yester year so I wasn't pitching
a tent all day. I'd enjoyed wanking at any opportunity all weekend and had decided to be more relaxed around Rob about it. I hadn't planned to jerk
off with Rob, but as soon I got into the cabin with him, I thought, ‘It's just wanking,' and my dick wanted to feel good yet again. Now it was stretching
the cotton and that felt OK.

Rob had been driving with both hands on the wheel and at the lights he looked down where my hand was and I proudly showed him my boner.
"It's going to be a good day alright." That wry smile was back. I could see his dick growing in his shorts and he wasn't even touching it. I was
turning him on and that felt incredible and I started to shake, nervously. I sat there silent, not touching my stiff prick, actually watching him go
through the motions I had been trying to ignore. I leaned sort of half against the door and put my knee on the seat and gave my dick a little
squeeze. He took his hand off the wheel and stroked his balls with his gnarled knuckles, and I copied it and then grasped as much of my dick
as I could because it was starting to feel ecstatic, and he copied me.

"Mmmm, doesn't that feel good?" he said deeply, as he gave it a couple of tugs. He reached under the right leg of his shorts and with some
difficulty pulled his prick out onto his leg; clear oil was dribbling out the end of it just like mine, and I was relieved to see that it was some kind
of natural function.

"Watch this," he invited and rubbed the lube into the stiff cord that connected his foreskin to the head. He hunched over the wheel and moaned,
"That's fucking good!" I tried to copy it but my shorts were too long in the leg so I tried putting my hand down the front. That didn't work so I pulled
the cord tying up my shorts and ripped open the Velcro. My jocks were wet with this stuff so I pulled out my dick; a little juice remained at my piss
hole and I copied what Rob had done, and oh! That felt really fucking good and I told him out loud.

It felt so fucking good I couldn't stop. My hips started rocking back and forward instinctively and I started to moan with sheer ecstasy, and then
"Clout!"—Rob punched me in the arm and he was a big man with a bad punch and it hurt, it really, fucking hurt. "Save it!" he snapped, "We've
got a long day ahead of us." I pushed my dick back into my tight black briefs but it was too late. White cum started to bubble through the black
cotton while Rob gawked at the spectacle.

"Young and dumb." He muttered, shaking his head. He pushed his dick back up into his briefs. "Fuck!" he squeezed his stiff cock hard. "You've
got me this close!" he accused me with his thumb and finger. We drove in silence up into the hills, out through the bush and on to the site.

The site was busy with lots of people and activity. When Rob got out of the truck you could plainly see his shorts were wet right down the right side
but he didn't give a shit and got on with the job. We worked like dogs, getting the slab laid and finished in time for lunch. We got our lunch from the
truck and went and sat down under a tree, quiet at first, and then he started to tell me about his weekend and this chick he knew and some of the
wild places they had had sex. It seems that this chick really liked to suck dick and he went into some detail about how she had sucked him dry in
the change rooms at an Op Shop this time. She had picked out the very pair of shorts he was wearing—his lucky shorts, he called them, and she
suggested he try them on because he reckoned they were too small. She went into the changing booth with him because she wanted to see how
they looked on him and as soon as he had pulled them on, she went down on him, unrelenting until he stained the shorts. Then he picked her up
and fucked her, carrying her on his dick with the shorts still on.

Well, to cut a long and arousing story short, the shorts ended up so soaked in jizz and cum that he had to pull his jeans over the shorts and walk
out of the store without paying for them. He said he never washed those shorts because it was unlucky and that he always got what he wanted
when he was wearing them. "Have you ever had your dick sucked?" he asked after my silent, incredulous response.

"Sure, heaps," I lied.

"When, tell me in the truck. We better get moving."

Well, there was this one time at the footy club fund raiser when the local bike (so called because everyone had ridden her) bailed me up in the
car park and started tongue kissing me and rubbing my dick with her hand. She got my fly open and went down on me. What could I do? I started
fucking her mouth in and out, no worries, and dropped a load down her throat.

"Was it good?" asked Rob, taking his eyes off the road and looking at me intently. He was rubbing a little chub in his shorts like he was casually
scratching an itch.

"I was too drunk to remember. No, not really, it was all pretty foul, to be honest. She was rank. Every dick on the team had stuffed some hole on her."

Rob laughed; he had put his hand up the right leg of his shorts and was pulling some kind of maneuver I couldn't quite make out. "Have you ever
tasted dick yerself ?" he asked like he was asking had I ridden a BMX.

"Nah mate, that's wrong!"

"Who told you that, your mother?" That took me aback because I guess she sort of did and that got me thinking. Suddenly he pulled his hand out
of his shorts and shoved his thumb under my nose. The smell was pungent, rank and yet somehow aromatic. He rubbed the cheese he had been
collecting under my nose so the smell remained there. This was not a man you could fight off or retaliate against. I could smell his dick and
couldn't wipe it away as much as I tried.

The smell triggered a chemical reaction throughout my body, and I could feel hormones, adrenaline, and testosterone surging through me. My dick
was swelling as my heart raced. I was going to protest but he grabbed my dick to see how I had reacted, and it hardened in his fist. That helped me
to relax a little with the feeling his touch was generating. Then I decided I liked the smell. It smelt exciting. I suddenly realized why some boys smell
their thumbs all the time, especially after they'd been for a piss. It was a good smell.

With his eyes on the road, Rob gently took my hand and then forcibly pushed it down the front of his shorts, sliding it between his left testicle and thigh.
As I pulled it out I touched his dick which was solid and dressed to the right. I felt a big glob of lube pump up my shaft and ooze wet against my skin.
"Smell that." He invited. I put my hand under my nose.

"It smells like honey." I was surprised and that pleased him.

"Sweet honey."

There was a limestone track leading off into the bush and he turned the truck onto it, making me excitedly nervous. I guess I knew what was coming  and
really didn't want to go through with it, but my body was high on anticipation and my dick was past the point of return and I was now willing to jerk off with him.

Once concealed, he stopped the truck and put on the hand brake. He pulled out his dick—his big hard whopper, and pulled down at the base until
the foreskin was stretched back as far as it could go. Clear lube pissed out of his slit—it was exciting to watch. He wiped the mass onto his finger
and forced it between my lips. It tasted alright, salty. I pulled the string on my shorts open; the taste of his juice and the smell of his cheese made me
desperate to wank it off with him.

The excitement from this approaching forbidden act was extreme. He pulled his dick up and then pushed back down and more lube pissed out. I was
fumbling to get my dick out as he placed his hand below my neck. "Lick it off." He almost whispered hoarsely, and I hesitated. "Go on." His voice
shook as he persuasively pushed me down to his oozing stiff. The smell of his sex was intoxicating as my tongue willingly reached out and licked
off his salty excitement.

"Oh! That feels good!" he moaned. "Put it in your mouth." I reluctantly put the top of his swollen head in my mouth, salty, pungent and sweet.
"That feels really good. Here, I'll show you."

He lifted me up and pushed me back against the door. I had failed to get my dick free and the head was caught behind the elastic, but he just leaned
forward and took the part of the head that was sticking out in his mouth, pushing the elastic halfway down the shaft. With the motion, my dick entered
deep into his mouth. He was right, it felt unbelievably good, heaps more exciting than that drunken night with the bike, with the sight of this cement
yard rogue doing something so yielding and illicit.

He pulled the front of my jocks down and tucked the waist band under my balls. He wrapped his fingers around the base of my penis and pulled the
foreskin down off my head, licking the cord that attached it. Yeah, that was quiveringly, mind-blowingly good; I immediately decided to let him do this
to me whenever he wanted. He put the whole head in his mouth and ran his lower lip half way down the shaft. This was fucking heaps better than
what that girl had done. We would definitely be doing more of this, I was thinking, and I realized I was ready to blow. He started wanking the bottom
half of my warm dick and sucking the rest; when he slipped the head between his lips, the sensation was like nothing I had experienced before, but
as soon as I started to motion my hips to cum, he pulled back.

"Let's see if you can do that," he said like our first day out laying slabs. He slid onto the driver's seat, up against the door and put his left boot on the
centre seat. White cum was oozing out of the head of my penis. His dick was solid and greasy; he'd been rubbing the slime all over it while he had
been sucking on mine. I bent over and cleaned it off with my lips and tongue, swallowing.

"Yeah, that's it," he moaned. "Now you're getting into it," and incredibly, I was.

I repeated all the actions he had shown me, but more wanked than sucked because the size of his dick. I couldn't get much of it in my mouth but
made sure my lips caressed the head like he'd shown me. I was actually getting right into it. In the heat of it, it was exciting sucking on his dick,
the smell, the taste, had me so thrilled I wanted to actually cum but before I could reach for my own cock, he pushed me back, forcibly, pulled up
his shorts, his dick hard sticking out the top, swung open the driver's door and climbed out of the cab. He stomped round to my side and yanked
open the door while I was trying to pull up my shorts.

"Get out!" he commanded and I got out, wondering what had gone wrong and what was so urgent, stuffing my stiff prick back into my briefs.
"Lie down," he said more gently but still with some urgency. I didn't like where this was going but I lay down on my back on the rough limestone
track with my shorts still pulled up but with my fly wide open, hoping for something even more thrilling.

He came around behind me and knelt over my face so I  was looking up his shorts leg at balls encased in navy blue briefs. He leaned forward
and his dick, sticking out the top of his shorts, came down towards my face. What the fuck was this, I thought, when I felt my dick go into his mouth.
The head of his dick dripped man-made lube onto my face, drip, drip, drip. I would have thought I would have been sick but each hot drop sent a
charge through my body I had never experienced before. I realized that if I reached up and pulled his shorts back, I could get some of the head
of his dick in my mouth and we could suck together.

This was too good! I was cumming and there was no stopping it. I could feel it pumping and gurgling in my groin and it was going to be a Friday
night shit-load again, I knew it. Pump, pump, pump, it was pumping into his mouth and something sweet and salty and full of liquid was passing
across my tongue and sliding down my throat like warm cream. He was cumming in my mouth. My dick swelled to bursting and more cum pumped
and he was sucking it down.

After we both coasted to a stop, he got off me and squeezed the last bit of cum out of his penis. He straddled me again, this time facing forward.
He pushed his dick across my lips leaving the cream behind, and then he stood up. I licked off his cum and swallowed. "Now we're blood brothers,"
he declared without emotion.

To be continued...

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