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“You take off clothes now.’ Another statement. Eyeing his gun, I thought
it better not to disobey. In a few seconds I had stripped, putting all my
clothes on a nearby chair. It was cold. He grinned, or rather leered, at me,
and stepped closer.

“Legs apart, turn round, arms up, hands against wall.’ I did as I was
told, wondering what he was going to do if he suspected me of carrying
drugs. He came nearer and stood behind me, breathing heavily. Then he felt
under my arms, looked at the soles of my feet, and ran his hands up between
my legs. Despite the strange circumstances, I immediately began to feel
randy, though I didn’t like the man at all.

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I woke with a terrible start, wondering where I was and what was
happening. Looking up, I saw a German border guard in his uniform towering
over my chair. He must have shouted at me, and that’s what had woken me up,
because he repeated something incomprehensible. “I’m sorry, I can’t speak
German,’ I muttered, feeling rather silly and wondering what I’d done to
make him angry. Perhaps this was *his* chair?

“You are English.’ A statement, not a question.

“Yes,’ I answered quickly, “what’s the matter, what have I done?’

“Come with me, we look for drugs.’ Protesting that I didn’t have any
drugs, I was led off into a back room which was obviously used as a resting
place at night, because it had a wash basin and a hard bed in it.

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“We must be getting near the border, mustn’t we?’ I cast about in my dimly
remembered geography lessons for the relationship between the various north
European countries. “Yes, we’ll soon be in Germany, but the German customs
people are very fussy with loads like this. It may take some time at the
border post.’

He was right. He disappeared into the customs office with a sheaf of
documents, including my passport, and left me to my own devices. I couldn’t
leave the border area, of course, so I sat around, stood around, tried to
read all the notices in French and German on the walls, and finally settled
myself as comfortably as possible in a delapidated old armchair in a corner
and fell sound asleep.

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As we drove along the Belgian motorway, he began to tell me a little about
himself; his upbringing in an orphanage until he was fostered and then
adopted by an elderly couple, his short spell in prison for an idiotic smash
and grab raid which went wrong; his good fortune in getting his present job.
He had a beautiful speaking voice, and sounded better educated than most of
the other drivers. I caught myself fancying him, as I had sometimes in the
past when I saw him stride past the office window.

“Don’t be ridiculous, he’s not interested in you,’ I thought to myself,
and thrust from my mind the sudden image of him lying naked on the bed in
his flat. I’d never been there, of course, but people said it was a small,
comfortably furnished place overlooking the park. Hurriedly I hunted for
another topic of conversation to put the disturbing visions from my mind.

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The tea and hot sun sent me drifting off into a deep sleep. When I woke up
we were at the docks. Pete was nowhere to be seen. After a while he came
back and muttered something about “seeing to the paperwork’. We drove into
the bowels of the boat, one of the last lorries in, and the boat sailed
almost immediately.

Pete disappeared again, so I had some breakfast and began to wake up a
bit. I went to the upper deck for some fresh air, watching the English
coastline slip away into the mist. Suddenly I caught sight of Pete,
apparently having an argument with a young sailor. I didn’t want to get
involved, and I thought Pete could probably take care of himself. As it
happened, the argument soon came to an end, and the sailor smiled and waved
to Pete as he set off down the steps.

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I reached through the curtained area behind the seats and found his
jumper. With great agility he managed to put it on without driving off the
road.

“That’s better, I don’t like having the heater on, it sends me to sleep.
Let’s see if there’s anything good on the radio.’ Loud rock music
forestalled further conversation.

The sun was fully up now, driving the mist from the fields and hedges as
we hurtled along. We stopped once for a cup of tea at a service area.
Several good-looking lorry drivers greeted Pete, glancing curiously at me. I
felt nervous and out of place. They all seemed at ease with each other, but
treated me as an outsider.

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Luiz, when he came back to his senses, decided his idea was a success.
The real test would be JR’s cock. He’d never seen it totally flacid. One night
he and Rick had tried to suck JR soft. JR had a couple of orgasms right off,
but they had to give up on him after an hour or two. His meat stayed stiff
no matter what they did. Luiz slid around through the heap, tickling whoever
he happened to encounter until he found a familiar hairy leg, the hairs all
plastered down by the oil. He followed the leg up until he encountered a
large, sumptuous, pair of balls and an extended but definitely soft dick.
The remaining bush was light brown and thin so it must be JR’s. In fact, the
shaved balls proved it was (Luiz had helped Will shave them one night.) So
his idea WAS a success. He was exhausted anyway and slid back down into the
pile. Come to think of it though, he hadn’t seen the Scout Master anywhere. In
fact, he didn’t remember seeing, feeling, or tasting the Scout Master at all
tonight. He tried to raise up to find the picnic table where he’d last seen
him sitting, but Will was feeling him out and massaging his meat and someone
else (Steve?) was running his leg over his chest. He moved the leg away
and succeeded in getting up on his knees. Before someone pulled him back into
the heap, he caught a glimpse of the Scout Master, his rock hard cock
towering up past his navel from between his strong, hairy thighs. But he
was just sitting back and enjoying the show.
Luiz lay back down and whispered into the nearest ear (it turned out
to be Steve’s). “Hey, we gotta get the S.M. in on this!”
“Yeah, where’s his moby dick been?”
“Let’s go get’im!”
Luiz and Steve extracted themselves from the tangle of greased flesh
and walked over towards the Scout Master. “I’m just going to watch tonight,”
he said smiling. All the boys loved the Scout Master. He was one in a million
to them. He was a hard, muscular guy with a smooth upper body and a military
style hair cut. (All the boys agreed he looked a lot like Marky Mark.) He had
only a little thin patch of hair between his well defined pectorals. Below the
waste he possessed an enormous cock, more than nine inches when fully hard.
(Last Tuesday night everybody had to get measured, soft and stiff both.) The
Scout Master was an avid nudist and so his body was a uniform brown. He was
good at just about all sports, knew all about nature and the environment, knew
how to carve things out of wood, in short, a real man’s man and the perfect
Scout Master. This troop thought he was anyway.

When Jimbo was 18 he had taken the drastic step of marrying
the sweet girl that he had gotten pregnant after the prom
night party when everyone had been too drunk to make the
wisest decisions. He meant to just take her home and
somehow wound up in the back seat with Sue at the clearing
in the woods where all the adolescent lust scenes happened
in Bergenfield. His hormones had been riding high and Sue
was in a state of euphoria from the Jack Daniels and the
excellent reefer that had been going around at the party.
Before they were even halfway to her house, a ten minute
drive, she had his big dick out of his pants and had
crunched her head under the steering wheel to get his 12+
inches down her eager throat. He’d had his nuts drained
this way before and was getting into the groove and headed
for the woods. The rest was small town tragic history.
Jimbo Daggett, star hockey player and straight-A student,
married Sue Oblonski three months after graduation.

Jimbo had been intending to start university that fall but
instead found himself work lumberjacking. It was hard work
that filled his days with rote activity that took his mind
of the wife who was already well settled into married life.
Her parents had set them up in a small house with a bit of
land and Sue entertained her high school friends and grew
larger and waited to be a mother while Jimbo went out every
day to earn a living doing the hardest work he could find.
He hadn’t taken this job because it was the only thing he
find. He was bright and handsome and had had a few offers
to work in sales and a couple of office jobs but he didn’t
want to be cooped up all day. (more…)

He looked nervous and fidgeted when he sat down; he very readily
started chatting. I needn’t bore you with the contents of our chat,
except that I soon persuaded him to move next to me from his aisle
seat, so we could talk easier. He was obviously a bit scared of fly-
ing. It transpired this was only his second long distance flight. Soon
after take-off we hit some unusually bumpy weather; the seat belt
signs came on and Lars wrung his hands and looked scared. Naturally I
put my arm on his thigh to comfort his and he leant his soft, perfumed
blond hair against my shoulder and visibly relaxed. The 747 flew out
of the turbulence but I was glad to find he showed no sign of wanting
me to take my hand away. The meal on a tray came and went and I felt
really strong stirrings in my pants when he snuggled back against me,
until recently a complete stranger. The stewardess brought the drinks
trolley and I persuaded Lars to have a double gin with a bit of tonic
which visibly relaxed him some more.

As a frequent jetsetter, I have for long fantasized about this ex-
clusive club, which in reality probably has few authentic members who
have genuinely screwed their way through the stratosphere. How can you
manage to have-it-away on board a crowded airliner? Well recently I
succeeded – and how! This amazing experience happened on the top deck
of a BA 747 heading out of New York for Heathrow, with a beautiful boy
I had never met before.

I had had a hectic day getting my work completed before flying
out, got to the airport late, and consequently was glad to have got
through the airport hassle and slump into my Club Class seat. The top
deck of the 747 has a small cabin which some airlines use for first
class passengers, but many including BA, use for Business Class; there
are only 20 or 30 seats, which gives you the feeling of being in a
small, but spacious airliner. The top deck is reached via a spiral
staircase and you travel cut off from the masses on the main deck be-
low. This flight, luckily, was fairly empty so I was fortunate that
through the lottery of seat allocations, Lars, as he turned out to be
named, took up the aisle seat corresponding to my window seat and no-
body else got seated either between us or in the row on the other side
of the aisle.

“Oh, man, suck my cock…. Yeah! Feels great!”
I was stretched out on my king size bed, one hand propping up my
head, the other pulling Pete’s head down on my throbbing meat. It
was such a turn on, watching Pete’s head with the long, dirty blonde
hair, bobbing up and down on my dick. We were both 28, both gymaholics,
both 6′1″. His body was smooth. Mine was covered with a light coat
of hair. His dick was a sturdy, solid 7″. Mine was a fat, semi-cut
nine inch monster that he loved to suck on. He was gay. I was married
to a woman, but treasured our monthly session together when my wife
was out of town on business. (more…)

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