from Love Wanted/Will Travel – Seconds

A family man is seduced by his gay friend

Did you ever have that fantasy where a guy comes up to you and completely takes over, tells you that your ass is his and there’s nothing you can do about it? You’re both naked in the locker room, the last men there after the gym has closed; he presses you into a corner, grabs your balls and says you have two choices—pain or obedience. If you were a martial arts expert you’d lay him flat in a quick move, but you aren’t. In fact, he’s pressed so close you can’t even use your arms, and you sort of get lost in his manly smell and the hair on his chest as you sink to your knees to service him.
Or you’re at a party and he traps you in another room, locks the door, and prods you around the furniture like a dumb animal being crowded into a pen. You try all the polite objections but they don’t work because he’s breaking the rules—invading your space, blocking your right of way, bullying you with his impressive chest. Then, when he has you stymied, he grabs your crotch and says you belong to him. In the gym, you’re only a few steps from the shower, where he soaps your crack and fucks you royally; but at a party, well, it’s a fantasy so he shoves three fingers in your mouth and has you wet them so he can lube your ass with your own spit, then makes you face the wall and—bango!—he nails you again.
My name is Winston Real. (It’s pronounced “Ray-al” because it’s Spanish.) I was a happily married fella with two kids. I own a successful one-man real estate company in Leming, Texas, just outside of San Antonio—I named it Real Realty. Cute, huh?—and I had that fantasy many times. I didn’t attach too much meaning to it. I figured it was my way of working out the male-female relationship in today’s society. When I was a kid, my momma used to tell me that my daddy went to the city every day to fight lions in the streets, while we got to stay home together and make cupcakes. It didn’t take me long to figure out who had the better deal. Daddy would come home tired, and Momma would serve him the nice things she made for him. After dinner, he’d fold her in his arms and tell her how wonderful she was, and how she made everything worthwhile for him.
As I grew up, I emulated my daddy—married my high school sweetheart, had two kids, started my own business—but I guess some part of me always felt that the gender division wasn’t quite fair. Successful as I was, I never lost that little-boy feeling that I wanted someone to take care of me.
When I opened a new office in a storefront on Main, Clayton Bent was next door hand-tooling fancy boots and selling them to rich folks on the Internet at outrageous prices. I’m a fairly good-looking, outgoing guy—the kind that could sell ice to Eskimos—so first day I was there, I introduced myself to my neighbor. He was the opposite type—slow moving, taciturn, and stereotypically Texan: long, lean, and narrow-hipped, with a sun-weathered face under a Stetson he rarely removed. He listened to me jabber away like I had come from another planet, but that didn’t keep us from taking a shine to one another. Clay quit work, came back with me to my office, set his expensive crocodile boot heels on my desk, and we downed a few beers. That soon became a habit. Ol’ Clay would come by at 5pm every evening just after I shut the blinds and turned over the CLOSED sign on the door. I’d set a bottle of Wild Turkey on the desk and we’d toss one back to cap the day. That first year, I did most of the talking and Clay did the listening.
We became real good buddies. I liked his directness and envied his hard, lean frame. Like Clay, I also dressed like a cowhand, but I tended to look more like a prosperous cattleman—maybe it was the fifteen extra pounds I had put on since high school. In that year, Clay and I got to know each other pretty well. We traded tales about my wife and kids and the celebrities he made boots for, including some famous Country-Western musicians. His stories seemed far more interesting than mine, but he hung on my every word as though family life was the most fascinating subject in the world. Then one evening, Clay came in an hour early and locked the door behind him.
“Whatcha doin’ that for?”
“Had a rough day. Plan on doin’ some serious drinking. Don’t want anyone bargin’ in. You don’t mind, do ya?”
“Have it your way.” I got up to flip the blinds and turn the sign. “What should we drink to?”
“How about friendship?”
I raised my glass and we chatted the next hour away. I went to use the john and, when I returned, he was standing in the hallway blocking my path. I stepped back to let him pass, but he turned toward me and slammed me up against the wall. “What the hell…what are you doin’, Clay?” Next thing I knew he was rubbing my crotch. Déjà vu. Then he grabbed me by the hair to hold my head still and kissed me full on the mouth. I started to make muffled sounds but his searching tongue distracted me, and pretty soon I realized I was enjoying this.
“Just stand there,” he ordered. “Stay put.”
Clay fell to one knee and unhooked my belt buckle. He stripped down my jeans and jockeys low enough to expose my lengthened dick. I could’ve stopped him anytime, of course, but I was fascinated, entranced. Hell, this was my fantasy—well, almost—and I wanted to see how close it would track.
Clay’s mouth engulfed my big mushroom crown and my knees gave way. My head jerked back against the wall with a clunk. I stopped analyzing and gave myself over to the unexpectedly strong sensa­tions. In an instant, I was hard as a rock, and soon I was holding his head and fucking his face. As my excitement grew, he grabbed my hands, pulled back and stood up, leaving my hungry, wet stiffy flapping in the breeze. “Wha…?” was all I managed.
He herded me to the front of my desk and pushed me down over it. Clay spat into his hand, slicked his tool, and moistened my asshole. Only then did I start to struggle.
“Hold still,” he hissed. “You’ve wanted this almost as long as I have.”
“But I’ve never—”
“Don’t worry, Winston. I’ve got your back.”
Even in that dire position, I had to chuckle. But hell, the conversation was just a diversion; he was already in. He held still for a full minute while I acclimated to the intrusion, and then he pressed forward. I was concentrating on the signals I was receiving. I wasn’t so much taken with sensation as I was with his powerful presence; there was nothing tentative in his actions—he was the boss man. After another minute, Clay began to move in short strokes. I could feel myself melting, yielding. Images of me with my wife flashed through my mind. I was enjoy­ing being wanted. I was thrilled to feel completed. I understood in a flash what sex meant to her. As I relaxed, Clay picked up speed and soon he was pumping me like a piston. I spurted spontaneously against my belly while he panted and bucked, then came to rest on my back.
We cleaned up in the john and sat down for an­other drink.
“Whew, Clay! That was a surprise. Have you just given me a disease?”
“You’re safe. I get tested and I’ve been totally focused on you since we met.”
“No one else at all?”
“What can I say? I fell in love. I’ve got this thing for married men.”
“How’d you know I wouldn’t haul off and punch out your lights?”
“Been listening to your ideas for a year, Win. I caught your drift, how you see things. I’ll be back tomorrow night.”
“Hold on a goddamned minute. You know I’m married. This has to be a one-off happenstance, just between us guys.”
Clay came round the desk and kissed me on the lips. Then he put his Stetson back on and left my office without so much as acknowledging my objec­tion.

When Clay and Winston fall in love, it’s Katy, bar the door!

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