Break and Enter
         Gay erotica copyright 1993 by Valvoline Dream


"Okay, I'm going to sneak around to the back and try to look in from
there -- you stay here."
        With that, Danny left me standing in the woods looking at a
cottage that we were reasonably certain was unoccupied, despite lighting
from within.  I heard a car go by some distance to my left -- it didn't
turn down the driveway.
        It was a little after midnight, an early spring night in 1975,
and we were in search of booze.  Well, Danny was searching for booze.
He needed a lookout, and I was elected.  I went willingly, though; Danny
was 17 -- two years older than I -- and probably the coolest guy at school.
He had a vintage car he was always working on, he played incredible lead
guitar, and girls were drawn to him like moths to streetlights.
        "Chuck," he hissed.  "Get over here!"  Danny had jimmied the
cottage's back window open, and he was on one knee waiting to boost me
through it.
        It was, I'd realized once I'd squeezed through, a bedroom.  I
turned and took Danny's hand and pulled to help him in.  Though the cottage
was hidden from the road by trees, Danny wasn't taking any chances; he
cupped his hand over his flashlight, turned it on, and kept it at waist
level.  That which was barely lit a foot around him was tinged with
orange and red.
        I was walking toward the door leading, I presumed, to the
living-room, when Danny whispered something along the lines of "Fuck!
C'mere and lookit this!"
        The flashlight on the floor and Danny was looking through a
magazine.  "Don't you want to check th--"
        "Fuck!  Can you >believe< this?"
        I knelt down to see what the hell he was so worked up about.
The flashlight's illumination washed out whatever was printed on the
glossy pages, so I changed its angle.  My jaw dropped open as the
pictures came into focus.
        A man had another man's dick in his mouth.
        It's been a number of years since this incident, and what I saw
then probably wouldn't rate a second glance from me now.  But I was
fifteen, then -- a virgin -- and if the magazine had shown someone
getting off with a cheese grater, I'd probably have been interested.
At fifteen, I'd gone through the obligatory circle jerks and such, but
I'd only heard of blow jobs.  Here, lit by a cheap flashlight, was a
young blond guy pumping his meat into an older guy's mouth and -- by
the look on his face -- he was quite happy with the situation.  I could
tell; on the right-most page, the blond guy was squirting cum all over the
place.
        I nodded slowly.  Hell, yes, I could believe it, and would you
kindly turn the fucking >page<?
        He did, shortly thereafter.  The same two lovers were still
featured, but the older guy with the salt-and-pepper hair was greasing
his dick up with one hand, and had jammed a finger from his other up the
asshole of the blond.  The next page displayed two photos: a shot of the
older guy pushing his cock into the blond's asshole, and a close-up of
salt-and-pepper's dick shoved snugly inside.
        The photographs had me hard as a rock in seconds -- I'd never
seen anything like them before.  Danny was valiantly trying to reposition
his dick through his shorts without drawing my attention and failing
miserably.  It didn't strike me, then, but I remember now that Danny had
a 'fag' joke for every occasion.  The guys he usually hung around with --
Jimbo, whose most notable feature was his single eyebrow, and Pete,
who'd attracted some media attention by beating the crap out of a local
hooker (apparently after refusing to pay her) -- considered Danny a
man's man; Danny, who was trying to find a comfort zone in his Adidas
shorts while gawking at two men fucking in a magazine.  Amazing.  But
then, before the yellow light of a cheap gas station flashlight, there
was just Danny and me.
        I don't know how long we were staring at the guy's balls pressed
against the blond's hole, but Danny eventually came to his senses.
"Take this," he said, closing the magazine and handing it to me, "and
see if there's any more; I'm gonna look around and see if there's any
booze."
        Danny left the bedroom, then, walking as a teenager with a
raging hard-on does: like a crab.  He'd left me the flashlight, though,
so I started going through the dresser drawers.  'Rush?'  What the hell
was that?  I threw the tiny, yellow and red bottle on the bed and dug
through the uppermost drawer while Danny made muffled noises in the living-
room.  I'd located three other magazines and a healthy stash of pot when he
popped back into the bedroom with two bottles in hand and told me it was
time to split.  I grabbed the booty I'd snagged and followed him out the
window, being careful to close it before I sprinted into the woods.
        To this day, I love the smell of early morning; it's damp, and
it's fresh -- it almost seems to apologize for the day and night that
preceded it.  Danny and I found a small, open area in the forest and
hunkered down, dropping the stuff we were carrying.  While I was
looking the bottle of Rush over, Danny was taking long pulls from one of
the bottles he'd liberated from the cottage.  Russian vodka, if you're
curious.  He was looking through one of the magazines while drinking,
and when I grabbed one of the other rags, he looked up from the pages
and asked, "Have you ever done anything like this?"
        He was pointing at a picture of a guy licking the asshole of a
man wearing nothing but a suit-jacket and glasses.  I shook my head.
"Fuck," he said, "this is somethin'."
        I was looking at an amazingly hairy man stuff a thick cock into the
mouth of a guy who looked for all the world like a librarian when Danny
reached across my lap to grab the weed I'd found in the dresser.  He drew
the baggie across my lap, lightly sliding his hand across my cock.  Was it
my imagination, or did it rest there for a few seconds longer than it
should have?  My arms had broken out into goosebumps, and Danny rolled
a few joints as I turned the pages of my ill-gotten gain.
        As you may have gathered, we smoked some.  As the early morning
dragged on, we figured out what to do with the Rush.  The mixture of the
weed, the Rush and the booze was pretty potent; Danny had managed to
find a solution to the discomfort his hard-on caused -- he'd liberated
it from his pants while I was reading a story of a man and his dog, and
while the pot made my head spin, he held it in front of my face.
        "Please?" he asked, quietly.
        I looked at his cock, its head swollen purple, and my mouth
took it in before my brain had made a decision >what< to do.
        I had Danny's cock in my >mouth<!  I couldn't believe it.  The
weed was giving me an incredible body stone, and Danny began a slow
thrusting that I could easily accommodate.  He was hard and eager,
though, and as crickets and who knows what made noises in the forest, Danny
grabbed the back of my head and began fucking my throat mercilessly.  I
was choking when he came -- tangy, salty cum poured from my mouth onto my
chin and the pine needles underneath us, and when he was finished he fell
back onto his butt and smiled as I wiped his juice from my face.
        "You >fuck<!" I said, trying to salvage some dignity as I wiped
semen from my nose.  "Shhhhhh,"  he said, taking his jeans and underwear all
the way off and dumping them in a pile.  The weed and the Rush and the
vodka had all but paralysed me -- what else was he planning to do?  I
was surprised when he said, "Lick my ass, Chuck."
        I was even more surprised when I did.  Man, I was hard.  The
coolest guy in school had just come in >my< mouth, and as I was licking
his asshole, he'd repositioned himself so that he could --
        Ohhhh, yessss.  His lips closed around my cock and he sucked me
in while I jabbed my tongue into his pink hole.  I'd whacked off before,
sure.  This, though, was entirely new.  As Danny sucked my dick, my hips
moved independently of my mind, and Danny stopped sucking as my tempo
was about to shift into automatic.  I turned to face him.
        "Whuh?"
        "Fuck me," he said.  He must've grabbed the jar of Vaseline from
the bedside table, because I know >I< didn't.
        He leaned back, then, and his asshole glistened with my saliva
by the dying gasps of the flashlight.  He pulled his knees toward his
ears and his hole opened, almost >asking< me to line it with the
petroleum jelly.  Whispered: "Fuck me, Chuck."
        I pushed two fingers into the jar, and then thrust them into his
ass.  Danny's eyes closed, but his hips moved forward to meet the
knuckles on my hand.  This was too unreal.  I leaned over him, then, and
pushed -- my cock slid quickly and snugly into his ass, and his eyes
opened wide; perhaps I should have taken it a little slower.
        "OW!  You assho--"
        And there it was.  I covered his mouth just then as I sank as
deeply into his ass as I could.  His eyes bulged as I drew back and
thrust even harder.  Danny's ass was warm, and -- with the Vaseline --
moist.  The friction guaranteed a sudden climax . . . which I
nonetheless tried to delay.
        Still, I didn't last too long.  Danny's feet were over my
shoulders, and I was fucking his asshole as fast as I could move my hips.
Danny 'mmmmmfed' through my hand on every downstroke, and maybe nine or
ten of them passed before my pelvis took on its own rhythm and I was
suddenly seeing stars and squirting deeply into the bowels of the coolest
guy in school.  What blew me away, though, was Danny's dick; it hadn't
lost its stiffness from coming down my throat, and at some point during
our fucking, it had come all over his (and my) stomach.
        We didn't say much to each other as we cleaned up -- I don't
remember saying anything, actually, till we separated on our way home.
Something had changed, though.  After that night, Danny was still the
coolest guy in school, but Jimbo and Pete had to take second billing to
me, for reasons they never quite understood.
        Danny still plays amazing lead guitar, by the way, and our break
and enter crime wave ended where it began.  He drops by whenever his band
breaks from touring and we pick things up from wherever we've left them.
As you might imagine, I've taken out long-term subscriptions to the three
magazines that changed our lives -- wouldn't you?

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