Grif’s Toy (Tease and Denial Book One)

I thought his company would also take my mind off of Tate’s Place. We had both been putting in long hours in preparation for making a dream of mine come true; conceiving, from the ground up, and then bringing to life a space where artists—painters, sculptors, photographers—could not only work for free, but also have their supplies provided at no cost. That dream had evolved into Tate's Place. It was a massive undertaking, and we both needed an evening out to relax and refocus on simply being with each other.

We parked several blocks away from the restaurant so we could stroll along Laurel Street and enjoy the mild southern California evening. The scent of jasmine blew past us as we made our way in companionable silence.

When we arrived, Wes held the glass door open, and guided me through with a strong, firm hand at the small of my back. Those little gestures, the ones most people didn't notice, never ceased to fill me with warmth. We walked through the tiled lobby of the Fifth Avenue Financial Centre building toward the elevators. Bertrand’s—our favorite restaurant—is located on the twelfth floor and has occupied the rooftop space since the 1960s.

The maître d’ was scribbling notes as we approached, but as the elevator door closed behind us, he looked up and a smile immediately graced his familiar face.

“Mr. Griffin and Mr. De Luca, welcome back.”

I briefly wondered why, in social settings, my name always preceded his. Was it my wealth? I also wondered if it bothered Wes—or if he even noticed it.

“Good evening, Hamilton,” Wes said, as they shook hands. I smiled and tipped my head in salutation. I much preferred Wes take the lead in most social situations. I enjoyed watching Wes’ easy confidence as he interacted with folks. His sheer size could be intimidating; however, most people found his handsome, good looks and charm irresistible.

I associated Hamilton as the face of Bertrand’s. He was the first person I met when I'd entered the restaurant some four years earlier, and I had never witnessed anyone other than him at the post.

“I have your table prepared,” Hamilton was saying as we moved to follow him through the busy but quiet dining room.

I loved Bertrand’s. It was one of those darker, sophisticated places with ambient lighting at each of the cloth-covered tables. But rather than the ‘stuffy pomp’ other on-par places prided themselves on, Bertrand’s opted for a ‘friendly yet respectful’ vibe.

Our table was a high-backed booth set in an even quieter corner. It offered a sense of privacy, but still allowed a full view of the restaurant and its other guests. More importantly, it boasted a stunning view of the beautifully lit San Diego skyline.

During my first visit, I'd mentioned to Hamilton that I thought it was the best table in the house. He'd told me the owner agreed because it was also his favorite—number forty-two. Since then, I’d never sat anywhere else in the restaurant, and now that Wes and I came here as a couple, Hamilton always seated us there.

Hamilton pushed the table back toward us after Wes and I unfolded the starched, white napkins onto our laps.

“Enjoy your evening, gentlemen. If there’s anything I can do, please don’t hesitate…,” he affably intoned as he made his graceful departure.

Wes picked up this evening’s menu, glanced at it before placing it aside, and tossed a wink my way. “I love you, Grif,” he said, as he leaned in and nuzzled the sensitive spot on my neck just below my ear. As his hand came to rest on my thigh, I relished the familiar excitement which always accompanied Wes' touch. Even the most casual of gestures ignited and fueled my desire for him.

I turned my head and looked into his handsome face. “And I love you, Wes.”

His voice was low and husky when he asked, “Chocolate?”

Surprised by the question, particularly in this setting, I paused briefly before swallowing and replying to our coded question with, “Yes, Wes. Chocolate.”

I couldn’t help but notice the glint in his eye at my response, before he picked the menu back up and studied it.

Several quiet, tense moments passed before he casually said, “Take Stubby out, please.” Although his eyes didn't venture off the menu, I'm sure he could tell I heard him by the way my thigh stiffened under his hand.

I flashed a look around to see if anyone had overheard the command. Once I was assured no one had, I turned to him and faintly questioned, “Wes?” I knew there was fear in my voice, but I couldn’t keep it at bay.

His dark eyes caught mine. With a sexy grin I knew all too well, he calmly ordered, “Take Stubby out. Spread your legs and give me plenty of access to the little guy. Make yourself comfortable, Grif. It’s going to be a long, unpleasant evening for your pint-sized dick…and I’m very much looking forward to it.”

I quietly gasped, and my throat grew tight. I couldn’t believe he was going to make me do this here…in the presence of forty other guests and half as many staff. As I considered pleading, an embarrassed tear escaped the corner of my eye. Dammit! Tears would only encourage him. I vowed the lone tear would be the last one I shed this evening—or at least the last one I shed in the restaurant.

His vivid white smile grew broader as he slid a strong finger across my stubbled face to claim the salty drop. “Bringing you to tears gives me so much pleasure. You are so beautiful.”

How could I possibly concede? But, on the other hand, how could I deny him this…or anything? While in Chocolate, we both knew I was his, and my compliance wasn't a question.

He refocused his attention on the menu, fully expecting my obedience. I dropped shaky hands to my lap and slid the zipper of my dress pants down. Glancing around again, I studied the other patrons, certain my crimson cheeks and the hissing of the zipper hadn’t gone unnoticed.

No one seemed to notice we were even there, let alone my red face or what Wes had ordered me to do. Ian, our retirement-age and semi-churlish waiter, however, was making his way toward us.

As Wes continued perusing the menu, I turned to him and whispered the single word, “Ian.”

Wes placed the menu aside, reached for his water glass and said, “Continue, Grif,” as Ian stopped at the table.

“Mr. Marcus, Mr. Weston. Welcome,” Ian announced.

He really was good-hearted, but his Parisian lineage often led people who didn't know him to misinterpret his innate lack of small talk for discourteousness, when nothing could be further from the truth. However, his annoying penchant for calling people by their first names—albeit, always preceded with the respectful mister, misses, or miss—never failed to slightly grate on me. No one called me Marcus. No one.

I let out a sharp groan as I popped my straining dick free of the confining jockstrap and fitted slacks I was wearing. Discreetly, I pulled the napkin back over my lap.

“Mr. Marcus, are you okay? You look…flushed, Sir,” Ian inquired.

Turning toward me, Wes offered, “Grif’s allergies seem to be acting up this evening Ian. I hope we won’t disturb the other guests.”

Noting the shimmer in my eyes, Ian said, “Not at all, sir. Not at all. May I bring a few extra napkins and something to drink, perhaps?”

“Thank you. A scotch on the rocks would be most appreciated," I managed to respond. Lord knew I could use a strong drink, anything to stop my hands from shaking.

Wes regarded me, before asking, “Do you think that’s wise? Mixing alcohol with your allergy medication?” The look in his eye clearly conveyed adult beverages wouldn’t be on my menu this evening.

“Perhaps a club soda, sir?” Ian, nodding at Wes' logic, suggested.

I looked up and said, “Club soda with a twist of lime would be perfect. Thank you.”

“And for you, Mr. Weston? Your usual Glenlivet 18?” It was less of a question and more of a confirmation as Ian didn’t actually wait for a true response before backing away from the table and turning toward the bar.

Wes’ hand, which never left my thigh during the brief exchange, moved in circular, teasing motions above my knee. I peeked down to see a small wet spot developing at the center of my napkin. God, I was so hard!

Wes leaned in and whispered, “No alcohol for you this evening, Grif. I want your full attention. I want you to feel all I have planned for you; every painful, embarrassing thing I do to you and your little dick.”

I let out a soft mewl.

The growing wet spot hadn’t escaped Wes’ sharp eye either. He leaned in for a quick kiss and said, “You’ll feel like coming before the night is through. Perhaps long before...," his lips slowly brushed my cheek, "...I wouldn’t advise doing so without permission. Do you understand?"

I nodded. “Yes, I understand, Wes.”

~~~~~

I thought back to the last time I’d had an orgasm without first being given direct permission. The night I'd relinquished control over this aspect of our lovemaking had been five and a half months ago.

One evening, after an intense turn in our kitchen, which had me hands-and-knees splayed on the counter, we'd made our way back to the moonlit bedroom, crawled under the cool sheets, and snuggled into each other for a night of peaceful, sated sleep.

Sometime later, with my head resting on the soft brown fur of his chest, he asked, “Grif? Are you asleep, love?”

“No...enjoying the sound of your breathing in my ear...and your smell. I love your smell,” I mumbled, half-awake.

He made a sound of contentment, and I felt the rumble beneath my ear. He began gliding his hand along my back in slow, smooth strokes before he shifted so we lay side-by-side, facing each other. His warm breath, tinted with mint toothpaste, blew across my face as he brushed his firm lips along mine and said, “I’d like to ask you for something.” His look held nothing but love, but his tone was serious.

“Anything,” I said, and ran my palm down his strong jaw. “You know anything I have is yours.”

He smiled, raised his index finger to my lips, gently parted them, and slid the tip beyond my teeth. The touch was tender, yet possessive. Even though I'd just come, desire warmed and filled me once again. I wasn’t sleepy any more—and neither was Junior. No one had ever had the effect on me this stunning man did. No one.

He spoke mildly, but in a tone I’d dubbed early on as his toppy tone, “Every time we make love, we both come.”

I whimpered, nodded my head, and rolled the tip of my tongue across the pad of his thick finger. Stubby was now fully awake.

With a glint in his eye, he said, “But I’ve got the man-sized dick and you’ve got…Stubby.”

His free hand edged down my pecs, across my flat stomach, and past my straining dick to take hold of my balls.

I nodded again and groaned as he exerted more pressure on my nuts. My tongue, now with a mind of its own, licked and flicked his finger in earnest.

“We both know that’s not right, Grif. I have a cock, and you have a toy.”

He slipped his finger from my mouth and slid it to one of my nipples. God, I loved the way he knew exactly how to pinch and tweak them to drive me insane.

His lips moved across my face placing soft kisses on my nose, my eyes, and my forehead while the pressure on my balls steadily increased. I panted. The kisses, the tweaking of my nipple, and the pain in my nuts had me ready to beg.

His voice was still soft and in control when he asked, “They shouldn’t get the same treatment, my cock and your toy, should they, love? They don’t need or deserve the same frequency—the same luxury—of orgasm, do they?”

“Wes,” I groaned, “I’ve never been so turned on in my life.”

He flashed his gorgeous, loving smile and teased, “I’m truly glad, love. I mean, if you could see the way you look right now—so fucking tantalizing! But you haven’t answered my question.”

“Sorry,” I breathed, “my nuts…hurts so bad…difficult to think.”

“Try for me.”

I nodded. “No, Wes, they don’t deserve the same amount of pleasure,” I managed to hiss. In response, he eased the pressure on my aching balls.

Somehow, I’d been shifted and was lying flat on my back with Wes, still on his side and propped up on an elbow, leaning over the top of me and looking down, like I was something to behold—something to be treasured.

I reached over and rubbed a hand over his defined chest. God, it was such a joy to touch and feel his firm, corded muscles and his dusting of soft brown hair.

“So what I’m asking is if you’ll allow me to remedy this imbalance. I'd like to decide what’s reasonable—to decide when Stubby receives, or deserves, an orgasm.” He gently massaged my nuts and the throbbing dulled to a bearable stinging.

“Of course, you realize your toy isn’t even half the size of my cock. That should obviously play a part in frequency, don’t you think? My cock, being larger, needs more, deserves more, than your little dick. If you agree and give me this, there’ll be a decrease by at least…oh, let’s say half…in the number of orgasms I'll allow you to enjoy.”

The fucking tears, which had been threatening, broke free and slid down my cheeks. I knew he liked them—more than liked them—and as much as I enjoyed pleasing him, I still fought with self-consciousness when I couldn't control them. As an adult, I rarely cried—rarely felt a deep enough emotion to cry. But, with Wes, a few sentences from him could well such strong feelings, tears were nearly inevitable.

I cupped his cheeks in both hands and asked, “How do you always know exactly what I need? I’ve never felt so close to anyone, or felt more love for anyone than I do for you.” I leaned forward and placed my lips to his. Pulling back I whispered, “Yes, I happily, and with pleasure, give this to you, Wes.”

I reached up to swipe the moisture from my face when he said, “Leave them, Grif. I love seeing your tears, both from pain and from pleasure. It makes my cock so stiff. And I know what you need, because I need the exact opposite. We’re made for each other—a perfect fit. You bring me such happiness, love.”

I couldn’t be certain in the dim moonlight, but I thought his eyes may have been shiny as well.

He released my balls and moved his hand upward. Settling on my straining dick, he took the swollen head between his thumb and forefinger and slowly rubbed. “It starts now, love,” he said with a perverse smile. “However, there is one thing I’d like to clarify; Junior will be receiving just as much attention and pleasure, probably more, but not the satisfaction or contentment of release.”

“Oh God.” I whispered. “Yes!”

~~~~~

That was five and a half months ago and Wes had been true to his word; an orgasm was no longer something I took as a given during our lovemaking. In fact, I now shed far more tears than spunk—and fuck, right now I hurt. But, the tremendous amount of psychological pleasure I derive from relinquishing control—only feeling physical pleasure when he decides—furnishes the pain with a sublime and meaningful purpose. His slow, but insistent, caresses to my thigh brought me back to Bertrand’s and the incredible man sitting beside me.

I glanced over when he asked, “Where were you, love?”

“Just appreciating a few of the reasons I love you,” I replied.

I saw the mischievousness flash across his face as he said, “Reach into my side pocket. There are several items in there. Whatever you pull out first will be…well, just reach in and place whatever you pull out on the table in front of you, please.”

My mind began to race as my heartbeat quickened, wondering what else he had in store for this evening. Usually our Chocolate play sessions took place in a far more private setting, and this very public venue had me uneasy and nervous. But, admittedly, it also excited me.

I reached inside the pocket of his sport coat and felt several items within: a small, soft pouch; a flat strap of some sort; and two small, cold intertwined rings. Deciding on the pouch, I pulled it out with a shaky hand. The contents offered a muffled clinking sound as I laid the dark blue, velvet bag on the pristine white table cloth.

“Easy, Grif. Breathe,” Wes said, casually shifting in his seat to look at my profile. With a gentle squeeze, he took his hand from my thigh and rested it on the back of my neck.

I closed my eyes, focused on my breathing, and attempted to relax into his reassuring touch. It worked. My hands stilled and the nearly overwhelming apprehension of what the pouch may contain subsided a bit.

“Better?” he asked.

I nodded and opened my eyes to study the pouch.

“Good,” his voice soothed. “And how’s Stubby doing?”

“He hurts, Wes. I’m so hard, and it feels like forever since…,” I trailed off. Pleading for release, although Wes thoroughly enjoyed hearing me beg, was futile. I'd only find relief when he decided it was time—when he allowed it.

With a breathy kiss to my ear, which caused an involuntary shudder to course through me, he said, “Then we’re on the right track. I want Junior suffering. I like doing all I can to make him ache with need. And then, of course, more often than not, denying you release.” I could feel his lips pull into a smile as he pressed them to my ear.

He knew all too well what this kind of talk did to me; the same way I knew what it did to him. However, I couldn’t help but notice he’d purposely positioned himself so his crotch was in shadow, and I wouldn’t even have the pleasure of seeing for myself how turned on he was.

“Untie the pouch and empty the contents onto the table.”

I undid the simple tie, held the pouch by the bottom, and allowed the contents to lightly clink to the table. In a neat pile before me lay a half dozen small, black-metal clothespins, each no bigger than a few inches long. I squeaked, and my dick jumped.

Before I could even begin to wrap my mind around what this meant, especially in this setting, he said, “Reach back in and remove another item, please. Lay it on the table next to the first.”

I nodded again and reached back in, so focused, I missed Ian’s approach completely. I only realized he'd returned when our drinks were being taken from his tray and placed on the table. I saw his eyes flick from the pouch and pins on the table to my hand in Wes’ pocket. I’d latched onto the strap and froze, unable to move.

Wes, momentarily ignoring Ian, furtively said, “Continue, Grif,” as his hand reassuringly stroked the back of my neck.

Ian finished with the task of placing our drinks and straightened. As I placed the strap on the table alongside the pouch, he pleasantly asked, “Will you gentlemen be having appetizers this evening?”

I saw his eyes dart to the strap, and I averted mine. I wouldn’t be able to bear it if I saw comprehension light his face.

“Yes, Ian, appetizers sound nice. However, Grif is used to having something small...," he let the statement hang there a few moments before adding, "before dinner. What would you suggest?”

Of course, Wes’ comment wasn’t lost on me and I could feel my neck flush again under his continued petting. Junior jumped and twitched with pleasure at the public humiliation, even though Ian likely took the comment at face value.

“We have a lovely dish of grilled clams on the half shell with a spicy ginger mignonnette this evening, sir. They’re quite superb. I sampled them myself…and they are bite-sized, sir.”

“That’ll be fine. Thank you, Ian.”

Ian backed away, and I inhaled deeply. I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding my breath. I was so hard it hurt, and the wet spot on the napkin had grown to damn near the size of a hockey puck. The napkin was torture itself as well; every time I shifted, its starched, moist surface grazed the head of my over-sensitive dick.

With Ian gone, I lifted and studied the dark brown leather strap. It was a masculine wrist band that had an edge of urbanity, and nearly identical to the one Wes always wore—the one he often used as a cock ring on me—but not nearly as wide. It had weight and firmness, yet the leather—which emitted its distinct and unique fragrance—was soft and supple. I turned it over and stopped when I saw the engraving. “I BELONG TO GRIF” was etched in neat, but graceful, block letters.

“Wes,” I said, as I turned my head and searched his eyes.

He stretched his arm out a bit and his well-worn wrist band peeked out from beneath the jacket and shirt cuffs. “I thought it was time to replace this with something a bit more meaningful. Would you mind helping me take it off?”

He held out his wrist, and I removed the band I’d never seen him without—unless it was wrapped around my cock.

“This new one is not only smaller, but it’s also adjustable so it will fit nicely around my wrist as well as your toy.”

The carnal look he gave me sent a fresh set of shivers crawling down my spine, but it also warmed me to the core. The fact that he’d put so much thought into something he’d constantly be wearing spoke volumes about what was steadily developing between us. And, of course, both made my dick surge even more.

I placed the old band on the table and glanced over at him.

“Thank you, love. Would you put the new one on me, please?”

As I was fastening it, he said, “I found the private, double meaning of the inscription distinctive in its uniqueness; I do belong to you, Grif—so when it’s on me it has that meaning. But this band is also yours—Junior’s—so it also has that meaning when you’re wearing it. Do you like it?”

I beamed at him. His combination of tough, take-no-prisoners macho guy and loving, sensitive, giving partner never ceased to amaze me. They were both equally him. And both made me long for him like I’d never desired anyone.

“I think it’s exceptional, Wes.”

He placed another soft kiss at my temple, “I’m glad. Now, I believe there’s one more item left in my pocket…would you retrieve it, please?”

“Wes, I’m so close…I hurt…I don’t know if I can hold—”

“I know, love, but you’ll be good for me, right? Remove the last item and place it on the table.”

I reached in, grasped the intertwined rings, pulled them out, and placed them on the table. It took a moment before I realized what they were.

“Captive bead rings?”

“Yes,” he answered with a husky voice. “This pair is made for nipples, and I’d like to see you wearing them.”

My nipples, already sensitive beyond words, stiffened at the thought, and my breath suddenly became short and shallow. Much to my dismay, the wonderful, warm tingling that had been brewing in my crotch for a week began to spread up my back and down my thighs as I imagined the rings in me—imagined what Wes might do with them once I was pierced and they were a part of me. I could almost feel him twisting them, almost imagine the exquisite pain he'd subject me to, could almost taste the intense pleasure and satisfaction the rings would offer us both.

The unwanted warmth stretched out across my chest and up my neck signaling what was about to happen. I was going to orgasm without permission. I sought out his gaze as I grasped the edge of the table with both hands in near panic.

“Wes…I can’t hold…ohmigod….”

The hand at my neck tightened as his other slipped under my jacket and roughly grasped a nipple, sending breathtaking jolts of pain down to Junior. I tightened my entire body and clamped my eyes shut.

He pinched harder, and I gasped out.

"Don't do it," he growled in warning.

But, as desperately as I fought it, I knew it was too late. I grimaced as, helpless to stop it, spurt after hot spurt poured from Junior, coating the cloth napkin and the front of my trousers.

No!

Once I’d caught my breath, I turned to look at him. The disappointment in myself must have been clear on my face. Over the lump forming in my throat and the unshed tears burning my eyes, I hoarsely said, “I’m so sorry, Wes.”

“Hush now,” he said reassuringly.

“But I….”

His hand slid from around my neck and rested on the side of my face. Gently thumbing my cheek, he asked, “I know you, Grif, and your deepest desire is to do as I wish, am I right?”

I nodded because we both knew it was true; I'd do anything for him.

“And although you may feel as if you’ve let me down, nothing could be further from the truth.”

I searched his face. I honestly didn’t understand. I’d been given clear and express instructions not to orgasm, and I had. How could he not be disappointed?

His thumb still stroked my cheek as he said, “From the look on your face as you came, it’s pretty obvious you didn’t enjoy the orgasm much at all, did you?”

It wasn't so much a question as it was a statement. And he was right; on those rare occasions when I lost all control and shot without being told I could, the pleasure was almost nonexistent. I wanted to hold it because it hurt—which I unquestionably enjoyed—but more importantly, I wanted to hold it because I wanted to please him.

“You’ve been uncomfortable and, occasionally, in pretty intense pain, for days,” he said as his rich, brown eyes met mine. “You’ve also been stiff and exposed since we sat down. And, lastly, you've given me an enticing gift of tears this evening. With all that, Grif, how could I find this evening anything other than supremely satisfying?”

God, I loved him so much.

“And besides,” he smirked, “when one door closes another always opens.”

Um, okay?

After Wes lifted the small pile of items from the table and returned them to his pocket, he leaned in and pressed his lips to mine. His tongue gently pushed its way in, and briefly swiped against mine before retreating. The quick stroke left behind both his captivatingly distinct flavor, and also the slightest hint of scotch.

Still smiling, he said, “I think we should blow this popsicle stand and head home. We’ll throw on some sweats, order pizza, and watch the tube. What do you think, love?”

“There's nothing I'd rather do,” I returned, with a wide smile.

As I made myself presentable once more, he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out his wallet. After tossing enough cash on the table for an entire dinner and tip, not just drinks and appetizers, he took my hand. With an exultant smirk, he said as we rose to make our exit, “Perhaps during the commercials we’ll come up with a suitable punishment for Stubby’s little infraction tonight, huh? And maybe, just maybe, if by the end of the evening I feel like you’ve earned it—and if it pleases me—you’ll enjoy a real orgasm.”

I was fully erect again before we reached the elevator.

Chapter 2
Gym Class

Fall 1998

I grabbed my backpack and made my way off the stuffy, noisy school bus. My first day attending Cheyenne Mountain Junior High School was behind me, and as I walked up the driveway, I felt an almost overwhelming sense of relief; I’d never been so glad to be home in my life.

Closing the front door behind me, I smelled one of my favorite things—fresh banana bread. Normally I wouldn't have been able to resist the temptation of a detour into the kitchen, but right now, the thought of eating made my stomach roll.

"Mom? Dad?" I called out and hesitantly waited for a response. Relief spread through me as it seemed no one was home—which meant I wouldn’t have to make small talk. I made my way down the hall, past Micah's and Meaghan's—the twins—rooms and into mine. Once inside, with the door firmly locked, I stripped and headed for the shower. I’d wanted to do this all day long; I needed to wash the smell off!

Attending junior high school was something I’d been looking forward to all summer. It meant all sorts of new, cool classes like a real art program and playing real sports. I wanted to be on the baseball, football, and soccer teams. It wasn’t so much the competition, as much as it was being part of a team and using my body. I get such a high when I’m physically active.

My first period of the day was gym class. I’d planned it that way knowing I’d have the most energy first thing in the morning, and also that I’d be able to skip my morning shower at home.

~~~~~

I made my way toward the back of the campus, heading for the Physical Education buildings, and caught glimpses of the mountains now and again. I’d grown up in Colorado Springs and Cheyenne Mountain was a backdrop to everyday life. However, I didn't take it for granted. I loved this part of the Rockies and my family spent lots of time hiking, biking, and camping in the mountains a few miles from our home.

I rounded to the front side of the gymnasium and found a teacher’s assistant directing students to wait for the coach inside.

The actual physical activity part of the morning ended up being pretty light. After roll call and assigning our lockers, there wasn’t much left of the period. The coach told us to suit up and run a few laps before the end of class.

I found my locker, changed into my gym clothes, and made my way out to the track. There was a bunch of people hanging around on the field waiting for Coach Armstrong to arrive. I knew a few of them from primary school, but there wasn’t anyone who I’d really call a friend, so I stuck mostly to myself.

The next half hour passed quickly as I ran and found a nice pace. I lost myself, as I usually do, in the sound of my footfalls and my deep breathing. I managed to do ten laps before the coach’s whistle sounded telling us it was time to hit the showers.

I walked along with a bunch of other guys, wiping the sweat from my face with the front of my shirt, as we all piled into the noisy, slightly tangy smelling locker room.

At thirteen, I’d never had the opportunity to shower with other guys—in fact, I’d never seen another naked male before at all—and I looked forward to the new experience with nervous anticipation. The excitement, unfortunately, was short lived.

I made my way through the maze of half-naked guys and, once at my locker near the end of the row, stripped off my sweaty clothes without so much as a glance around me. I wrapped one of the school's scratchy towels around my waist and headed toward the sound of running water.

Two rows over I found the large, crowded shower bay. As I approached, the athletic smell of the locker room was replaced by the scent of fresh water and shampoo. The sounds of talking and joking grew louder and filled me with a tremendous sense of camaraderie; I’d waited so long to be part of a team. And what a team it was—wet, naked, and male. Wow, I couldn’t believe it; so much nudity right there in front of me and all I had to do was look, discreetly of course, and take it all in. The manly, adult-feeling atmosphere had me buzzing with excitement.

A pentagon of poles, arranged in the center of the bay, held four shower heads each. I found an empty one toward the center, twisted it on, and was enjoying the hot, steamy water pounding over my neck and shoulders when I dared my first glance. The tall jock across from me had wavy dark hair—nearly black—and looked to be about sixteen years old. His chest was broad and well defined with a light dusting of fur leading downward.

Unable to resist, I followed the soft trail with my eyes, enjoying his bronze skin and how the water flowed over it, until my gaze finally landed on his crotch. I nearly gasped when I saw his long, thick dick swaying back and forth as he moved a soapy hand over his neck. God, it was so big!

I glanced toward the floor and washed my feet before sneaking another peek. Jesus, he was incredible. Feeling the all-too-familiar tingle of excitement in my balls, I decided it was best to avert my gaze, so I turned my back to him. The last thing I wanted was to get a hard-on in the shower bay.

I used the dispenser to gather shampoo and worked up a deep lather while the prickle in my dick subsided.

Facing the opposite direction from the dark jock, not more than five feet in front of me, was a blond. He was at least five inches shorter than the stud behind me and much stockier. Casually, I peeked down at his crotch as he closed his eyes and scrubbed his face. His dick wasn’t quite as long as the jock’s, but it was still large.

I rinsed off while discreetly scrutinizing the twenty-some-odd dicks around me. It seemed everyone had a huge cock. My mind swam with confusion, and I found myself looking back toward the blond across from me. I’d turned in time to see him check out my crotch and then look away with a strange expression on his face.

I tried to decipher exactly what it was. Sadness? Pity? I wasn’t sure. But I suddenly had the overwhelming urge to get out of there; I’d never felt so exposed in my life.

Flipping off the water, I grabbed my towel, and hustled out of the bay. Back at my locker, I made a halfhearted attempt at drying off and then slipped my jeans over my still damp legs. Only then did I begin to feel like I could breathe normally again.

~~~~~

Leaving my clothes where they fell on my bedroom floor, I headed for the adjoining bathroom. Twisting the shower on, I brushed my teeth as the water warmed. Even though it’d been over eight hours, I could still smell it: the locker room soap and the school's bleached towels. I wanted the odor off of me—out of me—gone!

I stepped into the hot shower and let the familiar scent of my soap and shampoo wash away all the other smells. Safe, in my room and my shower, I let myself really think about what I’d seen that morning. Everyone had a bigger dick than I did. Everyone! And, not only slightly bigger; I wasn’t even in the same league.

As the water pounded against me, I remembered an overheard conversation from last summer. At the time, I hadn’t given it much thought, but now it took on an entirely different significance.

We’d all sat down at the dining room table for pizza night, and I’d eaten a few slices when I was overcome with sudden stomach cramps. My mom, not overly concerned initially, suggested I lie down on the sofa and rest for a while. However, twenty-five minutes later, when it was clear I wasn’t getting any better, I was whisked to the emergency room. By the time we’d arrived, I was in pretty severe pain.

The doctor appeared through the curtain and, after introducing himself to my parents and me, asked them to step outside the curtain, so he could perform his exam. He'd explained he was going to be feeling around my abdomen and I should let him know if any area was more painful than another. He’d lifted up my gown to begin. My parents hadn’t been able to persuade me to wear underwear for years—apparently I'd come out of the womb with an aversion to anything which hugged my crotch— so the gown was the only thing I had on. When his exam was complete, he brought the gown back down to cover me up and stepped around to the other side of the curtain.

I heard him speaking with my parents, but the Emergency Room was noisy, not to mention I was in quite a bit of pain, but I did manage to catch snippets of the conversation; “appendix…needs surgery…small for his age…should be larger…don’t be too concerned yet.”

My hand absentmindedly ran over the wet scar on my lower abdomen as I shut off the water and dried off. Once I’d finished, I closed the bathroom door and stood looking in the full-length mirror on the back of it.

Staring at my reflection, I started a critical appraisal of what I saw: I was tall for a thirteen-year-old, standing at five foot eight already. My fit body had the beginnings of a nice chest, well defined arms, and toned legs from the physical activity I enjoyed.

But there were two major differences between myself and the jock in the shower: hair color and cocks. Where he was dark haired, I was sandy blond, and where his dick was quite large, mine wasn’t. But, most frightening of all, was remembering that the jock’s dick wasn’t really much different from everyone else’s in the shower. In fact, the only different one was mine.

~~~~~

The next morning, when I should have been in gym class, I sat in the school library with several anatomy books opened in front of me. I’d started out with only one but, not at all liking the answers I was finding, I gathered a couple more. I wanted to find out if what I suspected was true; that I didn’t measure up.

After reading everything I could find, which wasn’t as much as I would have liked since it was a junior high school library, I finally and reluctantly admitted what I’d realized in the locker room; I was small. Based on the information I was able to find, the average size dick was apparently somewhere around six inches—and I knew I was well below that. However, I also came across the term micropenis, which referred to guys measuring less than two and a half inches—and I was well above that. I sat there, completely unnerved at my undeniable findings.

I was undoubtedly much smaller than average. Instantly, I made a critical decision; I was never going back to gym class!

Chapter 3
Lookout Point 

Late Fall 2004

We drove along the quiet residential streets of San Diego with the windows down and enjoyed the evening breeze. Rounding the bend, we got a look at what we’d come to think of as Lookout Point, but in reality, it was called University Heights Park. It was nice to see it empty—as it nearly always was. I briefly wondered why more folks didn’t come up here, but then decided I was just grateful they didn’t.

I pulled up and killed the engine. The view, which looked out over Mission Valley, Fashion Valley and, on a clear day, Point Loma to the far west, was as captivating as always. This high up, and at the brink of dusk, the city lights flickering on were absolutely amazing. From every angle, it looked like a Christmas village full of twinkling lights.

Beside me sat Tate. One of the best things about our relatively young friendship was the companionable silence. We could hang out for hours and I’d never feel the nagging need to fill the silence I so often felt with other people. From the first day we’d met a few months ago, we had steadily grown closer, and I now considered him my best friend. It was so easy and comfortable being around him.

“Nice, huh?” I asked, as we both sat and looked out at the beauty from our spot.

Tate nodded and said, “It really is. I love it up here.”

I knew he did, probably as much as I did. Tate and I had been coming up here to chill at least a few times a week since we'd discovered it. Sometimes we’d bring beer, like we did tonight, and other times we’d bring takeout. But mostly we just jumped in the car and drove up without much planning ahead. I was driving his car as he’d gotten a head start on a buzz—and because I couldn’t stand to be a passenger to Tate’s driving.

Up here, in the quiet, we’d mostly sit in silence. But, occasionally, we’d talk about our problems, our college classes, or Tate’s girlfriend-of-the-week.

“I heard you on the phone with your advisor this afternoon…everything okay?” Tate asked, as he finished off another beer.

He held the empty can between his legs on the car seat, and it made a slight crunching sound as his legs gripped it a bit too firmly. The noise echoed in the quiet car, and I naturally turned my head while glancing down. I missed the can altogether and instead found myself noticing his crotch—something I realized I'd been doing more and more of since we met. I hastily turned away and stared back out over the valley.

“Yeah, something about this semester’s financial aid not arriving yet. I’m sure it’ll all be okay though,” I answered with a slight catch in my voice.

I tried to reason out why I’d suddenly started noticing Tate in a sexual way when, at first, I hadn’t. I mean sure, I’d noticed he was handsome—who wouldn’t—but lately all sorts of sexual fantasies would start popping into my head nearly every time I looked at him. It unnerved me a bit because nothing had really changed in our friendship to prompt these fantasies; he wasn’t any different, I wasn’t any different. And yet, more and more I found myself thinking about what he’d look like naked—naked and standing over me.

“Grif...,” Tate started. But then stopped and pulled out another beer. He seemed to have something on his mind, like he was mulling something over. This was new. Since the first time we’d met, one of the easiest things between us was talking.

“Is something bothering you, Tate?” I asked, as I dug in my back pocket, found my wallet, and pulled a joint from between the folds.

His eyes lit up, and a big grin replaced the pensive one of moments before as he focused on the joint.

He looked out the front windshield for a few seconds, the rather serious expression returning to his handsome face, before continuing, “Nah man. I wouldn’t say bothered, but I did sorta want to ask you something.”

“Sure. Is everything okay? Do you need some cash or something?”

Tate didn't ask for much—and never money. In fact, he rarely talked about money at all. But clearly something important was on his mind.

“Nah, it’s all good,” he said, turning back to look at me.

I lit the joint, took a long drag, and passed it to him.

He took it with a “Thanks,” and held it between his fingers, looking at it—almost fondling it—with a wide smile.

As he took a hit, I couldn’t resist sneaking another look at his crotch. As always, the bulge was large and round and, at the moment, it sat at the top of his now outstretched legs. It looked…well, it looked casual, and manly, and sexy, and tempting; exactly as one would imagine the ideal package looking.

I peeked up to find his perceptive gaze fixed on mine. Flooded with embarrassment, I took a long swallow from my bottled water and avoided his eyes.

Shit, I’ve been caught.

“Good weed, huh?” I said lamely, attempting to smooth over the awkward moment while I screwed the lid back onto my water.

Tate acted like he hadn’t heard the comment and instead said in an even tone, “Well…I’d planned on asking you if you were gay tonight…but I don’t really see the point now, do you? I think we both know the answer.”

The silence was deafening as he waited for me to respond. I felt sick and my face burned. I fumbled with the door handle and scampered out of the car.

I tried to sound casual when I said, “I gotta take a leak…be back in a few.”

I made my way down a rough path and eventually found a tree to lean against. I stood there trying to get my breath under control and thinking I couldn’t stand losing him; he’d become my best friend—hell, nearly my only friend.

I’d always found it rather complicated to make friends, but that hadn’t been the case with Tate; we’d become so close so easily that I had to occasionally remind myself we really hadn’t known each other long at all.

I gently slid down the tree, bent my legs to my chest, rested my elbows on my knees, and held my head in my hands. I knew he’d caught me looking. I knew I’d been found out.

Fuck!

I don’t know how long I sat there, trying to think of a way to salvage our friendship, but at some point I realized I was no longer alone. I looked up and into Tate's unreadable face.

“Hey,” he said softly.

“Hey,” I replied in a weak voice, and dropped my gaze back to the ground.

“Look Big Guy, I didn’t mean to freak you out back there. It’s…well…we’re buds, right?”

Unsure, I looked back up. “Are we? Still, I mean?”

He walked the few feet over, leaned against the tree, and slid down to sit next to me.

We sat in silence for a while and watched the lights below. He finally said, “What I wanted to say tonight was...I know you’re gay. I mean, I’ve seen the way you check me out.” He glanced over at me and quickly added, “And it’s all cool. I mean, you know I’m not, right?”

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

This is exactly why I never—ever—wanted him to know. Every time we watch a game, every time we’re at a movie, every time he sees me looking at him now, he’ll wonder what I’m thinking.

Things will never be the same.

I was filled with an immediate and deep sadness.

“Tate...,” I began.

“No, please let me finish. Okay?”

I nodded.

“I wanted to say,” he started hurriedly, as if he had to get the words out before I interrupted again, “I know, Grif. I’ve known for a bit now.” He took a quick breath and continued, “And, I’m straight. But not…narrow…and I know you don’t date…so, if you want…well…I’ll never turn down a blowjob. In fact, I’m sure it’s something I could talk myself into suffering through whenever….”

Shocked, I whipped my head around to look at him. Not only did he have a huge grin on his face but, with his legs stretched out in front of him, I couldn’t miss the huge boner he had, too.

I couldn’t think. I couldn't breathe. I’d gone from being certain our friendship was over to…umm…being told I could…. What? Give him a blowjob? Whenever I wanted? I had to get up…I had to move…to walk…to think.

“Hey, I think I need a beer,” I managed to choke out as I pushed my way up from the tree. Dusting my ass off, I stumbled to the path back up to the car.

A few moments later, I felt him on the trail beside me. He laid a firm hand on my arm and said, “Grif, buddy, I kinda laid a bunch of stuff out there…and your only response is ‘I need a beer’?”

Looking down, not able to meet his eyes, and thankful for the growing darkness, I said, “I’m…,” then my voice made a weird cracking noise, and I stopped to swallow,  “I’m not sure what to say, Tate. I feel as if I should apologize for…for…offending you, or making you feel uncomfortable. But it doesn’t seem as if I’ve done either of those things…so…and you’re straight, so…. I’m confused. I don’t know what to say.”

He gave me a friendly shove, “Nah, man, it seems like I’m the one who should be apologizing. I’m the one who made you uncomfortable.”

I laughed at the absurdity of the situation and continued walking back up the trail. “So I’m apologizing for wanting to…” well, there was no way in hell I was gonna finish that sentence, “...and you’re apologizing for offering to let me…” nope, not gonna finish that one either.

We’d reached the car, and I pulled open the door. “How about we grab a few beers, smoke some pot, accept one another’s apologies, and let this conversation rest awhile, huh?” God, please let him go for that—please.

He grinned over the roof at me, “Yep, I’m good with that.”

I let out a breath and started to slide in, but noticed his continued grin, “So long as we understand each other, Grif; you wanna suck me, and I like blowjobs…nothing more to it than that. No apologies necessary.”

Oh Christ, I knew moving in with him had been a spectacularly bad idea. But, I couldn’t deny my rigid dick certainly had a differing opinion on the subject.

“No apologies,” I agreed, and hoped like hell it would be the end of this particular topic of conversation.