Love Wanted, Will Travel

Love Wanted

Will Travel

stories for

older men & younger lovers

Volume 4

* * *

Don Schecter

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 Don Schecter

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the efforts of authors to provide an enjoyable reading experience.

Books by Don Schecter

Short stories

Heights of Passion 2009

Out of the Box 2010

Discovery of Fire 2011

Love Wanted, Will Travel 2012

A novel

A Complement of Lovers 2013

Once again, thanks to

my friends who read, suggest, and edit:

Alison, Bryn, Halle,

Jaap, Luis, Manni, and

Greg Mitchell

Special thanks to John Harrell,

whose input was invaluable

Your patient support is greatly appreciated

Table of

Contents

Seconds

The Widows

Mama’s Boys

Reel Life

Rudy Redux

It’s in the Bag

Dress Right

Endnotes

Seconds

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.

It was 5:30 when I got home. Laurel and Angie, her best friend and business partner, were still baking in our kitchen. They operate a boutique cake shop that pays half our mortgage very nicely. (They named their business Real Cakes. Who cares how people pronounce it as long as business is good?)

Funny how things happen. When Laurel said she wanted to work, to help out, I was pleased as punch. That seemed right and fair to me, so I backed her every step of the way. I helped with the kids, and around the house. When we hired a cleaning woman, that freed Laurel to join Angie full time.

Laurel leaned her blonde curls back so I could plant one on her cheek—she couldn’t use her hands because they were covered with powdered sugar. Angie beckoned me with frosting-covered fingers. Want a lick? I gave her a peck as well, staying clear of her chocolaty hands. Laurel ducked between us, snagged one of Angie’s fingers in her mouth and smacked her lips with her tongue. Might could use a leetle more rosewater, she said. My hand was in mid-air. Win, don’t you even think about touching those cupcakes; we need fifty for tomorrow. There are a couple of seconds on the counter—eat those. And honey, we’re running behind, as you can plainly see; so will you pick up the kids from afterschool, pretty puleeze?

Certainly, darlin’. Let me grab a quick shower and I’ll go get ’em. These are pretty good for seconds. I talked through a mouthful of cupcake. How’s life without Hack, Angie?

You mean how’m I doin’ without that beer-swilling, no-good asshole lying around all day watching TV? I am doing just fine, thank you. Never better.

And how’s Hack getting along?

If I gave a crap, which I don’t, I’d say he’s in hog heaven. Found himself an eighteen-year-old checkout girl at the H-E-B with balloon boobs. Don’t think he’ll come up for air for some time.

So long as you and the twins are OK; that’s what counts. I swallowed more cake. I’ll be right back down.

Are you bowling tonight, Win? Laurel asked. Dinner before or after?

I’ll catch something afterwards.

It’ll be in the fridge.

Thanks, baby doll. I licked my fingers and left them to their baking.

I scrubbed my belly where the hairs had dried stiff with cum, and then washed around my freshly tenderized asshole. Everything seemed in order except for a slight puffiness. I assumed correctly it would take a few hours for the opening to return to normal. I toweled off and considered myself in the mirror. I still liked my face—great salesman smile, good teeth; but my body was showing signs of flab. I sent myself a mental note to lay off those cupcakes, and clip my nose hairs next time. When someone is after your body, you want to look as attractive as you can. So that’s why women are always fixing themselves up. I was beginning to get the hang of this role reversal thing. Learning about me was mighty interesting.

The middle school and the high school were next to each other, so while I waited for Ginny and Mike, I strolled out onto the football field where Arlen Hollings was watching his son Chris in a scrimmage.

Howdy, Arlen. How’s your boy doin’?

This was weird; it was like having a sixth sense, a new sensor. I was looking right through Arlen’s clothes, wondering how big his dick was. Is this how women look at guys? Is this the way gays see guys? I’ve stripped women with my eyes before, but never a man. One thing I was certain of, Arlen Hollings had never had sex with a man. But come to think of it, what stopped him from looking at me, asshole twitchy from his last encounter, thinking the same thing about me?

Great, Win. We shook hands. Keep a secret?

Sure can. What’s up?

Got a scout comin’ to Friday’s game.

I clapped ol’ Arlen on the back. That’s great, man. Is Chris psyched?

Hell, no. I didn’t tell’m; don’t want’m to choke. Said his granddaddy was comin’ to town and he’d better play to make me proud.

Good idea there, Arlen. But you got nothin’ to worry about. Your son has skills.

Thanks, Win. How’s your boy doin’?

Mike? Shit, he don’t gain weight no matter what we feed him. Spends all his time on computers.

Sorry for that, Arlen consoled.

Nah, he’s a good boy. This world needs all kinds. Imagine if we were all football heroes like Chris. Who’d sell real estate to them?

Arlen smiled at my joke without taking his eyes off the field. Guess you have a point there.

Ginny ran up. Let’s go, Daddy. Mike’s shutting down his laptop.

OK, honey. Get in the pickup; I’ll be right there. I gripped Arlen’s shoulder. S’long, fella, best of luck to you and your son.

Each time I sat down I was reminded of my butthole. It was strange being aware of your ass while you were driving your kids home. It didn’t seem right, somehow. How’re you doin’, Mikey? I got no response from the rear seat—hell, I was just the driver. They were both working their cell phones with flying thumbs. How do they do that? I wondered what secrets were swirling around in their heads? Twelve and fourteen. They looked like they had nothing going on except phones and friends, but this day I was keenly aware that couldn’t be true. We all have secrets. And teenage is the time for secrets. Not so much at my age, but here I was, thirty-seven, and I was sitting on one helluva secret. Clayton Bent, what have you done to me?

At the Rose Bowl Alleys, I kept missing my sweet spot; there was a noticeable hitch in my delivery. I couldn’t pick up a split to save my life. I knew what was wrong. Every time I started my approach, I could feel my backfield in motion—five-pin penalty; it threw me off. I tried to forget it—either anticipate or compensate for it—but that made me think about Clay again, and what a difference a day made. I barely managed to score in the 130s, which for me was bad bowling. I dragged my team score down, but my buds were sympathetic; they clapped me on the back and told me we’d get ’em next week.

When I got home, it was past 11:30. I didn’t put the pickup in the garage because our bedroom is above it and Laurel was probably sleeping. I viewed the leftovers in the fridge and chomped down on a chicken breast that would hold me to breakfast. I showered, glanced again in distaste at my doughboy shape, and climbed into bed next to my beautiful blonde wife. It was very important for me to fuck her that night; I wanted to examine and compare what I felt about sex.

Married couples communicate mostly by signals. I put a hand on her belly; she moaned in response and turned toward me, making it easy for me to move on top of her. She lifted her knees almost as reflex to make my entry easier. My dick stiffened from habit and I slipped inside her warm, moist crevice. She didn’t open her eyes, but she made little moaning sounds to encourage me. My head was in a brand new place. I was not just thinking of my pleasure and turning Laurel on, but of my asshole and how that turned me on. I was conscious of my cock and ass moving in lockstep, and I wanted something inside of me as well, filling me, as much as I needed to come inside of her. The whole scene was very hot. I exploded. And as I lay there on top of Laurel’s warm, soft flesh, the sad thought in my mind was: This isn’t enough anymore.

The next