Best Gay Erotica 2012

DELIVERING THE GOODS Anthony McDonald

It wasn’t easy, back in those university years, to know if other people were gay or not. It wasn’t easy to know if I was.

In my first year I shared a room in a student house in the center of Edinburgh with a burly fellow rugby player named Jack. Although rugby was about the only thing we had in common we rubbed along well enough. We visited the Edinburgh bars together, often in the company of the pair of lads who shared the room below ours. One of them, Mike, played on the same rugby team as Jack and I did; the other, a small elfin boy called Luke—and now that I’ve used the word elfin you know how this sentence is going to end—did not.

I didn’t get a chance to discover whether Luke and I had anything in common during the whole of that first year. When the four of us were out together our conversation was general, laddish, and I seldom spent time with Luke alone. During our second term Jack and Mike switched from rugby to hockey, while I did not. I was quite relieved in a way. It gave me an excuse to drop out of rugby. I’d never enjoyed the sport that much, to tell the truth, but I had the build, the strength and the skill, and at five foot eleven I looked the part. I’d played at school as a matter of course, and I’d gone along when Jack suggested I join the team that first term at uni. But now that I’d stopped, and Jack and Mike were into a different game, played on different days, those beery four musketeer evenings became less frequent and finally petered out altogether. By that time Jack had got himself a girlfriend anyway, and Mike was trying hard to follow suit.

I’d never had a girlfriend; never even flirted with girls, never felt the need. If I occasionally asked myself if I was attracted to men I tried to kick the question into the grass. I didn’t think that if it came to it I’d be very good at sex. At the age of eighteen I’d never even had a wank.

That wasn’t strictly true. I got my rocks off, from time to time, like any boy. Sometimes I’d find involuntary relief in the course of a wet dream. Occasionally, very occasionally, I’d well up and bubble over in the scrum during a match, inside the appallingly tight confines of my jockstrap. This was mortifying in the extreme, as well as uncomfortable, but bent double as I was, and huddled in the melee, at least nobody saw. Sometimes too it would happen in the classroom (later, at university lectures) inside my trousers, hidden by the desk, and there was nothing I could do about it.

But when I did want to do something about it—I mean, when I chose to make myself come, as happened from time to time—I could never bring myself, for some reason, to use my hand. I’d rub my trouser front—hard-on conveniently standing vertical inside—up and down the wall of a room (an empty room obviously) rising onto tiptoe on the slow upthrust and then back down until I’d scored my private goal. Or in bed, naked and face down, I’d rub myself off along the bottom sheet.

Why, for all those years, from the age of fourteen till I turned nineteen, did I never use my hand? I ask myself now. Everyone else did, it’s so obviously the most convenient thing to do, and it’s something that I do quite naturally now, with others or on my own. But I know the answer of course, and even though I wouldn’t have admitted it I knew it back then too. I was ashamed, quite simply, of my size. Despite my height, muscle and build, at the age of eighteen I was still kitted out with a penis and correspondent testicles that, in terms of size, looked more like the adornments of a boy of twelve.

Apart from their diminutive scale there was nothing wrong with my cock and balls at all. They were (and still are) as pretty and elegant a set of tackle as you’ve ever seen. And between them they delivered the goods. The quantity of sperm they could produce was in proportion to my size and rugby player’s physique, rather than in relation to the little funnel through which my spunk was squeezed. How did I know this, when I’d never done anything with another boy, nor seen another boy do it to himself? Well, I know now of course, but I could work it out back then also. I’d seen the stains on other boys’ sheets at boarding school at bed-making time, and they were approximately the same size—and map-like shape—as mine. Tidier, cleaner boys kept a hanky under the pillow or a small towel in a bedside drawer. One boy used an old gray sock. Nobody needed to take the precaution of keeping a jam jar beneath the bed.

Size, then, was my one concern. I measured my cock often and anxiously during my eighteenth and nineteenth years. At full stretch it remained an obstinate three and three-quarter inches. It had been nearly as big when I was thirteen. Its circumference was a tad more than three inches. Not the diameter, the circumference: do the math. It was thicker than any reasonably normal-sized pen, but not by much. When flaccid it hid like a button inside the funnel of its foreskin sheath. Even when stiff it rarely showed its head, a small ripe raspberry and just as scarlet, which had to be hauled out, protesting redly, in bath or shower for its daily wash behind the ears.

It wasn’t as though I didn’t know how big an eighteen-year-old’s cock was supposed to be. Received wisdom among us boys was that six-point-something inches was the norm. Some people boasted of having considerably more than that. And in order for there to be a norm, of course, it followed that many others—though they wouldn’t boast about the fact—must have rather less. But why me? And why a mere three and three-quarter inches? Surely no one of my size and physique had to be as far below the average as that? I’d have been grateful for five.

As I was sharing a room with Jack, I saw his cock from time to time. He was neither ostentatious nor bashful when it came to undressing to get ready for bed. I never saw Jack’s prick erect, so I had no idea of its extent in inches when in that state. But it appeared inevitably, from time to time, in off duty mode. On those occasions it hung, in a fat and jutting curve, like a big beef sausage over his two proud balls. It had a heavy, flattish head (this was very noticeable because he was circumcised) and that head was rimmed with a broad, shamelessly out-turned, flange. His balls were the size of extra-large hens’ eggs, thickly wrapped. I took care never to let Jack glimpse my own small packet. I had nothing that could compete with his. Undressing, I always made sure to turn my back. And my lack of willingness to parade my goods in the shared space of our bedroom didn’t bother him—even if he was aware of it—one bit.

I’ve said Jack’s balls were the size of hens’ eggs. So what of mine? The size of quail’s eggs. For the record, they still are. Not that that bothers me. They do their job. They deliver the goods. Nobody ever complains.

The beginning of my second term at Edinburgh saw all of us allocated to new rooms. I found mine easily. It was in the same block as last year’s, though on a different landing and, in honor of my new status as a second-year, a single. No more sharing. As I unpacked I wondered idly who my next-door neighbor would be. I had arrived early and the guy next door hadn’t turned up yet, or if he had he hadn’t got round to writing on the name card on his door. I had written my own name up at once—Rufus McCann.

A short time later came a knock at my door. Opening it I found myself looking into the eyes of Luke, Mike’s non-rugby-playing roommate from last year. Since our days of pubbing with Mike and Jack had come to an end back in the spring we’d done little more than exchange the odd hallo. Now Luke said to me, “Looks like we’re living next door to each other. Want to come in for some tea?”

If an invitation to a cup of tea seems a bit tame by way of an opener, well, neither of us was fully unpacked, and it was precisely four in the afternoon. We sat on spartan student chairs and chatted about the long summer vacs that had just come to an end, about the things we had done during that time. I had forgotten—if I’d ever properly taken it in—what a likeable, easygoing chap Luke was. I found myself regretting that we hadn’t continued to spend time together after those rugby pub outings stopped, and thinking that he was probably nicer, and more fun, than most of the new friends I’d made since then. Also I had to admit that in the last year his petite good looks were much improved. His small physique had developed, in its own small way, but nicely so. He had a cute nose and a head of dark curly hair. I’d given no thought at all to his looks last year, simply had not noticed them, and now was a bit surprised to remember that.

Now I know better. The previous year I hadn’t allowed myself, hadn’t dared, to think about Luke’s looks; nor, really, about any other boys’. But a year on and my imagination had grown bolder; my heart and courage too, perhaps.

As it happened, tea was not the end of my association with Luke that evening. We met later for drinks in the Union bar, briefly joined some friends of his for a drink at the Yellow Carvel and then, when we found ourselves walking homeward side by side, Luke offered me a nightcap before bed.

“Sorry about the choice of tincture,” he said, handing me a half full tumbler of something alarmingly thick looking and the color of red ink. “It’s Dubonnet. A present from my grandmother. It’s very sweet and you’re supposed to dilute it with a good quantity of gin, but it’s the only alcohol I’ve got on hand right now.”

I said I had no problem with it, and I didn’t. When a drink is free a drink is free, and in my room I had nothing of an alcoholic nature to offer at all. We left it at one glass each (it was nearly as sweet as cough syrup) and I returned to my own room next door for the night. I didn’t leave him completely though, or perhaps it’s truer to say that he didn’t leave me. I christened my new room, and my new bed in it, by rubbing my little self to a state of sticky wetness against the bottom sheet. I found myself thinking of Luke while this was going on and—unlike a year ago when, if I’d found myself thinking of him or any other boy, I would probably have tried to push the thought away—indulged the idea without qualm all the way through to the exercise’s inevitable, enjoyable, explosive conclusion.

Presumably as a result of what—or who—my fantasies were feeding on, I pretty well flooded the bed. Surveying the damage the next morning I wondered whether the jam-jar expedient might be called for in future, after all. More practically, pragmatically, I took to laying a small towel across the middle section of the sheet from then on.

Over the next few days Luke and I saw plenty of each other. Living in adjacent rooms as we did, it was the most natural thing in the world to look in on each other on returning from a lecture, say, and drink a coffee together, idling away bits of day, or evening, when we should in theory have been researching our essays, reading books or even—heaven help us—getting words down on paper: essays to be handed in. We went out to pubs together, the Yellow Carvel perhaps, or Ryrie’s Bar, sometimes with other friends but often just the two of us: we found we were quite content with each other’s company. Before bed we’d sometimes have a late-night drink in either my bedroom or Luke’s. (The Dubonnet was finished, mercifully; we had both stocked up with a proper bottle of scotch.) We’d put the world to rights on those evenings, talking politics and world affairs (I was reading politics, Luke geography: we had plenty to say.) We also talked about ourselves, our hopes, our tastes in books and films, all those normal topics. One subject was noticeably absent from our discussions, though: the subject of girls, and sex.

Whenever I went back to my room after one of our late whiskey talks I always made myself come, once I’d got to bed, in my tried and tested way. But now it was a more regular thing, an essential part of my routine, and always, always, now it was with thoughts of Luke. I sometimes wondered if Luke was doing something similar next door. In fact I was pretty sure he was, since it was something all boys did and he certainly had no girlfriend. I presumed he used his elfin hand for the purpose, and managed quite easily to picture him doing this. What I didn’t dare to imagine was that he might be thinking of me, strapping red-haired Rufus, as he stroked himself. That would have been a narcissistic step too far. Even so, I knew he liked me, as much as I liked him, and was growing to like me even better by the day. But in that way? I didn’t allow myself to imagine that.

Sometimes even Edinburgh can deliver an autumn day that is positively hot. One of those days occurred in the second week of that term. After breakfast I had some reading to do, but before settling down to it I decided I would change into a pair of shorts. I hadn’t brought rugby shorts up with me for the start of this second year. I knew that I didn’t want to play again, and having no kit to wear would be quite a good answer to anyone who tried to wheedle me back onto the team. I had, though, the lightweight, brief white pair of shorts that I’d used back in schooldays for gym. I stopped for a moment before I put them on, and decided, just for the hell of it, to take my underpants off first. I liked the feeling of my cock and balls inside nothing except those lightweight shorts, half free but half confined. As I said, the day was hot. And then I got down to what I was supposed to be doing, sitting reading at my desk and making notes, dressed in those shorts, a very skimpy short-sleeved blue shirt that I didn’t bother to do up and nothing else. No socks, no shoes.

After a couple of hours of reading I began to feel, well—ready to do something with my cock, rub it against the wall perhaps, encouraged by my semi-undressed state. I was just beginning to think about doing this when I heard my neighbor’s door open and then shut again. Luke had returned from a lecture. I sat still, trying to imagine what Luke was doing now in the privacy of the room next door. Not rubbing his cock up and down against the wall, I guessed, but then, you never knew. I decided to call on him. There was nothing new in that by now. The only different thing was the way I was dressed.

And the way he was, I quickly discovered. I’d knocked at his door and walked right in, without waiting for an invitation, as he and I now always did. And there he stood, in the middle of the room, having just emerged from his bathroom, I think, wearing similar white gym shorts and nothing else, not even a shirt. I couldn’t speak. He looked so stunning that words were temporarily strangers to my mouth.

Then he grinned, said, “Have a coffee,” and I said, “Yes.” We made no reference to the exceptional way in which we were both dressed, or what a coincidence it was that we were both attired this way, or even to the unseasonable warmth of the day. We sat opposite each other in his two armchairs, drinking our milky brew, talking about inconsequential nothings that we wouldn’t remember even five minutes afterward, and looking at each other. We didn’t try to hide that, at least. We just looked, and looked.

Luke was small, about five foot three, but in his own small way as muscular as me, with neat, nicely developed pecs, biceps and thighs, hard calves and a stomach as flat as a board. Two fans of dark hair spread across his chest. They met at the bottom of his rib cage and spindled to a single line of hair, very neat and, except for a tiny detour round his navel, very straight. Finally that line of hair dived teasingly behind the waistband of his shorts, leading to… Well, perhaps I would never know.

“No wonder you’re called Rufus,” Luke said. He too was seeing my chest hair for the first time. Like the hair on my head it resembles, in color at any rate, a copper wire brush that is spanking clean and new.

“My parents didn’t call me that,” I said. You’d have to be pretty prescient to guess what color a newborn baby’s hair is going to be. “I’m really William, but I’ve almost forgotten the fact, I suppose. There was a king of England called William Rufus, wasn’t there?” We’re a bit hazy on English kings up here in Scotland. They teach us all the Scottish ones, but they whiz through the ones south of the border a bit quickly until 1603.

We were sitting with our legs spread ostentatiously wide apart. I felt pretty sure by now that Luke was feeling as sexually charged up as I was, but I still couldn’t be certain enough to take any appropriate action. Anyway, what action would be appropriate? I had no experience of this kind of situation at all. No experience of sex, full stop. I scanned his crotch for signs of an erection, but couldn’t make one out. His shorts were very tight, of course. They might have been his gym shorts at age fourteen. Then I saw it, a dark spot on those white shorts, an inch to the right of his fly. A drop of something had slipped out of his penis and into his shorts. It wasn’t pee. If you forget to go, and then find you’ve accidentally spurted a drop into your trousers, it makes a bigger splash than that, however quickly you clamp the apparatus shut. I know. And Luke clearly hadn’t ejaculated either: his body would have given off telltale signs. There was only one possibility. Luke’s unseen cock was emitting that clear, sticky, shiny stuff that comes before you come. That happens without your knowing it. You know if you shoot, or if you pee on yourself, but precome seeps out unperceived. You don’t know it’s there until you’ve felt it with a finger or, later on, examined the inside of your pants. The only thing you do know when this gentle dew is creeping out is that you’re in a pretty sex-ready state.

Then I saw that Luke was studying my crotch as intently as I’d been studying his. I looked down. My own shorts bore the same giveaway round wet patch. Luke and I looked back up into each other’s face and, very shyly, very nervously, smiled.

I don’t know how we got there but we were suddenly in each other’s arms, pressed together tightly at the front, Luke on tiptoe, rubbing ourselves, our cocks, together as if we wanted them to kindle into fire. Within seconds we both came, in and through our shorts, into each other’s. His hot wetness merged with mine, the two indistinguishable, spread between us like an opening flower. I felt the powerful pulses of his cock pressed through fabric against mine as we spurted about a second apart, his ejaculation mirrored by the pumping throbs of my own, six or seven times before our cocks calmed down. Then we held each other for what seemed like minutes. Perhaps it was. We pulled slowly apart, surveying each other, each observing the other’s soaking shorts. “I want to see your cock,” said Luke at last, in a threadbare voice.

“In this state?” I answered, my voice, like his, husky with shock. “It’ll be all a mess down there.”

“Show me anyway.”

“I can’t,” I whispered. Then, abject with shame: “I don’t let anyone see it. It’s so small.”

“So’s mine,” said Luke, looking me earnestly in the eye. “Pull my shorts down and look at mine. Then let me see yours.”

I reached forward and unhooked the top of his shorts, unzipped them and yanked them down over his hips in something like a single movement. His cock flipped out, and slightly up—he wasn’t wearing underpants either—and he caused mine to do the same.

Our cocks were twins: Same scale. Identical quail’s egg balls. Both still half stiff, pointing toward each other, parallel to the floor. They were wet with come, and our pubes were clotted with it. As we looked, a last stray streamer, hanging from the tip of each foreskin, spooled downward and dropped into the shorts that lay encircling our feet. We looked back up at each other and exchanged half smiles.

“Mr. William Rufus indeed,” Luke said. He planted a finger in the deep wet carpet of my pubes. “Copper even here. It’s beautiful. I mean, you are.”

I’d never thought of my pubic bush as an adornment, a thing of beauty, before. But here was Luke telling me that, even strung with the white flecks and streamers of my spunk, as it was. He moved his hand and grasped my cock. Tentatively I reached out and held his. It jerked in response, swelled slightly. It was so wonderfully hot. This was the first time I’d held another boy’s; the first time a boy’d held mine. Slowly, although we’d both come just seconds before, standing naked in the middle of the floor, in the sunshine, with our shorts pooled at our feet, we each began to masturbate the other’s prick.

We didn’t make it to lunch that day. We lay naked together on Luke’s bed in the warmth of the afternoon and played together. We discovered by a happy chance the position called sixty-nine, though neither of us knew it was called that then. You don’t need big cocks for that. A small one’s just as good, and actually more comfortable. We wanked each other and watched the other’s come spurt healthily over our nipples and throats. And though we did get dressed and go out in the evening to eat and drink, we were back in bed soon afterward, experimenting with a fuck. I let Luke have first go. I was too big to lie on top of him. I lay back, pulling up my legs, and let him push his spit-moistened little penis up inside. I wouldn’t let him wank me while he plunged and came. Instead I made him sit astride me, when he was ready to go again, and lower his backside onto my standing, bursting dick. While he did the necessary legwork I teased his well-positioned penis with my hand till we both came, me inside him, he in a hot starburst over my chest. That night we slept in each other’s arms.

It was a couple of days before we began, shyly, tentatively, to talk about our previous sexual experience and habits. It was oddly reassuring to learn that Luke had had no experience with others before me, not even showing off his little soldier to his peers when a child, and he seemed relieved, almost, when I told him that my own case was the same. I was still diffident about owning up to the odd way I’d been bringing myself off, but when I eventually did so he grinned broadly and said that he had never used his hand either. Like me, he’d always rubbed himself against the sheets, or up walls, or alongside fence-posts in the countryside where he lived. We let our imaginations dwell on the possibility that at the start of term we might have been up against opposite sides of the wall that divided our two bedrooms at the same time, getting off on different sides of the same brick. Picturing that scene, sexy but absurd at the same time, we started to laugh, eventually guffawing till we could hardly stop.

But Luke had taken the frottage principle to a level beyond mine. He told me he sometimes rubbed his cock against tall handsome strangers in overcrowded buses, or in the London or the Glasgow Underground. “How the fuck did you get away with that?” I asked him.

“It has to be very crowded indeed,” he answered roguishly. “Very, very crowded. Otherwise you can’t.”

These days we had no need to take such measures. Our doors were, metaphorically, open to each other day and night. Since they were the only two doors on our particular landing, and we were on the top floor, there was no one to witness our frequent comings and goings. If the people beneath us ever heard our midnight footsteps cross the floor, or our doors open and shut, they never said so. If, for instance, I woke at three in the morning, hard and wanting to wank, I’d take myself next door, naked as I was, and climb in beside Luke. He’d wake, harden in seconds, and we’d do each other, one way or another, there and then. Just as often, I’d wake to find little Luke, shamelessly nude and eager pricked, climbing in beside me.

As the days turned to weeks, then months, we began to notice something, though for a long time didn’t dare mention it, in case we were mistaken. Not till we resumed our sexual contacts after the Christmas break (and boy, how we both used our hands on ourselves during that enforced absence from each other’s bed) did I bring the subject up. “Have you noticed,” I said, “that both our cocks have grown?”

“I didn’t want to be the first to say so,” said Luke, “but yes, I have.”

We found a ruler, even though this was the middle of the night, and confirmed what we could already see with our eyes. My cock had grown by nearly an inch, and his had done the same. I said to him, “You see, we should have been using our hands for years.”

Well, we made up for that tardiness in the months that followed.

One day in the spring I heard Luke return to his room with what sounded like an extra pair of feet. Curious, I waited a few minutes, then made my way to his door. In view of the circumstances I waited for his “Come in,”’ just this once, before opening it. When I did, I saw he had a visitor, a nice-looking blue-eyed one, a fresh-faced young man in a kilt, who was sitting on Luke’s bed talking across the room to Luke, who sat in one of the armchairs. Though it was the middle of the afternoon they both looked as though they might recently have enjoyed a drink or two. “This is Fraser,” Luke said. “He’s in my geography year.” We shook hands and I took the other chair.

I have to say that Fraser looked very good. He was about my height, I guessed, though of a lighter build, his hair curly and red gold. His top half was quite normally sweater clad. He wore a workmanlike pair of boots, above which big oatmeal socks had been pulled down around his ankles like concertinas, which emphasized the definition of his pleasingly sculpted calves. Those were enhanced with a gossamer fine halo of pale gold hairs. What he was doing, a nineteen-year-old student, attending lectures in kilt and sporran in the middle of the day, was anybody’s guess. But, as on the occasion of my first sex with Luke, when both of us were clad in just the skimpiest of shorts, nobody was going to ask.

“We went for a drink together,” Luke announced, a bit superfluously. “He asked me point-blank if I was gay and I said I was.”

“I’d known him a year and a half,” Fraser explained, “and I thought it was about time I knew.”

“I told him about us,” Luke went on. “He wanted to meet you so I brought him back. I was about to go and knock on your door when in you came.”

I wasn’t sure at that stage whether we were all simply going to have a coffee together and an earnest discussion about the gay community in general and how it dovetailed with society as a whole, or whether we would proceed straightaway to uncomplicated threeway sex. There was a brief silence. Presumably the other lads were pondering that question too. It was Fraser who cast the dice. Leaning back on the bed he said calmly, “Nobody’s asked the obvious yet.”

“What’s that?” I asked. I honestly didn’t know what he meant.

“That hoary old question about guys who wear kilts.”

“You mean whether they’ve got anything on underneath,” Luke helped out. He knew the boy better than I did, after all. Fraser nodded and grinned. Luke said to him, teasingly, “And if we do ask the question do you plan to tell us, or show us?”

Fraser answered without a word. His feet still planted on the floor, he leaned right back across the bed till his shoulders rested on the wall behind him, then pulled and rucked his dark kilt so high around his waist at the front that everything was on show between his bellybutton and his knees, in addition to his lower legs which we’d already seen and approved.

He was fully hard and pointing at the ceiling. His prick was probably about average size but, as it wasn’t particularly thick, gave an impression of considerable length. He was a fair-skinned boy and his member was ivory white. His foreskin was beginning to slide back under pressure from below. Half of his glans had revealed itself: a pretty, round, rose-pink plum.

Like me he had ginger pubes. His didn’t form the dense, expansive thicket of copper brush that mine did. Instead they made a narrow, sparsely woven halo of gold through which his smooth alabaster skin could be clearly seen. His balls, which were clenched up so tightly in their sac that they hugged the base of his cock, were of impressive hens’ egg size. Not extra large, though. Standard.

“Now you have to show me too,” he said in a matter-of-fact voice. We couldn’t very well refuse. So Luke and I found ourselves standing and, facing our exhibitionist visitor on the bed, unzipping and pulling our jeans and underpants halfway to our knees. Needless to say, our robust little dicks—though they weren’t quite so small these days—popped out already hard. It felt oddly like being on parade, at some sort of inspection.

Then Luke surprised me by saying to Fraser, voice now throaty with desire, “Can I fuck you?”

And Fraser, perhaps relieved, now that he’d inspected it, by Luke’s prick’s modest size, said, “Yes. That’s okay.” His voice too had changed gear, down to little more than a whisper.

Luke took an awkward two steps toward Fraser, who immediately pushed his kilt back down a little way, just far enough for him to reach inside his sporran. He took out a small packet. “Here. Wear one of these.”

“There really isn’t any need,” Luke said, flushing slightly. “Rufus and I…”

“We all should anyway,” Fraser cut him off. He handed Luke a condom. Luke was momentarily nonplussed, and the helpful suggestions about how to put it on that were made to him by Fraser and myself only served to make it clear to Fraser that I had never used one, and to Luke and me that Fraser hadn’t either. But Luke managed it in the end without either losing his erection or, incompetently, inflating the end of it like a balloon.

Although up to that point none of us had any idea of what positions we’d all adopt, we now found ourselves getting into them instinctively, as if we’d been choreographing and rehearsing the whole thing for days. Fraser raised his already wide-spread knees till his boots were level with the mattress, then as Luke knelt down between them in his half-mast jeans, raised them still farther and carefully (to avoid injuring Luke with his work boots) laid his svelte calves and luscious thighs over Luke’s shoulders, then used that purchase to help him wriggle his bottom right to the edge of the bed, helpfully lining up its center line with Luke’s pointing dick. Meanwhile I’d climbed onto the bed and knelt there, sideways onto Fraser, my jeans around my knees. I thrust my hips forward till the end of my cock kissed the tip of Fraser’s bigger one. Each felt the wetness of the other and when they inched apart stayed chained together by a shining gossamer thread.

Luke, who was well practiced now at fucking me, easily found and explored Fraser’s hole with a spit-wet finger, then thrust his penis in, using his knees, well anchored to the floor through his jeans, as a hinge.

Fraser was quiet now, presumably savoring the strangeness of this new experience in his own private way. Nothing on his face suggested that Luke’s initial penetration had caused him any pain. Then, as Luke began to piston in and out of him, at first tentatively and then with more energy and abandon, I took Fraser’s cock into my hand—it was the biggest one I’d ever held till now—and he took mine in his. With his other hand Fraser gently cupped, then stroked, my diminutive balls. I would have done the same to his much larger ones, but Luke’s dainty elfin fingers had got there first.

There followed a few minutes during which the three of us seemed to find a new, shared level of sensual bliss, evidenced by the shy grins we all exchanged, and then we all began to come. Luke climaxed with a series of deep thrusts into Fraser, each one accompanied with a grunt or gasp. Then Fraser and I shot together, abundantly, as if we’d both stamped smartly on the other’s toothpaste tube. Our white streamers launched into the air between us, then, stalling in midflight, rained pattering down upon us: on Fraser’s naked legs, rucked kilt and pullovered chest; all down the front of my thighs and into my half-shucked jeans; in zigzagged and crisscrossed lines, like fallen moonbeams. It was impossible to know which strands of semen were Fraser’s and which were mine.

We stayed exactly where we were for a moment or two, awestruck by what the three of us had just done, then each of us smiled at the others in turn. At last Luke disengaged himself carefully from Fraser’s inside, got to his feet and stumbled with difficulty to the bathroom, his jeans still gathered around his knees, his cock still stiff and preceding him, wagging as he walked, like the tail of a small dog.

Fraser let his legs drop and his boots take the weight of them back on the floor. Still on the bed I let myself fall forward onto him; I lay on his chest, heedless of the sticky state of his pullover, and we cuddled, hugged and kissed. He said, “I liked that. It was my first ever time.”

I said, “I think I knew.”

And so our lives, Luke’s and mine, moved into a new phase. During the rest of that academic year, and the one which followed it, our last, we shared our pleasures again with Fraser many times, and sometimes too with other friends. But often Luke and I were happy just to be together, the two of us, as we’d been before.

Our paths diverged somewhat after we left uni. Fraser went abroad. Luke’s career took him to Glasgow, mine a little way across the border to Carlisle. But trains run hourly between those two cities, and we still meet up from time to time. We have a drink and then a fuck, at his place or mine. It’s condoms of course, these days, if we’re doing that, but never mind. Sometimes we’re quite happy to pleasure each other by hand. We last measured our cocks when we were twenty-three; haven’t felt the need to since. Mine, on that occasion, came out at six inches exactly, which should be big enough for anyone; his—which stopped growing a little time before mine did—ended up at just over five. But he’s a small, elfin guy, and it’s perfectly in proportion with the rest of him. It suits him so.

As for our balls, those haven’t grown much. We still sport a clutch of two pretty little quail’s eggs each. But, as we often have occasion to tell each other, when exchanging accounts of our adventures with other men in the run-up to our own activities of the day (this gets us nicely into the mood, but on occasion has proved too effective a bit too soon) nobody has ever complained. They work perfectly, after all. They deliver the goods.