Day One

Stepping off the airplane, I barely begin making my way to the luggage terminal when I am intercepted by two men in bright orange, disposable hospital gowns and surgical masks, backed by two men in uniform, airport security I assume. They politely ask me to accompany them, and one thing I have learned after over twenty years of international travel, when you are approached by men in uniform and carrying batons and firearms, you do not question them. So I obediently follow them down the corridor, passengers scattering right and left before us to get out of the way. I am a meek man by nature and follow orders from habit.

We exit through one of those dozens of unmarked, nondescript doors that line all airport terminal corridors. Down another narrow, institutional-grey painted hallway. Through another unmarked door and into still another passageway and down one flight of stairs and out the door to the parkade. A plain, blue van, unmarked, is waiting.

The side door opens, and I am motioned inside. A boy is already sitting there in the corner, early teens from his appearance, a typical teen uniform of ripped blue jeans, short-sleeved T with some rock band blazoned across the chest and back, and large runners, expensive, Nike Air Max, white with the trademark slash. He is as white as his runners. His honey-blond hair is longish by today's standards, curling over his ears and his collar in the back and swept in a bang across his forehead. A few minutes later, our third passenger is shoved inside.

"What the fuck is going on? I ain't done nothin'! I want some fucking answers! You have any fucking idea who I am?"

I have no idea, and I suspect the two security guards don't either. The boy is sixteen, I figure, too inexperienced to know how to behave in the presence of security men with revolvers and batons. He stops his rant and asks us if we know 'what the fuck' is going on, and when I reply in the negative, the boy shakes his head.

He turns his attention back to the security guards, but they have already slammed the door of the van shut and locked it from the outside. That does not stop his cursing and demands. Brash, arrogant, good looks and build, probably on the high school athletic track, football most likely, and from his clothes, from a well-to-do family. Designer shirt and slacks, varsity jacket with hoodie garishly emblazoned 'Titans, Crescent Heights High School,' multicolored Adidas runners. This is a boy who is accustomed to getting his way, or his daddy will see that he does.

"You just fuckin' wait until my ol'man hears about this! He'll have your fucking asses in a sling!" he screams at the locked door.

I knew it. I know the type. I notice for the first time that there is a solid partition between us and the driver of the van with a small, meshed window that closes from the other side. The boy begins cursing and threatening whoever is on the other side of the partition.

***

We arrive at the back entrance of whatever hotel we are being taken to, are rushed inside and up to our room: typical hotel room, mid-economy with twin beds. A fifty-inch screen TV sits on a dresser along with a tray with an ice bucket and glasses – space for luggage, and a built-in desk with a chair. From the indents in the carpet, a sofa chair and coffee table have been removed to make room for a rollaway cot. The third member of our threesome paces and swears and rants and pounds on the door. It has been fitted with a lock on the other side. The boy is still ranting when half an hour later, the medical team arrives, a young doctor, an older black nurse with a no-nonsense attitude, and two assistants who had to have been selected for their size.

We are told, abruptly, to strip and put on the hospital gowns they have brought with them, resulting in another vulgar tirade by our companion, telling them what they can do with the gowns and demanding answers. Looking over at the youngest of our party, I motion that he retreats to the bathroom, with a quick glance of approval from the medical staff.

I cannot be sure with their masks, but they appear to approve, and the boy makes a hasty retreat with his gown. I unbutton my shirt and undo my belt, turning so my back is to the third member of our group who is informing the team he is doing nothing until he gets some answers. I notice in the mirror the young doctor glance at the two assistants who silently approach our dissenting member. Fuming, he removes his jacket with the warning if anybody touches him his ol'man will sue them for every nickel they have.

I finish stripping and have put on the gown when the youngest member of our threesome emerges from the bathroom. He evidently has no experience with hospital gowns. One of the assistants notices at the same time as I do and quickly intercepting him; he uses his bulk to hide the boy as he reverses the gown and helps the boy tie it from behind. With the boy and me sitting at the foot of one bed and our third companion at the foot of the other, the young doctor finally explains.

There has been an outbreak of some sort of virus and it has been determined that we are three among hundreds of others who have been in contact with the carrier. Everyone is being tracked down and isolated and checked for the virus, the three of us apparently being the only three who left the country on our particular flight, besides the boy's mother and two sisters who have been quarantined in a separate room for obvious reasons. That brought the demand from our third party that he be given a private room, especially if he is going to have to parade around 'bare assed' in a hospital gown in front of these two, and since he definitely does not have any disease – implying that we might. Being met with a flat denial does not improve his attitude.

For the next hour swabs are inserted up every orifice we have, and we have our temperatures taken orally, across the forehead, and anally, a totally embarrassing experience for all of us, there being no privacy, and to which our companion objects in no uncertain terms along with the accusation the three men are gay and the nurse a man-hating lesbian.

They do not appear to be as gentle with him as they had been with the boy and me, which I brings me some satisfaction. A half dozen tubes of blood are extracted from each of us, we are injected several times with substances and purposes unknown, and our past health and whereabouts are meticulously recorded. When asked when they would have the results and when we would be released, we are told we would be held at least a week, and probably more like six, resulting in the team being subjected to another vulgar blast by our companion, becoming all the worse when he is ignored.

After they leave and the boy has calmed down at least to pacing and muttering, as the senior member of our group and the only adult, and realizing what we are going to be facing if indeed we are going to be detained six weeks, I suggest we introduce ourselves.

"My name is Martin," I begin, taking the lead and deciding to stick to the basics for now, and figuring if we are going to be in this for six weeks, it would be ridiculous for the two boys to keep referring to me as Mister Fielding. "I'm forty-six, forty-seven in two months, married, for twenty-one years, and have two sons, Ethan, fourteen and Dylan, ten, and two daughters Ashley, sixteen and Kayla twelve."

I hope mentioning that I have children close to their ages will put the boys at ease having to share a room with an adult, and will give my credibility and authority some backing. "I am a Senior Geotechnical Engineer with Webber Incorporated. I have just spent three weeks consulting on a new pipeline being built in the United Arab Emirates and am on my way to rejoin my family, who live here in the city."

"My name is Joshua," says the youngest member of our threesome when I pause, and the other member of our group simply glares at me. "I turned fourteen three weeks ago, July tenth, and will be going into grade nine in the fall, Manning Secondary School, which I've been attending the past two years. I've just finished a two-week cruise with my mum and two sisters. We live here in the city too. Dubai was our port of disembarkment where we had a four-hour tour excursion of Dubai Creek as part of the cruise yesterday…"

"Dubai Creek?" interrupts our third member. "You were at Dubai Creek?"

"Yeah."

"You catch a water taxi when you were there?"

"An abra? Yeah."

"The driver was a young Arab, a pink and white checkered dishcloth l wrapped around his head and hanging down the back and sides and held in place with a back cord, thin mustache, chinstrap beard along his jaw, a faggot?"

"Ah, yeah, he had a pink checkered headdress and a mustache and jaw beard or whatever, I don't know about being…"

"Of course, he was. Didn't he check you out?"

"I didn't notice."

"Oh, you'd have noticed. Sweet-faced fem like you, he'd be drooling in his beard. What about you?" he asks, turning to me. "You been to Dubai Creek too?"

"Yes, actually, I have been, yesterday afternoon, and yes, I took an abra. You pretty much have to unless you want to fight the traffic across the bridges. And yes, the particular driver was like you described, pink checkered shemagh, black agal, but half the young men in Dubai meet that description."

"He checked you out?"

"No. I…"

"Probably too old for him," the boy observes smugly, looking me up and down disapprovingly as if I'm ancient and shouldn't be taking up his space. "But he's the fucker why the three of us are here, the fucking son-of-a-bitch faggot. He's the one with the disease – but he didn't touch me. Wanted to, the fucking faggot, but I'd have cut off his fucking fingers if he'd tried, and he knew it. Would have cut something else off if I had the chance too."

"You can't be sure he was gay."

"Of course, he was. I can tell. Besides, they all are Arabs, that is. The sheiks over there all have multiple wives, and harems, you know, concubines, dozens of young girls and boys. The fucking faggots swing both ways, but they all prefer boys. But he didn't touch me! I don't have any fucking faggot disease," he repeats, looking at us accusingly. The young boy shifts uncomfortably.

"We were introducing ourselves," I remind him, hoping to get him off the topic.

"Name is Drew. Drew Connor Wellington," he says, pronouncing the surname as if it is to mean something. It doesn't, not to me.

"I turned sixteen two months ago. I am going into grade eleven, Crescent Heights High School, here in the city, my second year as a quarterback with the Titans. Got a girl, Emily. We've been dating for three months, and I've got laid for as long," he says with a smirk.

"She wasn't my first, though. My first was when I was fourteen," he elaborates, glancing at Joshua meaningfully. "Got another girl too, for when Emily isn't, you know, available." He glances at me, man to man, adult to adult. "Her name's Alyssa. Tits out to here," he adds with a gesture. "This fucking sucks! I was looking forward to getting laid today after being away a week. Fuck, I've never been so fucking horny." He grabs his crotch for emphasis. "It's no fucking fair! Why me? I ain't done nothing nobody else hasn't done, and you don't see them getting locked up – locked up with you two! Why you two? Two guys? That's not fucking fair!"

That it is not fair being locked up with him, I can fully agree. There is no sin in my past that I can think of that can justify the punishment of being locked up in quarantine with Drew Connor Wellington. I glance over at Joshua. The boy is sitting in the corner on the floor by the desk and heat register, legs bent and drawn up close to his chest, and staring off into space, to all appearances oblivious of Drew's rant and rage. If he is really able to block him out, I envy him and wish I could too.

Day Eight

We have been locked up together in the hotel room now for seven days. One entire week – just the three of us. It seems more like we have been quarantined a month. The reality is we still have over a month to go.

For a week now we have been reminded every day, every hour on the hour, how horny Drew Connor Wellington is and why. For seven days, we have been the subject of his tantrums and anger. I have to admit I am feeling angry too, not at the Arab who supposedly had passed on this disease to everyone, but at the circumstances that have lead up to me being quarantined, and with this obnoxious teenager. If only I hadn't decided to go to Dubai Creek to check out the iconic hotel Burj al Arab and Al Fahidi Fort, the oldest building in the city. If only I hadn't chosen to cross by ferry instead of by bridge. If only I hadn't selected that particular ferry.

Joshua is angry too. He hasn't said anything but you could see it in his eyes. Angry at whom or what I have no idea. At himself for his past decisions? At his mother and sisters for dragging him to Dubai Creek to see, he said, the Women's Museum and some fashion show at Treasure House? Hardly the sites that would interest a fourteen-year-old boy. Angry at Drew? Perhaps at God? He had seemed to have wanted to see Dubai Creek when he had talked about the excursion, though why I was not sure. I could not think of anything there that would interest a teenage boy. Perhaps the ancient wind-tower merchant houses. With Drew present, there is not much opportunity to ask questions or have a discussion. Drew never said why he was there, though I could guess the Gold Souk for one.

As we pass into week two, our anger doesn't lessen but is augmented by something even worse, anxiety. Although none of us have any signs of the disease, each of us cannot help worrying that he has it, or that the other two do. Every cough, every sneeze, makes us shrink and draw away. A hotel room becomes very small for three people after eight days. According to the news reports, the effects of the disease as it progresses are not something we want to experience. Designed to reassure us, the reports only make us worry all the more.

And there's Drew. Not a day goes by without him talking about jerking off, grabbing himself and telling us how his balls are hurting, observing that everyone jerks off, everyone, pointedly and accusingly looking at me and then at Joshua.

"Aren't your balls ready to burst not being able to get them off with your wife?"

"Of course. But when you mature, you learn patience and abstinence." I bite my tongue. I should not have said that, but the teenager is trying my patience.

"Fuck abstinence. Don't you feel like jerking off?"

"No."

"What's the matter? Don't you and your wife get it off regular?"

"Of course. But–."

"When your wife has her periods, you don't fuck her then."

"No. Of course not."

"So don't you jerk off then?"

"No. Patience…"

"Bullshit."

When he can't get a rise out of me, he turns to Joshua. "You're fucking lucky kid, being a virgin. Really, you can sit there and not miss having cunt like Marty and me cuz you've never had cunt. Of course, I don't know if it's lucky being a virgin. Fourteen and never been laid. You gotta be the only virgin in your school. What was its name?"

"Manning…"

"Oh yeah. You're not lying about having never jerked off, are you? Be honest. We're all men here. Fuck, everyone with balls jerks off. I know you got balls. Hard not to see with these faggot gowns they gave us." Joshua turns red.

"I can show you how to do it, or Marty here can. What do you say, Marty? Whip it out and whack one off and show Joshy here how a man does it. It's okay. We understand, you being hard up not having your wifey to fuck – day after day. His hints are as subtle as being hit in the face with a two-by-four. I want to tell him to whip it out and get one off himself. The problem is he'd do it.

Day Fifteen

By the time we enter week three, all of us have become obsessed with our health and cleanliness. One or the other of us is in the bathroom washing his hands. The water is running from the moment we wake until we go to bed, sometimes even in the middle of the night, and we are continually watching for the symptoms we heard on the TV to appear.

We've stopped watching the news. It is depressing. We don't watch many comedies either, not that I ever did find them funny. Any sign of happiness or just contentment or any hint of a lack of concern by any one of us is met with brooding resentment by the other two. I include myself.

How dare the two boys not be worried when any one of us is liable to die? How can they smile when life is so rotten? I have never felt so horny and miserable. Yes. Horny. Of course, I am horny. It isn't just because Drew is reminding us of his condition every hour on the hour the whole day long. I had been away from my wife for three weeks while in the U.A.E., and have now been confined for another two. I haven't had any tail for five weeks to put it in Drew's language. Drew doesn't have a monopoly on being horny. I want to rant and scream and grab my crotch too.

To get my mind off things I have taken to watching game shows on television. Mindless, useless entertainment. It had been a distraction for the first few days, but now it is rubbish. Even so, when the show is pre-empted, usually with a virus update, or is a repeat, my blood pressure rises, and I want to swear and scream like Drew does when his routine is interrupted. Joshua has turned to cartoons, stupid childish garbage, but I can see his anger build up when a fucking television programmer changes the schedule and pre-empts his show.

The habits of the other two have gotten to me too. When we eat, Joshua turns his plate around, so the meat is always on the left. Why? What fucking difference does it make? I know my irritation is unreasonable, but I can't help it. Drew's habit of chewing with his mouth open when he eats is even worse, and I swear he does it on purpose just to irritate me. Same with his crotch grasping and moaning how horny he is. I want to give his overripe teenage balls a swift kick.

The other two are just as bad about the slightest thing I do, and emotional outbursts from them over the slightest thing have become part of our routine. So what if I make sure my bed gets made each morning and expect them to make theirs up also? It is the mature thing to do. Being locked up is depressing – damn depressing. So is Drew.

"Jacking off might not be as great as fucking, and it's the pits after knowing how it is to fuck, but it's a hell of a lot better than walking around all day with blue nuts. Of course, Josh here don't know nothing about having blue nuts like us men," is one of Drew's more obvious hints that we should jerk off. When he isn't talking about jerking off, he is making comments about the ass of his girls and about Josh's ass, which of course, with his hospital gown makes it particularly difficult to keep covered.

He talks incessantly about coaches and how they are all boy lovers and hang about the showers watching boys. What he thinks of fags and how they have an agenda of perverting all boys through sex education in the schools. How the best sex education is between the legs of a woman. He takes long breaks in the bathroom and long cold showers, which irritates the hell out of Joshua and me.

Day Twenty-two

We have been locked up together now for three weeks. Three fucking weeks, me and two kids. They won't let me talk to my wife or girls. They assure me they are alright but still will not allow me even a phone call. The psychologist says hearing their voices will be too upsetting. Yeah, psychologist. We have a psychologist now on regular team visits. Open your mouth. Now, this will pinch a little, but we need more blood. Bend over. How does that make you feel? I am tempted to tell them to bend over, including the psychologist.

Drew tells them. That's not fucking fair that he gets to tell them, and I have to take it. Not fucking fair at all. That is one thing the two of us agree. The psychologist also tells him he can't talk to any of his girlfriends on the phone, for the same reason I was given. They took his cell phone from him the day we were locked up together, and the room has no phone.

I am bored as hell. I tried to do something productive, watching documentaries and educational programs, working out geological problems in my head, recalling past challenges I've had to meet, imagining others. A total waste of time.

Now I spend the day doing meaningless things. Crossword puzzles, watching stupid twenty-year-old movies on the television, I even get them to give us a deck of cards and I play crib and Crazy Eights with Joshua. Even Drew is so bored he joins in. Time has become sludgy and the days a blur. What the fuck does it matter if today is Tuesday or Thursday anyway? Every day is the fucking same as every other day.

"Do you think of suicide?" the psychologist asks. No, but I think of murder, starting with her. And I think of how fucking horny I am. And we are only halfway through this! I cannot take another three weeks of this fucking crap.

Day Twenty-three

The sun is just rising when I wake up. Rolling over and reaching for the blanket to pull over my head, I notice Drew is not in his bed. The bathroom door is closed. Probably having a morning jerk. He has been insisting that isn't what he does. Insists it just isn't satisfying after fucking all these past months, but I know better. I can ignore him, but I feel for Joshua. Thinking of him, I glance over at the cot. It is empty also. Drew has been trying to entice him into jerking off with him since we were first locked up three weeks ago, and since that has failed, he has been trying to get him to join him in the bathroom, suggesting it at first in my hearing to get a rise out of both of us, and then when I am in the bathroom assuming I cannot hear him. It has made no difference either way with Josh. He has resisted every effort. I had thought his resolve was firm, and seeing his empty cot now, my heart sinks. Before I can get out of bed, the bathroom door opens and Josh exits, followed by Drew.

Josh stares at the floor shamefacedly as he walks bowlegged past me to the cot. Drew smirks. "Well, today, Joshua has become a man! And what a man! You should have seen him blast! Should have aimed him at the hallway door. He would have blasted that door lock right across the hallway!" Joshua is bright red.

Drew lasts until after lunch. "What do you say, Josh, my man, ready for another jerk session? Marty here knows so we don't have to hide in the bathroom. Com'on, pull it out and let's get another one off. I know you liked the first one."

Drew has his out and is bouncing it in his right hand like he's done a hundred times since we met. This time Joshua does not look disgusted. "That's it! Can't resist once you've done it, can you!" Joshua has pulled his out. He is already stiff.

"Com'on Marty, let's make this a threesome. No need to be a prude now." I turn my back. Pat, pat, pat. The rhythm of flesh slapping flesh, the sound of two boys beating their meat. I am hard. I pray Drew does not get up to check. I need not worry. He is too occupied with himself and Josh.

"Oh, cripes, we forgot to get some asswipe." He gets up and heads to the bathroom, his stiff cock pointing the way. They grunt and pant and moan, and then sigh–drama queens. I can smell fresh semen.

***

We finish supper. Now the long evening before sleep. "Ready for another?" Drew asks. No need to ask what he is referring to. Pat, pat.

"How… how often can a guy do it?" Christ, Joshua's voice is so young and high pitched.

"Don't worry. Your body will tell you when you've drained it. And then a good night's sleep and three square meals the next day and you're ready to do it all over again. Maybe when you're Marty's age, you have to slow down, but that's the beauty of being a guy, you can shoot until you're in your ninety's. Bet your grandfather whacks off." Pat, pat.

"Hard to imagine that." Pat, pat, pat.

"Everyone does it. Stats say ninety-nine percent of all guys do it, and one percent are liars." Pat, pat, pat, pat.

Joshua laughs. It is an old joke, but new to him. My cock is stiff and the gown flimsy.

"Com' on Marty, whip it out. Join the new Josh. Get with the new daily exercise. We're all men here. We got three more weeks together."

Three more weeks. I cannot possibly ignore the two of them three weeks. I reach inside my gown and grasp my stiff, aching member. I pull back the skin slowly and push it back up, moving my arm as little as possible. Pat pat pat. Pat pat pat. Pat p…

"That's it, Marty! Whack away, man!"

What the hell! We sit, eight feet apart. I focus on my hand and my lap. I have no doubt Joshua is focusing on his also. I guess Drew is splitting his attention between Joshua and me. My penis is throbbing, the glans tingling. Christ, I forgot about tissue or toilet paper.

"Here," Drew offers, thrusting a handful of toilet paper at me as if reading my mind. I am breathing heavily. So are they. I hold the tissue in front of my glans and begin to ejaculate. So do they.

Three hours later and it is time to turn off the lights and go to sleep. Well, not quite.

"Let's get one off for the night guys. Come, chuck those gowns and join me on my bed and let's do it naked as jays."

Why the fuck not? We have three more weeks. Why not go naked? Why not jerk together? It will happen sooner or later. We join Drew, me on his left, Joshua on his right. Naked. Pat pat pat. We come, gasping and snorting. The wads of toilet paper are piling up. I fall asleep with the odor of fresh semen filling my lungs.

I wake up in the middle of the night. I am fully erect. The vision of Drew and Joshua squirting comes to mind. I reach down and squeeze. Drew chuckles. I am sure he does. I draw my hand away.

Day Twenty-four

We sit in a circle on my bed and wank before breakfast arrives, the three of us squirting into the same handful of toilet paper, our combined cum forming a pool. After lunch, we form a real circle. Drew wraps his experienced fingers about my cock and I reach for Joshua. I am surprised at how hard and small Joshua's is. It has to be about four inches. Feels strange. Reminds me he is a boy. We squirt together into the same bunch of tissue Drew holds between us. We take turns holding the tissue each time. Our semen is hot, sticky. Sometimes one or the other over-squirts and hits the hand holding the tissue. What the hell. We are all guys. We are all horny. Resistance is futile – Pat, pat, pat.

Day Twenty-eight

Four weeks. Two more to go. We celebrate that morning upon awakening. As I pump my fist up and down Drew's stiff cock, he asks about sex with my wife. How often do we do it? Do we do it when we first wake up? What about when she's menstruating? Does she jerk me then? Why the fuck not? His wife will. Or will suck him. Have I ever been blown? Girls today are hot for cock. Some guys are hot for him. He's seen them looking in the showers, dreaming. But let them dream. He has cunt, hot, juicy, hairy – oh fuck, he's going to cum. So are Josh and I. Hot and sticky. Add another sodden wad to the pile.

***

Afternoon, pat, pat, pat. "There's a girl who gives blow jobs. Sherry. Half the guys have had one from her. I have. One night on a dare. It was good but not as good as cunt. Mind you, it would be better than her fist. There's a guy at school, a fairy. Everyone says he sucks. Better than Sherry. Of course, he's a guy. Guys know what it is like to squirt, how dick feels when it's being blown. Getting sucked by a guy would be better than a girl. Better than getting jerked. Not as good as fucking. But sucking would be okay." Hint, hint, hint. Pat, pat, pat. Squirt, squirt, squirt. Another wad.

***

Evening. Josh is in the bathroom, washing his hands the twentieth time today. "When the little shit comes out, let's jump him. You hold him down and I wave my cock in his face and tell him to suck, or we beat the crap out of him."

"I don't think so."

"Then I hold him and you wave your cock in his face."

"That won't happen."

"Fucker. Don't tell me you haven't fantasized that little fem's lips wrapped about your bone and sucking out your marrow." I hadn't. But I do now. "Then I'll do it myself when he comes out. God, he is so fucking fem." He would. Joshua is.

There is a noise in the bathroom. Joshua is about to come out. I drop to my knees and take Drew's cock in my mouth and begin to suck before he can react. By the time Joshua emerges, Drew is hard and loving it. Joshua freezes behind me. I can imagine his eyes popping out. I suck and slip my lips up and down Drew's throbbing bone as I'd seen in the porno they'd shown at a stag I'd attended twenty years ago, a woman doing a guy but the mechanics are the same.

Joshua has no idea how close he had come to being assaulted. I saved him. Drew is groaning and squirming and begins pumping his cock in and out of my mouth. Acting. Or is he? It is not that bad, sucking. Not really. Vulgar. Filthy. But dick does not taste as bad as I'd expected. Drew warns me he is going to cum and his semen gushes out before I can pull away. He did that on purpose, giving me no time to react, the bastard. I swallow desperately, slime oozing out of the corners of my mouth and around my chin and down my throat. It is not that bad. Not really.

"Oh, fuck yeah! That was fucking great. Better than jerking off. Way better. Better than with Sherry. I knew guys would be better. Com'on Josh, sit here beside me. You'll see soon enough."

Joshua sits, shocked, surprised. He is stiff. Of course. He is fourteen. I shuffle over on my knees and slip my lips over his little cock. Why not? He'd just seen me doing it. He brushes his honey-blond bangs out of his eyes as he looks down to watch. He is so damn fem-looking. His dick being two inches shorter than Drew's, I go down to the base. I suck and bob my head. He inhales and exhales deeply, watching me suck his wiener. He shudders and fills my mouth. Less than a minute. He's fourteen. I swallow his thin slime. It's not that bad.

"Oh yeah! That was fucking hot, wasn't it! You do a great blow job, Marty. Go ahead and reward him, Josh."

Joshua reaches over without the slightest hesitation. He has wanked me dozens of times this past week alone. "Not with your fist numbnuts. Suck him." Joshua hesitates. "Go ahead. Marty's been telling me he's been fantasizing about you giving him a blow job. Now is your chance." That was not quite true.

"You've seen what to do. You know how great it made you feel. Don't be a chicken shit. Show him how grateful you are."

I shudder as the boy slips his lips about my knob. He goes partway down and his downy cheeks sink in as he begins to suck. It feels good. Better than being jerked. It is vulgar, filthy. He is only fourteen. It is illegal. My knob burns with pleasure. I come in less than a minute as if I am fourteen again. My slime flows out the corners of his mouth as he swallows and he brushes the bangs out of his eyes. It is fucking hot!

"Way to fucking go! You're a natural, Joshy! You had Marty squirting like a fucking teenager!"

He had.

"It was fucking great, wasn't it, Marty?"

It fucking was.

***

Later, before bed, Drew has the boy blow him. He makes no effort to reciprocate. I slip over to Josh's cot and as he stands there, I take the boy's stiff little cock in my mouth. I have done it before, and the boy has done me. I hear Drew saying something about having known I was a boy lover. I don't give a fuck. I'm doing it for Joshua. They don't offer to blow me again. I'm no teenager. I have my limit, and they know. But that is alright. I fall asleep with the taste of boy cock and fresh boy cum on my lips.

Day Thirty-two

Ten days left.

"You ever give it to your wife up the ass?"

"Of course not."

"Your boys?"

"No! I'm not… I don't…"

"Do boys? Right! Let's tell Josh that one! And speaking of Josh, now there is a cute compact tush! Better than any girl. Been thinking about it. Would be fucking hot taking his cherry. You know what they call it when you do a guy?" I shook my head. "Taking his prune. Isn't that hilarious? Now that would be hot."

Joshua is in the bathroom, washing his hands. I know where this is going. I stand and grasping the dresser I bend over and spread my legs. Drew doesn't hesitate. He knows my buttons. He spreads my cheeks and stretches open my hole and lets fly a gob. I feel it oozing down my crack and into my anus. Another gob and a third. His knob is pressing against my anus. Slowly the bulb stretches it open. I feel it enter and sink deeper. His hairs are pressed against my butt. It feels weird as he pulls back. Like taking a shit. Weird, but good. He sinks it back in. Better he do me than Joshua. Drew is banging away at me good when Josh enters.

"Go ahead. Suck him off while I fuck him."

Joshua does. Whatever Drew orders. I hate the older boy. Not for taking my prune. For manipulating the boy. For manipulating both of us. He knew where this would lead. With Joshua's mouth slipping up and down my cock and Drew's cock pumping in and out of my ass, I cannot hate him for long. My stiff prick is burning and throbbing with pleasure. So is my anus and rectum. My blood is pulsating with lust. As Drew fills my ass with his slime, I fill Joshua's mouth with mine. Hot damn!

"Fucking awesome. Your ass is almost as good as a fucking cunt. Better actually. Tighter. Go ahead and try buggering him Josh. Pretend it's some girl in your class. Hell, why pretend? Just do it! Shove it up Marty's faggot ass. Said he'd do you in a wink. Fill the fucking boy lover's ass with your slime like he filled your mouth with his. Be a man."

Manipulation. Both of us. I feel the boy's slender cock slip inside me. He begins to pump it in and out. I'm being fucked. By a fourteen-year-old boy. My son is fourteen. I wonder if he can cum. I wonder if he has been jerking. He likes girls. Kids are sexually active today, much more than when I was fourteen. When I was his age, all my friends were horny, though, that I know. I know some messed with each other also. Ethan has a close buddy. Joined at the hip, my wife says. Maybe joined up the ass? Now that is a vulgar thought for a father to have about his fourteen-year-old son! Joshua is squirting. So am I. All over the dresser. Fucked up the ass by Josh, thinking of Ethan squirting. Drew hoots with approval.

Day Thirty-three

The day begins with Josh and me in a sixty-nine, me on my back on the bottom with Josh on top while Drew fucks Josh's ass. Then I suck Drew with him on his back and me on top while Josh fucks my ass. Drew asks if I do my son and I retort that of course, I do not and that he has a filthy mind. Drew asks if I ever thought about doing him. I turn red. He knows. They both know. Drew again comments about knowing I was a boy lover. Josh looks at me differently now than when we first met. Things are different. Very different. He's fucked my ass. I've sucked his cock. I've done filthy, vulgar things to both of them and both have done them to me.

There is one bag of potato chips left. We fight over the last half dozen chips, shoving, grabbing, angry, cursing. Over six potato chips. All decency gone. We parade about naked, brazen and indifferent. We suck and fuck each other openly and at any time. It no longer matters. It reminds me of a Mad Max movie except instead of shooting and killing and spilling blood we are squirting semen. Drew asks if I still miss my wife or if boys are better and we have a debate on the importance of foreplay when he observes sex between guys is better because you don't have to 'waste your fucking time' arousing your partner first.

To prove my point I make love to the cocky bastard, caressing his nipples until they are hard and then sucking them, kissing them, kissing him on the lips, caressing and stroking gently, like I do my wife, and he does the same to me as he says he does with his girlfriends. He compares me to his girls and observes his girl Emily is reluctant to caress him intimately, as if his dick is distasteful, and admits that making love to me is getting him hotter. Later he confesses that the sex afterward was better. Comparing Drew's lovemaking and degree of intimacy to my wife's, I have to agree.

Drew encourages Josh and me to make love to each other, like I do with my wife, to show the boy what he has to look forward to. The boy's lips are soft and smooth, his breath fresh and sweet. He does not hesitate to fondle my balls, and knows how tender they are and how to roll them, things a woman does not. I caress his compact butt and he caresses and sucks my nipples. He grasps my stiff cock tightly as we kiss. Drew is right. Sex with a guy is better. A guy knows how a guy feels, what a guy needs. I do not tell Drew but I suspect making love with a boy is even better than with a man. I brush Josh's bangs out of his eyes as he goes down on me and I twist around and take his little dick in my mouth and we bring each other off. When we kiss afterward, his boy breath smells of cum, my cum, and his lips taste of dick, my dick.

Later we form a threesome. Sometimes our sex is hot and furious, our balls aching and our knobs burning. Other times we are slow and gentle, more concerned about pleasing our partners than getting one off ourselves. I taught them that. I cannot say one is better than the other. Afterward we collapse on our backs, our naked bodies streaked with our sweat and with streamers and puddles of cum, mine, Drew's, Josh's. None of us gives a fuck anymore.

The psychologist observes how well we are adapting. She says nothing about our gowns being open in the back our last three meetings. Drew tells her to go fuck herself. I want to also but I say nothing. Josh looks at her blankly as if she is not even there. As if she does not have a clue what is going on. She doesn't.

Day Forty-three

The arrival of the health team catches us by surprise. For five weeks we had counted the weeks and the days remaining in anticipation for this moment. When the team steps through the door with our clothes this morning we are expecting breakfast and looking forward to another day of raw, uninhibited sex. We look at each other in surprise and disbelief, and yes, disappointment. We had no warning. No chance for a final celebration, no chance for intimate farewells. We dress in silence as the team stands by, bewildered by our silence, by our lack of excitement, by our lack of joy.

"Ah, what went on here, like, you know, it stays here," says Drew. He is wearing his designer shirt and neatly pressed trousers and his school jacket.

"Of course."

"Sure," agrees Josh, looking down at his large Nike Air Max. His hair is neatly combed over his ears, across his forehead.

"Like, it's our secret. No talking to reporters or the media,"

"Never."

"Or family. Or friends."

"Absolutely not!"

Drew tears a page from the pad on the desk, writes something, tears it in half and gives us each half. "Ah, that's my Email address. In case you wanna, you know, get in touch or something."

"Yeah, we should stay in touch, in case, well, just in case," I agree, tearing off a page and giving the two of them my Email address.

So does Josh. He can't look directly at either of us as he hands us the slips of paper without speaking.

"Yeah, well, okay," Drew says with a shrug. "See you around."

He turns and walks out the door as we watch. Josh looks everywhere but at me and follows him without a word. I glance about the room and turn to the door and the awaiting escort. I won't be the first to write. But we will be in touch. That I know. As I follow the escort down the hallway, I tell myself I don't know how I'll respond to their Email, but I do know – that is for fucking sure.

The End