SECRET

BUDDIES

an erotic novel by

Mike Newman

GLB PUBLISHERS           San Francisco                

Second Edition

Copyright © 1992 by Michael Newman

All rights reserved. Printed in the U.S.A.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, review web site, or broadcast.

Cover design by the author

and GLB Publishers

Published in the United States by

GLB Publishers

P.O. Box 78212, San Francisco, CA 94107 USA

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Library of Congress Control Number:

2003111510

1-879194-45-7

First Edition published 1992

Second Edition February, 2003

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This little wet dream of a story is dedicated
to the memory of my dear lover Randy.
He was the first to read it and afterward
gave me his highest compliment:
"Boy, are you queer."
Yeah, my buddy. Queer for you forever.

And thanks to Bill Warner of
GLB Publishers, my coach.

Chapter 1

     In my mind I could still see every detail of Duane's dick. I could picture it as clearly as if I had a color photograph of it right in front of my nose.  Staring absently through the tinted bus window, I got lost in my daydream again, the same old one about that afternoon in Duane's car. Two years had passed since that day, and he'd never let me touch his cock again, but the memory of it was still more vivid to me than the sunset scenery of Idaho flashing in front of my eyes outside the bus.
     It was inches from my face, poking straight up between his legs, aimed at my mouth. It wasn't very big, because Duane wasn't a big guy. It wasn't very long. Five and three-quarters inches long, fully erect, to be precise. It wasn't really special in any way, except that it was Duane's dick, and Duane was my best friend, and when we were alone together we could do secret things with each other, forbidden things.
     I knew his cock as well as I knew my own. I knew exactly how thick it was at the base; I could still hold my thumb and fingertips apart as if I had it between them again. I could draw a map of the veins on it. I knew how short it was soft, and just how much it expanded when I held it. I knew how, when Duane got really excited, it would extend out exactly one inch longer than his longest pubic hairs, if I pulled them out straight along the top of it.
     I knew all about his pubic hairs, too. I'd watched every one of them sprout down there, back when we were thirteen. His hairs were coarse, mine were fine. His were black, mine were brown. His were curly, mine were wavy. I'd measured their growth at least once a week for months, just as I'd measured the growth of his dick, and he'd measured mine.
We had started fooling around with each other in the seventh grade, back when we both still had our boy peckers, short skinny things the size of our little fingers. By the time we got into high school both our dicks were man-sized, and jacking off together had become a weekly habit.
     Somewhere along the line Duane had started bringing a Playboy along, plopping the damn magazine down right between us with the Playmate folded open. I didn't mind the magazine so much, but it made an awfully long reach to get my hand on his dick.
     That's what I remember liking the most, the feel of Duane's warm, hard cock in my hand, and his hand holding mine. We never went all the way like that, though. Right when I was really getting into it, really getting turned on, he'd push my hand away. He'd always insist on finishing the job himself. We always shot off separately, with Duane pounding his pud and staring intently at the Playmate centerfold, and me beating my meat and staring just as intently at Duane's dick.
     But the one afternoon that I keep remembering was when we were parked on our SBvorite back road in the woods, whacking away in the front seat of his mom's car, and everything changed. We were both tensing up, breathing hard, jacking each other off SBster and SBster, only this time when he stopped beating my meat he didn't let go and push my fist off his dick.
     He held onto it and looked over at me, and when our eyes met he gave my cock a special squeeze and said what I'd thought about for years but always been afraid to suggest.
     "One thing I've always wanted to know," he said, "is what a blowjob feels like."
I probably answered too quickly, now that I think back on it. "I'll do you if you'll do me," I said, right away.
     He was grinning. I was shaking with nervousness.
     "It's a deal," he said. I should have known better.
     I could see it happening again like a movie. Duane had his pants down to his knees. He was holding his shirt up out of the way for me. His dick was rigid, throbbing, as I leaned across the open Playboy magazine on the car seat between us.
     I got my SBce right up to his hard-on. I put one hand on his leg, on my best friend's thigh, right next to his thick bush of curly black pubic hair. Touching his leg got me so turned on I almost creamed all over myself, just looking at his dick. He pushed my hand off his leg, and I should have stopped right then.
     But he said, "Suck it, Billy, suck my cock," and he was my best friend, so I did.
     I'll never forget the feel of his dick in my mouth that afternoon, prodding against my tongue, so hard, so urgently stiff, and yet with such soft skin surrounding it, thin, silky soft skin that slid up and down so easily between my lips as I sucked on it gently, pulling it into my mouth, licking at it tentatively, waiting for him to give me some sign that it was as exciting for him as it was for me.
     Damn him. I was being good to him. Why did he do what he did? Bastard. We'd had a deal.
     The bus jolted and swayed. I shifted in my seat. Oh, fuck, here I go again. Dick, dick, dick. It's all I ever think about.
     I stared through the window, bored out of my gourd, as the bus rumbled into the afternoon sun. Boise would be coming up pretty soon, after dark. No, not Boise. Lewiston. We did Boise already. In Lewiston I'd have to change buses for the last time.
     Maybe then I'd get to see the big trees. I squinted at the horizon. We were crossing a vast valley of SBrmland, and on either side, miles away, I could see a jagged blue line of mountains, ridges with white lines of snow topping them, but they were so SBr away I couldn't make out much about them. I was disappointed. I'd expected mountains everywhere, like in Colorado.
     Maybe after Lewiston things would change. Maybe then I'd see the big trees, the tall, straight, pointy kind I'd seen in magazines, the kind that only grow out West.
     Slouching toward the window, I braced my elbow against the wall to try to make the vibration go down my arm, so my palm would do a buzz job on my hard-on.
     I can't ride for hours and hours without getting horny. Real horny. I mean raging-hard-on-bent-in-half-inside-my-Jockey-shorts horny. I mean, I could see the headline in one of those supermarket newspapers:

GIANT PURPLE BONER FROM OUTER SPACE HITS TEEN ON BUS, WON'T LEAVE CROTCH— CAN MODERN SURGERY SAVE THIS LAD?

     It's because of all the vibration, riding along like this for hours. When I was a kid I used to hate having to mow the yard, until I got one of those spurts of growth that made me tall enough so the handle of the lawn mower no longer pushed against my stomach. About age thirteen I hit six feet tall, and the handle started to hit a little lower on my anatomy, down below the belt. The vibration gave me an instant hard-on. I cut the grass a lot after that.
     My father said I was in love with the lawn mower, but that wasn't quite right. I was just dating it. I was just taking it out for cheap thrills. One sweaty hot Saturday afternoon I closed my eyes for a few extra minutes, leaning forward, letting that handle vibrate like mad against my private part, and it felt so good my knees went wobbly and my eyes crossed inside my head.
     What I got that day was a spurt of growth nobody had warned me about, another kind of spurt entirely. I was standing there like a geek, with my eyes closed and my mouth wide open, and I didn't even know what was happening until I felt something dripping out from under my shorts and running down the inside of one leg.
     Talk about dumb. My first ejaculation, and I thought I'd peed on myself, right there in front of Duane's mom, who was planting tulips or something just on the other side of the fence. If I hadn't been worried she would see it, I'd probably have stood there until dark, trying to make it happen again.
     I moaned to myself. I'm probably the only guy in the whole world who came of age with a gasoline motor instead of a girl. I'm probably perverted for life.
     I slumped even lower in my seat. There I go again, thinking about sex.
     If I just had a car everything would be okay. Not perfect, I know that, but a hell of a lot better. Mainly, I wouldn't have to be sitting on a goddam Greyhound bus for three days and nights with every other scuzzy misfit who wants to get from Bumfuck, North Carolina, to Bumfuck, Idaho, and can't either drive it themselves or come up with a plane ticket.
     It is not normal for a person who has passed the age of eighteen, which I did many months ago, to have to take a bus. And, if I just had my own car, I could pull over for about ten minutes and GET RID OF THIS GOD DAMNED ETERNAL HARD-ON.
     My name should be Billy Beat-off.
     I took a deep breath and tried to focus on the outside world. We were driving across some rolling hills for the first time all afternoon. The blacktop pavement was patchy, and it followed the hills exactly, without any cuts and fills. I could see half a dozen humps in the road ahead, like a roller coaster ride. It was the main highway through the state, but it was built like a SBrm road.
     Maybe it really was just a SBrm road. In all directions there were endless parallel rows of turned-over soil plowed in waving lines that followed the contours of the hills. It was still as boring as the Midwest, only with bumps.
     For most of the afternoon we had gone for hours through a canyon above a muddy river, on an even shabbier highway that was notched into the canyon side. The road was barely wide enough for the bus, and it seemed to be SBlling into the river in places. I would notice little red triangles on wire stakes beside the pavement, and minutes later the bus would hiss to a stop. Construction crews would be carving into the hillside to move the road over, and when they waved us around, I'd look down at a gaping hole in the road where the land had slipped right into the river.
     Everything in Idaho seemed new, and raw, and temporary. The canyon would widen, and the road would drop down to a little village of trailer homes up on blocks. What few buildings there were seemed unfinished, bars and trading posts that no one had bothered to paint outside, as though everyone expected to move on when the river flooded, or when the trees were all logged, or when the gold was all panned out.
     All the guys drove muddy pickups with gun racks in the back window, and they all wore plaid shirts, and ball caps, and big, black boots with mud cleats an inch thick. Everybody's hair was shaggy. Back home, guys drive pickup trucks, but they wash them every Saturday. Guys wear ball caps, but their hair doesn't stick out from under the edge. Nobody goes more than a week without hitting the barbershop. Nobody wears suspenders either, except SBt old white-haired men who smoke cigars. Here in Idaho, even sexy young guys all seemed to have on red suspenders holding up baggy black workpants with rips in them. And below the muddy cuffs, boots, boots, boots. And they sure as hell didn't look like any of them wasted any time daydreaming about their best friend's cock.
     Got to watch that shit, Billy, I told myself, straightening up in my seat. Forget the Billy Beat-off shit. You're Out West now. Be a man. Hell, I should stop calling myself Billy, too.
     From now on I'd introduce myself as Bill. "Hello," I'd say, sticking my hand out. "Name's Bill. Bill Bartholomews." Make a change. Make a new start.
     And back home, everybody always leaves the "s" off. That really gripes me. Not that I'm real picky, but it makes me feel like I'm invisible or something. I'd have to put an end to that, too, right from the get-go. These things are important. "It's Bartholomews," I'd say, right from the first. "With an `s,' please."
     No, no. That sounds fruity. Forget the "s" bit.
     This is Idaho. Be a man. It's 1969. The sexual revolution started years ago. At least it did for everybody else except me. But in Idaho, there are probably tons of women out there just waiting to have sex with me. This year, I'm gonna do it. This summer, right here in Idaho, I'm gonna become a man.
     The guy across the aisle from me twisted in his seat. He was in an army uniform, got on in Boise. He'd taken his coat off and loosened his tie, and was leaning back against his window, propped up to nap. He had both his hands cupped in his lap, too, like me, even in his sleep. It's the vibration. He had left his reading light on, and I watched him snore in his seat as the darkness grew around us.
     His forearms were thick, muscular, covered with black hairs. In his SBce he was just a slack-jawed kid, with his hair cut that real short way they do in boot camp. But his arms were powerful like a man's. Hairy like a man's.
     I wanted arms like that. Hell, I was out of high school already, six foot two, and still only weighed 168 pounds. That's scrawny, really scrawny. In SBct, I actually only weighed 163, but I always told people it was 168. I'd have rather said 170 if I'd thought I could get away with it.
     Well, that was one of the reasons I was on my way to the back side of Idaho, to work for the summer in the Forest Service, goof around in the mountains and maybe put a little weight on the old bod. I was on my way to get some muscles, like his. And a car. Well, my folks expected me to put all the money I made toward tuition at school in the SBll, but there'd be enough for a car first. And once I had a car, the girls would be next.
     The bus lurched. Soldier boy moved his chin, swallowed, and stretched in his seat with his arms straight down to his lap. He squeezed himself. I could see it plain as day. I could see his hard-on sticking out from under his hand, underneath his green trousers.
     I felt my own erection jump a notch under my palm. His army uniform was thick, but his cock was growing, visibly, snaking out under the cloth, twitching every few seconds until it extended a half inch beyond his fingers, then pushed out a full inch, maybe more. It must have been humongous. I wondered if he was dreaming about fucking. My dick ached in my hands.
     Another lurch. The soldier boy stretched again, locked his fingers together backwards and lifted them out straight. I got a good look at the whole bulging thing standing up rigid in his pants, before he turned his back to me and heaved a sigh.
     That was it. That was more than it. Billy Beat-off can only take so much. I pulled myself up and into the aisle, and headed for the crapper in back, to take care of business.
     Some guy was going in ahead of me. The lock clicked, and I flopped into the last seat to wait.
     Dick, dick, dick! It's all I ever think about! Nobody could see me in the back, in the dark. I worked my boner out of my Jockey shorts and pointed it down inside my pants leg, like the soldier's had looked. My cock was pretty long. At least I thought it was.
     I remembered when Duane and I first tried measuring ourselves, back in the seventh grade. He'd brought a ruler along in his back pocket one day when we went out in the woods together after school to jack off. It's actually a pretty confusing business.
     Do you put the ruler on top? If you do, it makes a serious difference which way you point your dick. Straight up, full-out hard, it only comes to like maybe four inches on top. Push it down toward your knees and you go off the scale they have in anthropology books. And if you put the ruler underneath, forget it. You get readings that nobody would believe anyway.
     Duane and I settled for the top measurement, pointed out perpendicular. We were changing fast, so we had to check it at least once a week. If you must know, my best was six and a half inches. Well, Duane said six and a quarter, but I round it off.
     It's funny. My parents kept track of how tall I was growing with marks on the kitchen doorway. They couldn't understand when I didn't want them to do that any more. fact is, I didn't really want to get any taller. I was too skinny as it was. The only measurements that counted were the ones Duane took on my cock, but I couldn't have told them that in a million years.
     How long could that guy take to piss? I was shifting in my seat when I saw the army kid stand up and start toward the rear. The lock clicked, the toilet door opened, and the guy inside went back to his seat. I was next, but I didn't move.
     The soldier headed for the toilet. When he reached the door the light inside flooded over him, and he wasn't even trying to hide how stiff he was. It flipped by my face, big as a baseball bat, strong enough to lift his pants leg out in front.
     I tried not to stare at it too long as he passed. I got a good look and then pretended to stare into space as he pushed into the toilet and closed the door.
     Guys get the wrong idea if you check them out too much. I would never let what happened with Duane happen again.
     I closed my eyes and went over it again, remembering how surprisingly far Duane's hard cock had protruded into my mouth, how excited I had gotten when his sweet fluid had seeped onto my tongue, that first clear, slippery stuff you get when it's starting to feel real good, and then—he hadn't even said a word, or grunted, or anything like that—just, pow, he'd shot off right into my mouth. The slippery stuff had suddenly changed into thick, ropey spurts, a mouthful of cum exploding against the back of my throat.
     I don't know why I was surprised, but I was. It had just poured out of him, filling my mouth up in seconds. I'd gagged at first, trying to hold it all in, and then, what's a guy supposed to do? I'd swallowed it. Before I could think about it, I'd swallowed it. Hell, it was my first time. I hadn't planned any further than sucking on his cock.
     If I just had thought to spit it out the window, everything would have been different.
I raised my head up, and Duane said, "Well, aren't you gonna spit it out?"
     Too late for that.
     "I don't fucking believe it," he said, staring at me with his eyes wide. "You swallowed my cum? God damn, Bartholomews," he muttered, jerking his pants up and buttoning them. "I always thought it, now I know it." He looked at me again and sneered. "You're queer, aren't you? You're a fucking queer!"
     It was agony. Worst moment of my life, definitely. I swear he told me to go first, and then he'd do me. I'm positive he said that. Hell, I'm not some queer. We were best friends, and we had a deal.
     Bastard. Talk about a slam right to the old balls. I never had the nerve to bring it up again, and I'm still waiting for my turn to find out what a blowjob feels like. See, you just can't let on to anybody about this stuff, not even your best friend.
     Damn, that soldier was driving me crazy. I knew exactly what he was doing in there. He was swinging that baseball bat of his.
     I wanted my turn, fast. I'd get inside there and, sha-ZAM! I'd become Captain Hardcock, zooming through space on the rocket between my legs, riding on the blast of my trusty beat-off boner, my best buddy, my hard dick. I lifted my hips in the air and squeezed my pants leg until it looked like it stuck half-way down to my knee.
     We hit a bump. CLICK! The toilet door swung open. FLASH! The spotlight was on me, Captain Hardcock, arching up in my seat like a fool with both hands gripping my blaster through my pants. How fucking embarrassing. I looked up slowly.
     The soldier wasn't coming out. He was still pissing. The guy wasn't even looking my way, and no wonder. He had plenty to look at of his own. He was still hard, and it was sticking out so stiff he had to push down on it with one thumb to hit the toilet.
     I lowered myself slowly, gawking at the soldier pissing through his hard-on. He made a few last squirts, then stretched the loose skin all the way down, and back up, and down again. That was when he turned his head and looked straight at me. His eyes followed my arms down to my midsection. When he saw what I had in my hands, he started to smile. The corners of his mouth curled up.
     The bus swayed around a curve, and the toilet door swung between us. The soldier moved over, kicked it wide open, and propped his foot against it. Staring at me, he slowly unbuckled his belt and lowered his pants. He had on white shorts, and when he dropped those to his knees his dick popped up. He raised his shirt with one hand, and rubbed his belly, staring down at himself.
     Damnation. The guy liked being watched. He was showing it off.
     And, oh, lordie, what a sight it was. His thighs bulged above his shorts, and like his arms they were thick with tight muscles, covered with dark hair, a real man's legs. His belly was a solid mass of black curls. Out of the tangle below his navel protruded his stubby slab of a cock. It wasn't very long, but it stuck straight out, rigid. It didn't even bounce with the swaying of the bus.
     The soldier turned his head toward me again. His eyes stared into mine for a long minute. I couldn't look away. I froze with both hands on my crotch. He glanced down, then back up. He raised his eyebrows and tossed his head toward the front of the bus.
I knew what he meant, but I was too petrified to move. If I answered his motion, I'd be into something with him. He frowned and tossed his head again.
     I leaned out and looked up the aisle. Most of the lights were off. My heart pounded. I could feel a wet spot spreading where my boner poked against my leg. Nobody was coming.
     I looked back into the toilet and slowly shook my head. It was just me and the soldier.
     He reached under his shirt and plucked at both his nipples. His hard-on twitched up, then dropped back down. He shoved his shirt all the way up and tugged his nipples out, like two inches out, and his dick raised up again and held there at an angle. He stared down at it, smiling proudly. It bulged. It turned red. A silver spot appeared at the tip. He pulled his nipples out so far I thought they'd rip off, and more juice oozed out from his cockhead. The goop moved slowly down the underside of his dick and stopped where the skin had a little fold. A clear drop formed there, halfway down the stub of his prick, and hung suspended, swinging from side to side, glistening.
     Then his eyes burned at me again. He narrowed them and raised his chin. I couldn't swallow. My dick was about to explode in my pants. He motioned again, sort of squinched his face at me, like, "Come on." My hand trembled as I unzipped my pants, right there in the back of the bus, with other passengers nodding and swaying in their seats just a few feet in front of me.
     He watched as I flipped myself out. I felt skin down there at last, instead of cloth. Soft, warm skin over a rod that was already steel inside. I held it up in the light and squeezed out a drop of my own slickness. My ears roared. I spread my palm over myself, working the slippery head of my dick around in my hand.
     I stared back at him, openly gaping at him. He turned his hips so I could see it better, positioning himself just so, showing it off for me, and checking to make sure I was watching.
     Then he faced his own image in the mirror. Still pinching both his nipples, he leaned forward a bit. He moved his jaws, working up a wad of spit, and let it dribble out, aiming it down below. I stared as he let it hang down toward his cock, then cut it loose and let it drop right smack on top of his hard dick. He looked over at me and grinned. I almost shot off right then, but I held it in. If he could last, so could I.
     He reached down and got a grip on himself. Still pinching his tit with his left hand, he worked his cock with his right hand, and it swelled even more in his grip. The head bulged. It was an animal thing, a beast in his hand. I leaned forward until I could see him and his reflection, two massive cocks pointed tip toward tip, two fists riding up and down, slowly. He twisted his fist around it and narrowed his eyes, and from the way his arm muscles tightened up I knew he was letting loose inside. I tried to hold myself back, but I felt my own load start moving up.
     He made three hard pumps, grunted, and then his head rocked back against the metal partition, THUNK! A long white stream of cum jetted out from the slit in the tip of his big cockhead and hit the mirror. THUNK! he rapped his head back again as another shot exploded out of him. THUNK! Squirt. THUNK! Squirt. He kept it up, shooting off and banging his head back again and again until he had blobs of cum hung all over the mirror, thick, gooey wads that first stuck to the glass and then slowly dribbled down in white streaks.
     I arched my back. It was all so forbidden, all so dangerous. If anyone looked back, they'd see me, see me jacking off in the back seat. I didn't care. I stared at the soldier as he squeezed the last drops out of his hard-on, and a thrill of excitement shot through me as I imagined I was in front of his dick, imagined I was down on my knees, with my mouth open, sucking on his dripping cock. I could taste Duane's cum again, feel it thick and hot in my mouth, feel it slide down my throat. I groaned and raised my hips again and felt my own cum spurt hard against my palm.
     I hardly moved my hand, just held it like a cage around the head of my cock as all that good stuff poured out of my nuts and flooded up through my dick and out between my fingers. I locked both hands around the glob of thick juice that was finally free from inside me, shuddering with sexual pleasure.
     Slowly, I sank back onto the bus seat in relief.
     Soldier boy slumped against the wall and sucked in air like he'd just come up out of water. After a minute he took a paper towel and wiped himself off. He raised his trousers, tucked in his shirt, buttoned up, and adjusted his tie in the mirror. He looked down at me for a moment, then his lips curled in another strange smile.
     Reaching for the towel dispenser again, he grabbed a handful, stepped out into the aisle, and dropped the towels on the seat beside me. He clicked his heels together and gave me a little salute, just touched his forehead and popped his wrist, and then slowly made his way back toward his seat.
     The air brakes went PSHHHW. Gears in the transmission ground together behind my back as the driver tried to make a shift and missed it. My breathing slowed to normal. I cleaned myself up with the towels and zipped my pants.
Damn, what was that all about? Nobody had ever looked at me like that before. At least the guy wasn't queer or anything. I mean, he hadn't tried to sit down beside me and grab at me.
     Lucky thing nobody saw us. We'd be off the bus right now. We'd be in jail right now.
     Well, my grandmother warned me not to leave North Carolina. She told me I'd see too much of the other world, and then I'd come back a stranger. She used to say, "The Devil always has a smile on his face."
     Was that the Devil? He sure was smiling. She didn't tell me he'd drop his drawers right in front of me, though. She didn't say anything about him showing up in a toilet, with a hard-on.
     Damn, why did I get so turned on watching him shoot off like that? Why did I keep thinking about Duane's dick?
     Fuck, all that cum he let loose!
     At least I didn't go in there with him. I mean, I was gonna jack off anyway. I think that was all right, just to watch.