Picking the First Fruit

“No worry about that. It’s just the two of us. Lynn’s in the kitchen. Won’t see a thing.” With that, he stripped off his gym shorts, stood long enough for me to tout up his horse-hung cock and low-slung balls in the extra big category—a particular shock being as it was centered in that small V of whitish skin that wasn’t deep tanned—dove neatly into the pool, and did a vigorous Australian crawl to the far side. Reaching that, he did a neat turn and stood up in the pool. “Your turn. Come on, strip and dive.”

Embarrassed, I dropped my shorts and did an awkward dive into the pool as quick as I could.

We swam about. I couldn’t swim very well. He was a regular sea otter, disappearing under the water in one place and surfacing someplace unexpected. A couple of times he came right up in front of me, his body bumping mine.

I was getting self-conscious, and worse, feeling myself getting aroused and going hard. So I swam over to the ladder and pulled myself up quickly. Turning away from him, I quickly toweled off and pulled my shorts back on. Only then did I turn back to him, seeing him dog paddling in the pool and looking at me with an amused look on his face.

“More hungry than in the mood to swim?” he asked.

“Yeah, pretty hungry,” I answered. “As you said, I put in a long day. Quite a few hours since lunch now.”

I happily did as he asked. I was having feelings I’d had before and mostly tried to repress. There was a guy a couple of times on the basketball team. Older than me. But that was just fooling around. We didn’t do anything serious. But it had set me to thinking—and I’d been trying not to think too much along those lines. Going into the house would be good. Mrs. Howell would be in there. We’d watch the films, eat the steaks, and Mr. Howell would take me home. And that would be that.