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Thinking about it, it was the Realtor, Roger, who put me back to doing what I had been escaping, but I can’t say that I objected to that. He, a flash and a bit swishy guy of about twenty-two, was the one who showed me the house on Larkspur Lane, on the circle at the end of that street, in the 55-plus community of Peppertree Crossing on the edge of Brunswick, Georgia. That was about as far away from Providence, Rhode Island, as I could get, and a seniors’ community was about as much into hiding for someone like me as I could get too. Nobody on God’s green earth who knew me would look for me in an old-people’s community. But Roger brought it all the way back.
I’d gotten into trouble in the first place by fucking little honey’s like him. They–and he–were legal, but not by much. And I had been in a position where I shouldn’t have been doing anything like that. And, second, it was Roger who sold me the house on the cul-de-sac at the end of Larkspur Lane.
Roger was the type of pretty boy who could sell a chipmunk hole to any of the simpering widows who were moving into Peppertree Crossing as a transition from the big house and a living husband in the suburbs to the nursing home paid for by the husband’s settled life insurance policy. He had just the little boy, cute, “oh gosh” charm that the gray-haired widows gravitated to. Roger, though, gravitated to mature, but good-looking and still hard-bodied men like me–men who liked to get young, pretty-boy guys, like Roger, under them.
I fucked him in the empty master bedroom of the house he was showing me on the Larkspur Lane cul-de-sac. He sexed me up while selling me the house and delivered after I’d signed on the line. Most men can get laid for a couple of hundred bucks. This Roger was so good that his tail cost me a couple of hundred thousand bucks. I bought a house just to let him know how much I enjoyed fucking him.
I put him on the wall next to a floor-to-ceiling window on the adjacent wall from where I watched another honey of a young guy exercising in a Speedo beside a pool in the backyard of the neighboring house. I remember being surprised and heartened that a young guy was over there. That this was a seniors-only community was both the answer to my situation and the great disappointment that I had to live here among all of these old people. I wasn’t really old enough to qualify to live here–not quite.
I put Roger the Realtor against the wall, his arms raised, his hands palming the wall, his cheek pressed to the plaster, and his butt jutting out into the room. His trousers and briefs were puddled on the carpet around his feet. I was grasping his hips to hold them steady and jutted out to me, and I was crouching a bit behind him and pounding his ass with my shaft. All the time, though, I was watching the sweet young piece–a couple of years younger than Roger–next door, working out only in a Speedo. He was well-tanned. I wondered if there would be a great contrast in his coloring–if his naked loins would be white when the Speedo came off. I hoped so. The tan-line contrast was a fetish of mine.
As I fucked Roger, a mature guy, somewhat older than I was but still in pretty good condition, came out of the back of the house next door. He and the younger guy who had been working out dove into the pool and played around in there. I fantasized that they were playing around with each other’s dicks under the water. They certainly got in positions where they could have been doing that. You never can tell what can go on under water in a swimming pool. Thinking about it made me harder–and it made Roger moan deeper as I went on spiking him.
I bought the house. Roger told me I’d fit right into the close little neighborhood at the end of Larkspur Lane. He’s also the one who told me about the roadhouse just off Highway 17, nearly all the way to the Brunswick I-95, that was a gathering place for gays from the Brunswick area. That was the second thing Roger did to pull me back from the full effect of my escape from Providence to the Georgia coast. I should send him a thank-you note for that, I guess.
* * * *
Not only did I have a headache and no patience for figuring out how to put together this bedframe I was working on, but I also could kick myself for maybe getting drunk the previous night in the roadhouse up Highway 17 toward the I-95 interchange that Roger had told me about–drunk enough to have let more slip than I intended to and letting it slip too close to home. I–and others–had gone to such extremes to cover it all up and, because I couldn’t hold my liquor, I might have blown it.
I went into the back master bedroom of the 55-plus community house I’d bought on the cul-de-sac at the end of Larkspur Lane in Peppertree Crossing and looked down at the steel frame pieces and lugs that were scattered around on the floor. I wasn’t old enough to be there by a couple of years, but the new identification and documentation I had–that the board at Brown osmaniye escort University in Rhode Island, the exclusive Ivy League school, where I had been the dean of a special section of the university where the sons of the ultrawealthy who wouldn’t otherwise be admitted to the university were coddled had arranged for me to get in New York–made me legal here. Pretending I was older than I really was was meant to help me relocate and hide. The university’s board was only too eager not to have its hidden program dean messing around with eighteen or nineteen-year-old willing but not-the-brightest special students spilling over into the public news. That the guys were good with it and had wanted it to just continue only added to the scandal potential. The university board had been very helpful in quietly moving me on.
I wasn’t that helpful last night when, already half looped from loneliness and the bleak prospect of how my new life hiding out in an old-folks community in Georgia was going, my next-door neighbor on Larkspur Lane, Gordon Montgomery, saddled up to me in a gay roadhouse and formally introduced himself–and wanted to stand me a drink.
I hadn’t recognized him when I’d first entered the roadhouse Roger had recommended to me. I only went to check the place out because I was lonely and horny. I saw Montgomery holding down the far end of the bar, but he was clothed now and, although he looked familiar, I didn’t connect him with the new neighbor I’d seen cavorting in a backyard pool with a young and tender-looking guy. I hadn’t been at the bar for long, though, when a young guy–maybe eighteen or nineteen, my danger zone–saddled up next to me and got friendly. We talked. I found he was interested in making a couple of bucks, and he found that I was there because I was lonely and horny–and that I liked them young. Young and slender and blond and good-looking like he was.
This and that transpired and we were going through a doorway covered with a beaded curtain into the back of the roadhouse. We entered a dusty and dimly lit corridor going back to a windowed door at the back that led to the outside and let some light into the far in the hall. There the young and good-looking guy needing a bit of money sucked me off as I leaned my shoulder blades back into the hallway wall, jutted my pelvis out and ran my fingers into his curly blond hair while he palmed my buttocks and gave me head.
I noticed in my periphery vision the clattering and swaying of the beaded curtain covering the doorway into the bar area and I could see that someone was standing there–at least for a bit after realizing the hallway was being used–before he drifted back into the bar area. When I came out from the back, I realized who that had been and that I indeed had seen the man before. Roger had told me my neighbor’s name and I had remembered it. Gordon Montgomery.
After I’d bellied up to the bar, he slid down to beside me and smiled. He probably wanted me to know he’d seen me getting a blow job in the back. After the young blond guy had finished sucking me off, he’d taken my money and disappeared out of the door at the back of the roadhouse. That’s where the parking lot was–hidden behind the roadhouse so those driving by on the road couldn’t pick out cars they could connect with owners frequenting a gay bar.
“I’ve seen you before,” he said. “Haven’t you just moved into Peppertree Crossing–onto Larkspur Lane? I think you are my new neighbor. I’m Gordon Montgomery.”
“That would be me,” I said. “Jarvis Connelly here. Down from the New England area. Just arrived in Georgia.”
“Well, Jarvis Connelly. I’m from the Peppertree Crossing Welcome Committee. Let me stand you a welcoming drink.” Not a word then or later that I was gay and he was gay–that we both were gay. It obviously just was assumed from the two of us being here. It also was understood in some unspoken way that we were both tops, so there wasn’t going to be anything going on between us.
Fool that I was, I took Montgomery up on the drink and then, I think–well, I’m pretty sure–that I unloaded more of my circumstance on him than I intended to reveal to anyone ever again. Maybe it was meeting him in a gay bar–one pretty far away from the town of Brunswick, I might add in defense of my activity in hiding–but more likely it was because of the similarity in our vocations and because of the very, very cute eighteen or nineteen-year-old guy who I’d noticed was living with Gordon. We weren’t supposed to be having cute eighteen or nineteen-year-old guys living with us in the Peppertree Crossing senior community.
Davey Jones. That was the guy’s name, I was informed.
“So, you were a college dean?” he asked. That was close enough, and I couldn’t remember how I’d revealed that to him. “I do something similar. I run a transitional prison program for young guys who got into trouble again after aging out of juvenile detention but osmaniye escort bayan who we’re trying to slowly work back into the public population.”
After a few more drinks: “Oh, you mean Davey. No, he’s not my son–or my ward or anything and he’s just here temporarily, so, no, I don’t have to report someone living with me who isn’t a senior. At least I don’t have to if no one reports me. The neighbors are good about that. Clarence, who lived in your house before, was good about that. I hope you will be too. Davey’s just here for a week or two. We have a program of measured reintroduction into the public for guys, based on good behavior. I bring them home for a couple of weeks.”
“And this guy living with you now, this Davey? He’s been good?”
“He’s good to me–if you know what I mean.” Gordon laughed.
“He does good behavior on his knees?” I asked.
“And on his back,” came back the answer along with a laugh.
Yeah, I’d gotten an inkling of that. I’d had a good line of sight on the small pool Gordon had in his backyard–I could see it from the floor to ceiling windows I had in this bedroom, windows that would flank the sides of this bed when I got the frame together and dragged the box springs and mattress from over there to over here. I had seen Gordon and Davey in the pool. I’d only been here three days, but I’d seen them using the pool. They’d been quite playful and chummy in the pool. You can’t see what’s going on under the water, but you can use your imagination.
And speaking of that, I could see them out there now. Gordon was sitting under an awning on the back patio of his house and Davey was in the pool. I wasn’t getting anywhere with the bedframe, so I went to the window–not right up to it because I didn’t want them to see me, but back aways in the darkness of my room, where I could watch them and they couldn’t watch back. I was just wearing athletic shorts–not even any underwear. When I got comfortable here, I wouldn’t be wearing that much in the house. I liked to feel sexy and I still had the body for it.
I let one of my hands rub across my chest and the other one rest on my belly at the waistband of the shorts. I still had a flat belly, with a six pack, I was proud to be able to say. In fact, I was hard-bodied still and in tip-top shape. The young guys I spiked certainly didn’t complain. Of course, what they liked best was swinging between my legs. But I’d never had a complaint from them about that either. It had been more than a month than I’d had any sex beyond using my own hands, and I was horny as hell. That Davey was a real sweet piece.
I almost fell against the window and my hand dipped under my waistband and found an engorging cock when I saw Davey coming up out of the water of the pool. He was naked. His small, slender body, just starting to muscle out, was gorgeous. His cock and balls were nothing to make fun of. He was in erection and was cupping his jewels with one hand. Fulfilling a particular fetish of mine, he had glorious tan lines. Most of his body was berry brown tanned. There was a distinctive contrast at his pelvis, though, where wearing a Speedo had left a triangle of whiteness at the most arousing points–highlighting the cock and balls in front and the pert orbs of his buttocks behind.
He was looking at Gordon, who was sitting in a plastic patio chair, looking back at the guy. As Davey came out of the pool and slowly walked to Gordon, water beaded on his beautiful guy’s body and running down onto his thighs from his torso in rivulets, Gordon raised his hips and pulled his swimsuit off. He then was as naked as Davey was. He too was in erection and was cupping his balls and the root of his cock with a hand.
When Davey reached Gordon, he grabbed a towel, spread it at Gordon’s feet, went down on his knees between the man’s spread thighs, and took the man’s cock in his mouth, starting to make love to it. It looked like he was a pro at sucking a man off. Gordon certainly wasn’t complaining.
I nearly lost my shit. Gordon had a really nice rehabilitation program going here. I did lose my shorts, handed my cock, and came closer to the window. As I did, though, I noticed that another neighbor on the Larkspur Lane cul-de-sac, a guy named Harry, who was in his early sixties, tall but meaty, and bald, was walking his dog down the street.
Now they are in for it, I thought. He’ll see them at it and both Davey and Gordon will get kicked out of the community. Anything like this must definitely be way out of bounds. Seniors surely aren’t permitted to have this much fun. That was why I was here–hiding in what should be a safe place from anything I’d been caught doing before.
But, holy shit, this guy giving Gordon a suck off was sex on a stick. And Gordon was just leaning back in his chair and guiding the young man in the blow job with fingers sunk in the guy’s blond curls. Yes, indeedy, this was some nice rehabilitation escort osmaniye program.
And there was Harry, having heard something and coming around to the side of my house to see what was what. What was what was that Gordon was being sucked off by a beautiful eighteen or nineteen-year-old guy. Harry would go bananas when he discovered what was going on behind Gordon’s house.
Harry did go bananas in a way. He pulled behind some bushes where he couldn’t be seen from the street. But I could see him from my window. And he reacted the same way I was reacting. He was watching them. And his shorts were unzipped and his dong was out and he was stroking himself off. His dog wasn’t concerned about this. It just settled down in the mulch under a bush and lowered his–or her–muff on its paws and closed its eyes. Clearly Harry was a good neighbor for Gordon. No way he was going to report Gordon if Gordon gave him entertainment value like this. He took out a cell phone and talked into it and it wasn’t long until a black guy, Trevor, a big, muscle-bound widower from across the cul-de-sac at the end of Larkspur Lane was creeping into the bushes and positioning himself beside Harry. In no time, he had his monster of a dick out and he was jerking his meat and watching Gordon fuck Davey too.
So, this was it. I should have guessed. Roger the Realtor had told me I’d like this isolated end-of-the-road section of the neighborhood when he was trying to sell me this house–this house in which I’d put Roger against the bedroom wall and fucked him while watching the divine Davey doing stretch exercises by Gordon’s pool. All of the residents on the cul-de-sac were men–most single men, but there were two men living together in one of the houses. Roger had arranged to get all of the houses here occupied by old gay men. I should have noticed how unusual that was; retirement communities like this were usually dominated by widows, not widowers and single men. I guess that’s why I still saw Roger making visits to the houses around the cul-de-sac. It wouldn’t be long before he was at my front door–and up against my bedroom wall–again, I wagered.
I couldn’t help give a snort and a laugh.
Davey pulled away from the cock he was sucking and rose up from his knees. He did so only to move on to a fuck. As the furloughed delinquent stood before him, Gordon reached around the young guy’s hips, cupped and spread his butt cheeks, and pulled Davey into him, rubbing his cheek on the guy’s belly and then taking Davey’s cock in his mouth. As he sucked Davey’s dick, his fingers worried the guy’s hole, eventually working the fingers in and spreading the hole, stretching it to take Gordon’s thick cock. Davey leaned back within Gordon’s grasp, letting his arms dangle at his side in a sacrificial position. He was going to give Gordon anything the man wanted.
Gordon had a power position over the young man–he essentially was Davey’s jailor and controlled when Davey could go free on his own. But Davey either was all in on being fucked by a much older man or he was a consummate actor. He clearly was enjoying this. He made my cock throb.
I was humming as I watched them and stroking myself off. I had a ringside seat for this young guy taking.
Gordon took his time, and in time he coaxed Davey up onto his lap, the young man moving there voluntarily, and positioned Davey’s hole on the bulb of his erection. Davey dug his knees into the wide arms of the plastic chair, descended on the man’s cock, encircled Gordon’s neck in his arms, brought his lips down to Gordon’s, and they fucked. Up, down; up, down Davey fucked himself on the man’s cock, while Gordon spread and squeezed the sexy white orbs to the rhythm of the fuck, the darker tone of the root of his thick shaft appearing and disappearing into the stretched hole.
My eyes were glued to Davey’s gleaming white buttocks, contrasted with his darkly tanned back and legs. I panted and stroked as I watched Gordon kneading, separating, and squeezing those luscious white orbs, splitting the difference between them with the root of his darker cock, penetrating deep and exposing the great length of it only to be buried to the quick again.
I was close enough to the window then that my jism splattered all over the glass as I shot a load that was long needing to be released. Even as it released, though, I knew there was more. I hadn’t had a sexual workout since I had Roger against the wall next to where I now was standing.
Harry and Trevor were having a go at each other in the bushes. Harry was bent over at the waist, his knuckles pressed into the mulch. One end of the leash was attached to his wrist and the dog, content to lie under a bush and snooze, was at the other end. Trevor was mounted on Harry’s ass, his hands grasping Harry’s wide hips, and was fucking him. Both of them were still watching the action on Gordon’s covered patio. They came out of the crouch suddenly, though. They must have seen movement at the window when I jacked off into it–I’d let myself come to close to it–because they stuffed their dicks in their shorts and beat a fast retreat. They’d gotten a show, though, as well as a bit of personal pleasure. They were so familiar with each other that I assumed this was a regular coupling.
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