Excerpt from the novel, The Price Of Dick by Dan Skinner


His planed face was mere inches from mine. Eyes the same color as his December birthstone bore into me. He took my hand and placed it on his wet chest. Tendrils of body hair flowered around my fingertips. I felt the tip of a nipple between my first two fingers; the thump of his heart beneath that. It seemed we were sprinting on the same track.

“This is a pretty big thing for me,” he said in a very low voice.

“Anything new is,” I agreed.

“Like the first time I ate oatmeal?” he said with half a smile, attempting levity.

I laughed, “Yeah, I guess.”

“I hate oatmeal,” he admitted. His look was now sly like he’d caught me trying to coerce him.

“Then it’s a good thing you found out.”

Leaning into me, sandpaper-rough whiskers grazed my cheek. His lips dragged across mine, briefly tugging my bottom one down. Water from the top of his head fell inside my mouth.

“Everyone always remembers their first of anything important.” Now his lips found the lobe of my ear. A nip of teeth.

His hand caressed the side of my head, fingers toying with my hair. I felt the pull toward his mouth; my own opened instinctively and met the warm point of his tongue and deeper. And then we were breathing separately again.

“Do you remember your first time? The very first time ever?” he asked.

I nodded my head in the massive ladle of his palm. “Yeah. Very much.”

“Tell me.”

“At camp. A buddy. He taught me how. To masturbate that is. Not fuck. First time masturbation.”

He looked down at my erection. A waterfall spilled down my chest as he gripped me firmly in his hand. I actually said, “Ow,” under the pressure he applied. It was tighter than I expected.

“Were you attracted to him?” he asked.

I was truthful. He’d been a chubby, red-head with freckles. He burned and peeled with ten minutes of sun exposure. “No.”

“Was he gentle or rough?”

I blinked trying to recall the experience from long ago. “It was a little rough. But I didn’t know what he was doing. I just knew I wanted to learn how and I didn’t want him to stop.”

“Did it take very long?” The pad of his thumb rubbed over the tip of my cock. It tickled. I tensed and jumped backward against the tile.

“No. It didn’t.”

“Did you do him?”

“He used my hand to do it. I wasn’t sure how hard… how to handle him.” I began to remember it very clearly. We shared a scout pup tent during a camp out in the woods by the lake. The other scouts’ tents had been a good distance away with trees separating us. It happened at night, a full moon glowing against the khaki fabric of the tent. I could barely sleep afterwards. The discovery of masturbation had set off a chain reaction in my body which I couldn’t control. So I lay there, listening to him snore, and thinking about the wonderful feeling I’d had revealed to me.

“Did you fall in love with him?”

There was a weight to the way he asked that question. “No,” I said.

His jaw relaxed and the whiskers dragged along my opposite cheek, more tenderly this time. His body curved deep into my own, almost making me have to bend backwards. Our cocks locked in an easy embrace. His own towered above mine.

“Quid pro quo. This for that. Your first?” I wanted to hear his story. We had been friends for more than a year, but I learned things about him in bits and pieces.

He was so close his words puffed against the flesh of my face. “I’ll tell you what no one else knows. Not even my closet friends from college.” The words were terse, said in the way one spoke when secrets were being divulged as if a pact was being made. “Because you’re my very special friend. Because you won’t judge me.”

“You know I won’t. I’m your friend.” I assured him.

He looked down at our dicks overlapping, performed a short swordplay with them.

“My coach.” he said. It was more of an announcement and had an atomic weight all its own. One that boggled the imagination, confounded sensibilities. He had only two coaches. In high school. It had to have been football. My head was already figuring his age range from the articles I’d seen in his scrapbooks. I remembered a picture of that coach standing next to the team. A man in his early thirties. As old as I was now.

I ventured a hand to his waist. It felt small and lean and taut. He liked the sensation of my hand on him there.

“It’s how I made captain of the team. He thought I was special. I didn’t mind and it was easy. And my family was proud that I was chosen to be captain. My mom was proud of my accomplishment. Her son’s achievements filled photo albums and scrapbooks. She has trophies to dust off and show to her friends.”

I listened without a response. It wasn’t my story to respond to.

He grabbed both my hands and put them on the cheeks of his ass. Water swirled between my fingers.

“Isn’t it amazing how this thing between our legs can change our lives? Change others’ lives. Give us what we want. Give others what they want. Shape the way we think and feel. It can make us great, or weak. Turn us into criminals with jealousy.” His mouth found my other ear to whisper. “Our dicks change the very world we live in.”

I was so turned on it was beginning to get painful; that too tight pull in the scrotum.

“We can make other people do anything we want if they want that something special from us. Good or bad. So, I made captain of the team because the coach wanted to jack my junk.” He bent deeper into me. “And with you, it’s friendship.”

He’d set the parameters of our little adventure firmly in place. Between friends. We were sharing ourselves with each other. No emotional attachments.

We dried, found our way between the sheets of the bed. I was in the role of the teacher; he the student. He responded to my directions. My kisses came first. He responded. His customary aggression was nowhere in sight. It was empowering to have that behemoth of a man under my control.

I swallowed to work up spit before I took his cock in my hand and inserted the plump head in and sucked on it. I could taste the residue of soap from the shower. I pulled on it harder until I drew another inch of it in. There was a long, windy exclamation. I looked, found him staring at me with a smile. My eyes locked with his as I continued down his thickness; my nose pressing firm into his curlies. A knee and moan sprung up in response. Balled fists unclenched, balled again. I kept myself down on him deep, pulling in vacuum hard. His balls crawled up the sides, tapping my chin. I released him and he fell flat, free of tension.

I pushed both his knees upright so his feet were beside my head. I could see the avalanche of blond hair down the curves of his hamstrings. The rounded “W” of his buttocks peeked beneath the drape of his balls. There was just the barest glimpse of my target between those cheeks in the thick brush of curly hair. It puckered as if it knew I lusted for it. His eyes never left me, head propped up on pillows, the hammer of his chin dug into his chest.

I wanted him. I was going to take him.

“Turn over,” I said, my voice forceful and foreign.



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