Copyright © 2006 Sticky Pen

I had an interesting experience last night. I had just come to “Naken,” one of the gay bars in Oslo, had ordered a beer and was standing at the bar. As I got my beer, a young Pakistani guy came over to me. He nodded, hesitated for a moment, and then said: “My friend over there claims you are the guy in the My queer life-blog.” I looked at his friend, and saw that it was Trond (the friend of Per – mentioned in an earlier journal). Okay, there was no way of denying it, so I muttered an uncommitical “hmm,” and he went on. “I’m Zain,” he said. “The name means friend. I’ve been reading your blog, and I have an apartment that would be very interesting for an exhibitionist like you.” Zain was beautiful, about 20 years old and with a friendly, but a bit nervous, smile. He had persuaded me already. “I’d love to see it,” I said.
The apartment was not far from the city center, on the eastern part of town. Zain told me that it was not really his, he was just borrowing it for a few weeks while its owners were back home in Pakistan. I wondered what was exhibitionistic about it, and couldn’t wait to find out. On the twenty minutes walk there we were mostly talking about how wonderful nude beaches were, and I couldn’t wait to see him in the nude.
Suddenly he said, “The flat is there,” and at once I realized what he meant. We were standing on the street. The apartment was in the first floor, but due to the terrain we were looking straight into it. What I saw was a living room and a bedroom with no curtains. I thought of what some lights might do.
“Much traffic here?” I asked.
He shrugged. “There are a few cars,” he said, “and because of the bus stop there the bus goes quite slowly by. And then there’s the bar, of course.” He pointed at the bus stop a few metres behind us and a bar a few metres ahead. I understood that there would be quite a few people passing by in the night, and especially when the bar would close. I looked at my watch – it was half past one.
“When does it close?” I asked, and he told me three.
“There are mostly people in the early twenties that go there.”
We got into the apartment and went straight to the bedroom. The curtains were on the floor .
“I don’t use those,” he said.
He had turned on the lights, and I realized that we almost couldn’t see anything outside the window. This probably meant that the view in was brilliant. He turned on the computer and logged in to the internet. I was sitting on the bed so I didn’t really see what he was doing, but suddenly I recognized the anywebcam.com webpage. The webcam was pointing right at me.
“Do you mind if I turn on the webcam?” he asked.
My mind suggested I minded, but at the same time I understood even better what he meant by the words “very interesting for an exhibitionist like you,” so I just said, “not at all,” and took off my sweater.
Zain moved over to the bed. I had a look at the screen, where the window showing who was watching already had two entries, and I had a look at the window, through which I saw a car passing. The people in it probably did not look in, but they might. Then I looked at Zain, and realized that I would concentrate on him for a while. He was looking great, but I wanted to see him barechested, so I started unbuttoning his shirt. His chest turned out to be wonderful – powerful and brown. His wonderful black hair touched mine as he leant forward to kiss me. His tongue felt very nice inside my mouth, and we managed to keep kissing as he removed my shirt as well. I let my hands caress his nipples and heard him moaning while still kissing me. His hands went on to work on my trousers, and a moment later that was on the floor where it belonged. I gently switched places with him so that I could kiss his chest while unbuttoning his trousers, then pulled them off as I was looking intently at his boxer shorts from short distance. I was looking forward to unwrapping this present.
But first I wanted to play with it a little. I tried to lick his dick through the fabric, but I only got to feel that it was erect before he stopped me.
“Wait a little,” he said, “shouldn’t we look at what people write to us?”
I had almost forgotten about the webcam, but agreed totally. He moved over to the computer and wanted me to follow. At the same time he rearranged the camera so it pointed at our boxers. I noticed that he had logged into the “Freezone” room, and we already had five messages.
“Great show,” one of them said.
Another said, Do you have a woman there?”
We answered them politely. The third one, however, had a camera on, so we decided to look a bit closer at him. His name was “nude21,” and his webcam showed him lying on his stomach on the bed. His comment to us was, “Will you remove your boxers?”
Zain answered, “Will you turn over on your back?”
The guy answered immediately: “Then it will be harder to write.”
“But then our dicks will be harder as well,” Zain wrote.
The body of the guy was slim and young, and I really wanted him to turn around. I wrote as much. nude21 wrote: “I’ll turn over if I get to see one of you suck the other.”
Z…

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Copyright © 2006 Sticky Pen


It had been a hot and dusty ride from Kansas into Colorado en route to my new posting as the postal agent and sutler at Fort Hayden. I’d ridden all day with the Rocky Mountains tantalizingly near without having reached the river they told me was still more than a day’s ride out from the fort. I now saw the river ahead, cool and inviting, but I knew I wasn’t going to make Fort Hayden today. So, I rode down the side of the river for a couple of hours, thinking about one more night on the trail and about how hot, dusty, and smelly I’d gotten.
The river beckoned to me—clean and clear and shallow enough to be safe. At last I gave in, deciding to camp out for the night at a place where the land gently slanted down to a quiet section of the river well away from the central current. There was a small grove of cottonwood trees to one side and smooth rock outcroppings to another side, where I could lay my clothes out to dry.
I tied my horse to a tree in the cottonwood grove and laid out some food and water for him. I set up camp at the edge of the grove and laid my rifle up against a tree there. My saddle had gotten pretty smelly, so I scrubbed that down good and dropped it in the sun between the rocks and the grove to dry. Next I stripped off all my clothes, scrubbed them real well, and stretched them out on the rock cropping to dry. After that, it was my turn. I dove into the river and luxuriated in the cool, clean water rolling over my body. I splashed around a good bit and did some hoopin and hollarin out here in the world all by myself and eventually stood and walked up out of the water until it just reached my knees. It was time to get serious. I took up the bar of lye soap I’d used on the clothes and then soaped myself up real well. I felt so good when I got to my cock and balls that I did some extra soaping there and pulled on my rod for a few minutes, enjoying the moment of freedom after weeks in the saddle as well as surfacing fond memories of my romp in the sack with that cowboy in Abilene that night not long ago.
I heard an unfamiliar horse whinnying, and I froze solid. There, fanned out before me between the rocks and the cottonwood grove was a small band of Indians riding fine-looking horses bareback. I have no idea how long they’d been watching me, but they’d had the drop on me for some time.
There were five of them, all young bucks—any one of them with enough muscle to easily handle me. Besides that, the one who evidently was the leader, a particularly impressive looking bronzed specimen, was holding a bead on me with a rifle. The other four strapping bucks had bows and arrows at various stages of readiness.
They weren’t wearing paint, so at least they didn’t appear to be on the warpath about anything. In fact, they weren’t wearing much of anything beyond loincloths, moccasins, and thin beaded bands with leather fringe at the top of their bulging biceps and calves. The apparent leader, though, was also wearing a breastplate made of feathers and turquoise beads. My immediate assessment was that they were a hunting party that had been attracted by my foolish cavorting in the river. That didn’t mean that they weren’t hunting for me. I’d been told to be on the lookout for small bands of renegade Indians in these parts ready to pick off the lone white man. And there couldn’t be a more lone and naked white man around than me at this moment.
I held my arms out wide in supplication (which may have been a mistake considering what happened soon thereafter) and slowly walked up the shore, sidling a bit toward the cottonwood grove and my rifle.
The leader of the tribe raised his rifle a bit and gave me a look that told me in no uncertain terms that it wouldn’t be a good idea to go for my gun. I was a little surprised that he was grinning at me, but then so were the other four. I soon found out why they were doing that.
The leader slipped off his horse and halved the distance between him and me in long, deliberate strides. One of the others in the band rode up close to him, and the leader handed off his rifle. Then he pulled strings at the hips of his loin cloth and the scanty covering fell to the ground. Oh God, was my first thought. It had just been my luck to have run across a band of Indians that swung in my direction. My second thought was that this Indian, at least, swung real well. He had a cock and set of balls that equaled or surpassed his other collection of well-tone muscles. And my third thought was that he must have really enjoyed my unintentioned performance with the soap, because his horse-hung cock was standing straight out.
Unfortunately for me, he was such a fine specimen of manflesh that my cock reacted in similar fashion to the situation.
Before I could have a fourth thought, the tribe leader was at me like a pouncing cat. While he moved, the other four Indians came off their horses and gathered around fairly close to us in a semicircle. The Indian leader wrapped a hand around my neck and brought my face to his in a liplock that showed me he did a lot of this. The other hand went to vice-like grip around my balls and the base of my cock that brought tears to my eyes and me to my knees in front of him just as soon as his lips and tongue released mine. This put me at a convenient level for him to stuff his hard cock between my lips, which he proceeded to do.
He was face-fucking me real well, when I managed to look around and noticed that the four others had paired off and were fingering each other in shared excitement. This meant no one had the drop on me with anything but a hard and pumping penis at the moment, and I realized I might have reached the closest point to escape and survival that I ever was going to get. I knew I couldn’t get to my own rifle or horse in time, but the Indian leader’s horse, a gorgeous big golden palomino stallion, was standing unattended within striking distance.
So, I seized the moment and made a break for the stallion. Miraculously, I was on the horse’s back and getting him to start into a trot before the Indians recovered. But then my luck ended. The Indian leader merely whistled, and the horse stopped in its tracks. I thought I was dead now, that they’d just pull me off the horse and rip me to shreds. But the Indian leader did something completely unexpected. He leaped up on the horse behind me, yelled something the horse understood, and we were off, two naked men on the back of a quivering horse, thundering across the plain beside the river. The Indian was wedged behind me. He grabbed my wrists and forced my hands into the flowing mane of the horse, where I wrapped my fingers in the white mane and held on for dear life. The Indian’s beaded breastplate was digging into my shoulder blades, and his raging hard was rubbing up and down the small of my back as we were tossed and turned in the charge across the rolling countryside.
I was scared, but that rubbing dick of his and the whole wildness of the situation was turning me on, too. We hadn’t ridden far before he made his move. His thighs had been just behind mine, with both of us hanging on to the horse as best we could with them. But in one swift, dexterous move, he took those powerful thighs of his and lifted them around and in front of mine and flipped me forward onto the neck of the horse. This tilted my pelvis up as well, and I screamed in fear and then in surprise and pain as I felt his cock head slide down the small of my back. It held briefly at my asshole as a much too-large a peg came into a much too small a hole. And then the rough rolling of the horse’s gait solved the Indian’s problem, and with one excruciatingly painful lunge, he had breached my asshole and split me in two with his ramrod, which just kept on screwing up into me as the motion of the horse’s gallop naturally stroked his cock and my ass canal together.
I screamed into the wind and struggled against the powerful embrace of the Indian chieftain as we thundered on. With the aid of the motion, he was pumping me deep with the natural interaction of our bodies.
I realized not only that I was aiding the wild fuck myself with my struggling but also, after the shock of being taken started to wear off, that I now was enjoying this incredible invasion of my body. In addition, I realized and that, once fucked, there wasn’t much else for me to do but make the best of the situation. The trembling of my body started to decrease, I slowly stopped struggling against what was happening to me, and I started going with the motion of the horse’s gait and the …

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Copyright © 2006 Sticky Pen


I was an impressionable teenager and prone to fantasies I couldn’t shake. And, like any teenager, I was raging with hormones. One such fantasy was Mr. Walker, who lived down the block from us. He was a former Marine in his thirties, who worked hard to keep himself in tip-top shape. He was a runner, and I’d frequently see him running around our neighborhood, wearing no more than skimpy shorts and running shoes without socks. He wasn’t muscle bound by any stretch of the imagination, but he was finely built and there wasn’t an ounce of fat on him anywhere. His buzz cut and exercise regime screamed that once a Marine, always a Marine.
The first thing that started me to fantasizing about Mr. Walker was his wife. She was a cute little blonde thing who always looked so satisfied with herself and who popped out a baby every twelve or thirteen months or so. In my adolescent mind, this suggested to me that every minute Mr. Walker wasn’t out running, he and Mrs. Walker were in their bed “doing it.” The mere image of that turned me on. As I said, I was suffering from raging hormones then, and I found myself fantasizing about being in bed with the Walkers—for several weeks about being in bed with Mrs. Walker, and then for a while with both of them, and finally, distressingly, I fixated on being in bed with just Mr. Walker.
The Walkers belonged to the same community club my family did, and in the summer of my sixteenth year, I found myself at the pool the same afternoon the Walker clan was there. Mr. Walker looked mighty fine poolside in that Speedo of his. He was in the shower of the men’s locker room soaping himself up when I entered the shower after my swim. A lump went to my throat. His body was magnificent—all sinew and muscle in motion and rolling veins lacing his body, having been pushed to the surface by his muscle and lack of any fat in which to hide. My eyes went directly to his dick, which was the biggest and thickest I’d ever seen as it plunged out of a clump of red hair at his groin. I hadn’t thought of Mr. Walker as a red head; his buzz cut was just too short to tell from that, and the rest of his body appeared smooth and hairless from a distance. I could see now, when he was soaping himself all over, that he had tufts of red hair at his pits as well. My own cock came to quick attention at what I was seeing.
Mr. Walker obviously saw me staring at his package as well as what my own was doing in response.
“Hey, you’re the kid living up the block from us, aren’t you?” he asked in a pleasant tone, not bothering to stop soaping around his dangling dick.
“Yeah,” I managed to burble out. “I see you running in the neighborhood sometimes.”
“Well, how old are you, kid?” he asked straight out.
I told him.
“When’s your birthday?” he then asked, which seemed a strange question at the time.
I told him that too.
“Well, on your eighteenth birthday, we’ll meet again,” he said. “Until then, keep yourself clean, ya hear? And you could stand to do some running of your own.” With that, he rinsed off and left me and my boner alone in the locker room shower.
I started running after that, but I never stopped fantasizing about Mr. Walker.
On my seventeenth birthday, I was out running a woodland trail. I’d gotten myself in great shape with my running, and I was grateful for that little nudge Mr. Walker had given me a year earlier. I was doing real well on the cross-country team now.
As I was steaming down the trail, I heard another runner coming up behind, someone, incredibly, who was opening it up a lot faster than I was. When he came up level to me, I saw that it was Mr. Walker in his skimpy shorts and sockless running shoes.
“How’s it going, Sport?” he called out to me in a voice that showed no signs of breathlessness. “Happy birthday. Today is your birthday, isn’t it? I remembered right, didn’t I?”
Besides being breathless from the exertion of running myself, what he was saying—having kept track of my birthday like this just from a chance encounter at the swimming pool—bowled me over so that the most I could do was mumble an affirmation that today, indeed, was my seventeenth birthday.
“I see you took my advice on running,” he said with a grin. “Lookin’ good, Sport. See you on your eighteenth. Keep clean.” And then he was off in front of me, leaving me in his dust as if I weren’t even flat out running myself.
This encounter didn’t cut down on my fantasy time about Mr. Walker for the next year.
It was my eighteenth birthday, and I was moving up the walk to my house after school, when a big SUV with smoked windows stopped beside me and the passenger window rolled down. I came over and looked inside. It was Mr. Walker. He was wearing a loose, long-sleeved shirt, worn blue jeans, and shiny black boots.
“Happy birthday, Sport,” he said with a big grin. “Climb in.”
I opened the door and climbed in. As the door shut, he rolled up my window. We were alone now, in his big SUV with the smoked window.
Without fanfare, he took my right hand by the wrist and brought it around and laid it on his basket. I could feel him hard and massive through the worn material of the blue jeans.
“This can be your eighteenth birthday present, Sport, if you still want it,” he said in a husky voice. “You wanted it two years ago. Do you still want it, Sport? I won’t go any further unless you want it.”
“Yes, oh yes,” I managed once the frog had been cleared from my throat. He’d remembered. I knew I should say no and just get out of the car and bury myself in a safe, normal life. But this had been my fantasy for years.
“Well, then, let’s take a little ride. Buckle yourself up, but you don’t have to take your hand back, if you don’t want to. Here, let’s give it some air.” He pushed my hand to the top of his thigh and worked his zipper down. Then he went back to putting the SUV into gear and driving away from the curb. I worked my hand into the gap in his pants, not believing I was even doing this, imaging it was happening to someone I was watching from across the room, and his big plump dick just popped out of his pants. I gently ran my hand up and down and around it as we drop into the countryside. It had this large, popping vein running up the underside. It got impossibly large and hard as we drove along, and I was smearing some precum around the knob of the head when we pulled up to a small cabin in the woods, well off the main road.
Mr. Walker was actually breathing pretty hard when he came around to my side of the SUV, pulled me out with a strong hand on my wrist and guided me to the door of the cabin. I was wondering if he had been fantasizing about me that past two years as much as I had been fantasizing about him. He certainly had made a point of knowing exactly when we could do anything about it.
He unlocked and pushed open the door to the cabin, but then he turned and looked hard into my eyes.
“Last chance, son. We can go back now if you’re scared. I like to do this kind of special like. This probably won’t be like anything you’d imagined it to be. Birthdays should be memorable, I think.”
I just set my jaw and moved closer to the door. He got the message, and spoke again, in a softer voice.
“I can see you’ve kept up with the running as I suggested, Sport. But did you keep clean too? You do understand what I mean by that, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I answered faltingly, trying to keep my eyes connected with him. “I mean yes to both. I understand, and I’ve kept clean.”
“Good,” he said with a satisfied tone. “It’s better, it feels better, if cleanliness can be assumed—if nothing has to get between skin and skin.” While I contemplated if I’d really understood what he meant, he put the palm of a hand in the small of my back and guided me to a door. He opened this, and we were descending stairs to a basement. The door at the bottom of the stairs was locked, but he unlocked this and pushed me into a small, square room. The walls, floor, and ceiling were a stark white, and in the very center of the room, prominently located, was a black leather sling suspended from overhead beams by strong chains. Half way up each chain was a black leather cuff, now open, padded on the inside.
I just stood and stared at this. Something inside me was stirring. This was beyond my fantasy, but I found that it was turning me on. I heard the door close behind me and the key turn in the lock, but I just couldn’t take my eyes off that black leather sling. When, at last, I was able to do so, I turned and my eyes popped open.
Mr. Walker had taken off his shirt and jeans and stood before me, nearly naked. He was still wearing the black boots that came up above his bulging calf muscles, but, beyond that, all he was wearing was a black leather harness criss-crossing his chest, studded with silver studs, and studded black leather wrist bands and bands around his biceps. His horse-hung cock was at full staff, and he was wrapping a black leather, studded cock ring tightly around its base as I watched.
“Strip, Sport,” he said in a throaty voice. I just stood there, mesmerized by the sight of him.
“I said strip, Sport,” he said more insistently. “And climb into that sling. I told you this would be special. But it won’t be any more dangerous than any other way we might have done.”
I then did as he directed, somewhat self-consciously pulling off my clothes and hunching over before him, trying to cover my manhood without any real means to do so.
“Stand up straight, Sport. Push it out. Ah, very nice. Very nice, indeed. It was well worth the wait. Now, into the sling.”
Not knowing quite how to get into the sling, I walked over to it and turned around, and tried ineffectually to hoist my butt up into the contraption. Mr. Walker walked over and lifted me with strong hands at my waist, as if I were a rag doll, and plopped my ass int…

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