A Half-Ounce of Gold - 3. Part Three: The Conclusion

Part Three: I Fuck the Shit Out of Him

 

About noon I was back in my room with my straight companions. They asked me where I had been all night. I told them I got lucky, and asked "What about you guys?"

They, the hot one and his geeky bud, looked at each other as if about to fabricate something the other should corroborate.

"We struck out," the geeky one finally admitted with a sigh.

I couldn't help but smile as I went over to my bag. I fished for a clean set of drawers and a shirt.

Preoccupied as I was, I didn't notice the geeky one come up right behind me. My first indication he was there was a sniffing sound. I turned.

"What's that odor?" he asked; he openly inhaled me by placing his nose on the top of my shoulder.

"Oh. I'm sorry. It's me – I'm just about to step into the shower."

Now the hot one came up to me and inhaled me with frank appraisal as well.

"Yeah, I smelled it too."

"I'm sorry!" I said.

They looked at each other puzzled. The geeky one said, "But you smell great…like hot apple cider—"

"Yeah, like with cinnamon or cloves or some sweet-smelling shit. Is that what she smelled like...?"

They were amazed – yeah, that's exactly what he smelled like; it's what I smelled like because of him.

          

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Alone on the head, I let Salleh's seamen ooze out of me for a long while. Sitting there, with this not too unpleasant sensation, I thought how much easier his drooling cum came out of me than went in, but far less pleasurably.

As we parted this morning, he stopped me by the door to our room, said we were going to see each today, no matter what, and gave me his phone number.

"I don’t have any more money…."

"We just take a bemos to Nusa Dua – the land like an island to the south of here. It's nice beach there for you. You will like—"

"I mean money for a hotel room."

"After we come back and eat dinner, we can use Lipo's room. I tell him I want to spend the night with a friend, and he'll sleep with one of our buddies. You call me around three, and we meet outside your hotel. OK...?"

I bobbed my chin; I had no choice.

He kissed me, saying deeply: "I have your babies inside of me." He appeared sad again.

I laughed, pushing him back a little. "If anyone's pregnant from last night, tiger, it's me!"

Now alone on the stool, his love edging slowly down the drain, I realized his 'babies' meant my sperm was inside him too – those were his babies; 'my' babies. He meant that we were connected because I too had deposited my seed in him, as he had done six times in me.

          

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At 3:15 on the dot, I saw Salleh dash across the road, and I headed towards him.

As we approached one another, with the sights and sounds of the beach forming a backdrop for him, I saw he was dressed much differently than last night. Instead of sneakers and form-hugging jeans, he was wearing red running shorts and black flip-flops. He had on another tank top, but overall he was showing a lot more skin – very sexy tanned, taut skin.

We sidled up side by side, his elbow occasionally brushing the top of my exposed arm as we went. "How are we getting to – this morning you said 'land like an island.' What did you mean?"

"It's like an island, but attached to main part of land too."

"Oh, I think you mean 'peninsula.'"

"Ba-nincula? Semenanjung in Indonesian." He grinned.

"Pah-nincula, but yes, I suppose we mean the same thing."

"Cool."

His arm brushed my chest playfully.

I let him, more concerned about other things. "How will we get there?"

Just at that moment, his eyes grew huge. He was glancing at something moving over my left shoulder, and shouted at it.

He latched hard onto my fingers and started running.

Within the field of my peripheral vision I could see a larger than normal vehicle overtake us and start to slow down on the road.

"Come on!" he said.

We jogged and eventually slowed as a truck-like thing pulled to the curb.

It was like a compact blue pickup with a lowered bed. Two bench seats lined both long sides in back, and were covered with an even darker blue tarpaulin on a steel frame. This 'awning' contained several vinyl windows, fixed closed, yellow and sun-damaged.

Five people of various ages were already in the back, but Salleh sprightly mounted the rear step while still holding my hand.

"Sit," he said, and let loose as he dug in his pocket for money. He went to the front, where the sliding truck-cab window opened for Salleh to pay.

I hadn't done as told, and was still standing when the truck lurched back into traffic.

I nearly toppled onto an older lady with a tray of golden flowers in her lap.

Like in a Hollywood movie of the kind he likes, my sexy Arab boy was there to catch me; causing the watching assembled to chuckle and make smiling room for us to sit together.

I asked in low tones: "What do you call this thing again?"

"This truck? A bemos."

"Are they popular?"

"Very. Just a pew Rupiah and they let you off where you want."

I tried not to be too obvious glancing at it, but I asked Salleh, "What are those trays of flowers and stuff? I see them all over the place."

"And where do you see them?" His tone was suddenly professorial.

It did its work. I realized the pattern; the collection resembled a dish of food, but everything was made of colorful blooms and foliage. "I see them in peoples' hands, but also placed in front of outdoor shrines."

"Yes. Each morning, the Hindus make or put these offerings to the gods. They place them in their home in or at neighborhood temples."

Now that I thought of it, it was one of the most charming sights on Bali. Almost every block you walked contained these outdoor shrines. Elaborately carved sandstone bases supported thatched temples in miniature, and on the steps leading up to the tiny interiors where these trays of flowers and other offerings. "I didn't know they make them fresh everyday."

"It's their act of love. People on Bali are kind, and show happiness to their gods even."

"It's beautiful."

"The Hindus of Indonesia are very relaxed and calm," Salleh said with admiration, "and I like that; like it very much."

The truck slowed and pulled off the road. The city pavement had disappeared, replaced by stands of verdant forest coming up to the margins of the blacktop highway.

Two passengers shouted thanks to the ticket-taker and stepped down.

As we stared to roll again, the rest of the passengers spread out a little, and I noticed an old man come to sit right before me.

My gaze lifted off of him and out the yellowing window. More monsoon rain clouds were gathering off in the distance and I wondered if Salleh would get cold in the rain, if it started.

But my thought was halted mid-track. The old man in his batik kilt was appraising the two of us frankly, and perhaps with a little hostility.

Salleh picked up on it. He smiled warmly and said something to him.

The older man – along with everyone on board – sighed and instantly relaxed. Now they radiated kind curiosity towards me.

"What did you tell them?" I was amazed at the transformation.

He slipped his hand in mine, resting it atop the bare skin of his upper thigh.

"Nothing. I told them you are my friend. That we are friends."

Well, I guess you could have knocked me over with a feather. Why were they so relieved and happy to hear that? Before I could ask, the lady next to me with the flowers chose a lovely blossom and held it up to me.

She said something, but even without a translator it was clear she wanted me to take it. I did, and knew enough to press my hands together in prayer and bow my head at her.

She smiled and indicated the side of my head.

Salleh took the marigold bloom and stuck it atop my right ear.

I chuckled. "Behind that one means I'm taken, doesn't it?"

He only smiled broadly and re-took my hand.

            

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I quickly assessed Nusa Dua was the upscale part of the island. Big-name resorts backed onto the beach, and shouldered one another for several miles.

Salleh took me to the public assess path, along the side of the Hilton, and soon we emerged onto white sand.

It was spectacular. Some wise thought to zoning made sure the resort hotels were well back from the shore, so walking along the margins of sapphire-blue waves did not feel like 'private property' at all, which I guess it wasn't.

There were little colonies of umbrellas, where hat-wearing Australasians camped out on beach blankets. Radios and coolers kept up their naturally raucous noise level.

The weather outlook was daunting though. To the east – across the ocean – the sky was sunny and blue, but to our other side, a winter storm was gathering.

We walked along the sand in quiet enjoyment for about half a mile, and then I thought I noticed Salleh involuntarily move his shoulders a bit. Did he just shiver in the eighty-five-degree breeze off the ocean?

"I wish I had brought a long-sleeve shirt."

"Why?"

"You look cold, so I'd give I to you. I think we might get a good soaking by evening."

"You would, wouldn’t you?"

"Give you my shirt? Of course I would."

This seemed to affect him more than I could explain. "I'm warm," he said.

"Salleh, can I ask you a kind of personal question?"

"Yes. Anything."

"I just wonder how you feel about, liking guys. Is it a big deal over here?"

He shrugged. "Yes and no. 'Yes,' if you talk about it when you should not, like to people who must make sure everything looks good, like religious people. But 'No' because it's natural. Everybody feels it and does it to some amount."

"Oh, wow. I see."

"Is it interesting?"

"Yes, very. It's frankly like that in the U.S., for the most part."

"Yeah. My buddies, we talk about it sometimes. No big deal. They will mention meeting some guy and having a little fun with him…." He suddenly laughed.

"What's funny?"

"They are. They always talk about – how do you call it – being the 'top.' But I think not every time it's like that; they must be equal and become the bottom too. I'm sure they do, but they don’t say like it to us."

I chuckled. "It can be like that in the U.S."

"Yes. Everywhere is the same with guys."

"So, young men like you and friends are open to being sexually adventurous with one another?"

"Yes."

"But don’t feelings develop?"

"Yes, they do."

I guessed I was trying his patience a little, but a nagging question at the back of my head insisted on coming forward. "One more question, Salleh, a serious one."

He turned to watch me as we walked.

I swallowed a lump and launched into it. "I don’t mind, whatever the answer is, but are you sure you've never been with a guy before…?"

"Sex?"

"Yes, sex."

“Why you ask like that…?” He was upset – not angry so much as prodded in a sensitive spot. "I never been with anyone before. I tell you real truth yesterday. You are my purst and only."

“I didn’t mean anything by it. I just think…well, I know you are good at sex.”

He stopped walking. “Me? Good at sexing, you…?”

Blush. “Yes. Very good.”

His deep tone reverberated, asking, “You like me pucking you so hard? And you like my babies in here…?” he patted my belly, gently, but with a wickedly sexy leer.

“Yes, tiger. In there, and in—“

“In the other place too…?”

“Yeah. You feel great in me, Salleh. You feel great all over.”

An appearance unmistakably like pride shone on his face as he grasped my hand again. We continued walking the beach, and this time I didn’t give a fuck when a few cherry-red Aussies and furry-brown Kiwis raised their Ray-Bans as we passed. I squeezed his digits all the harder for it.

            

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Lipo lived in a single room of a complex of low buildings that looked something like a project – subsidized housing. As we walked the open loggia, and young and old greeted us with a mixture of surprise and friendly suspicion, that feeling of doing a dangerous thing in a dangerous country returned; but it also returned a thrill in me.

Salleh stopped by a numbered door and knocked briefly before letting himself in.

The light was on, and the space was just big enough for a twin bed in one corner, and a wardrobe, desk and chair along the other long wall.

A smiling boy greeted us as I came in and closed the door, noting a small number of folks from the communal walkway had trailed us right up to Lipo's apartment.

We introduced ourselves and shook hands. The kid was beautiful; round features, floppy hair in front. And his sexy looks inspected me up and down with honest openness.

It did not last for long though, for Lipo went into mother-hen mode the moment he saw Salleh shiver a bit. In tones that were scolding like only best friends could share – snarky and caring at the same time – Lipo pulled out a white bath towel and said in English: "Strip."

My Arab lover, apparently not shy about anything, did. As his tanned form reemerged in all its lean splendor, Lipo was busy at his wardrobe. Salleh held my eyes, smiling, knowing I was enjoying his just-for-me striptease. It ended when Lipo turned with a hoodie, drawers and a pair of sweat pants for his buddy.

The handsome boy tossed the clothes into the chair and gestured for me to sit on his bed, which I did.

The boy was still rubbing his hair and body with the towel, and ran it like a sanding belt behind his back, butt and upper thighs, flopping his goods side to side. When finished rubbing, Salleh dressed, suddenly a little shy as Lipo split glances between us and spoke to him in low tones. If I had to guess, I'd say the conversation centered on what kind of lay I was, because my teenage stud jutted his chin towards me with half a leer, and an awakening cock.

I kicked off my shoes.

On Lipo's walls – where I began looking to distract myself – there were movie posters. Lots of them, and they all seemed to feature the handsomest men of Hollywood at the moment. I don’t know, if I'd given a thought to it, I might have assumed a boy like Lipo would have pictures of girls on his walls, but he didn’t.

Salleh finished dressing at last. With a hand on his shoulder, he forced Lipo to be on his way, while the best friend offered a clearly cautionary parting comment. Perhaps it was about locking the door, because that's what Salleh did the moment it was closed. Just before it shut, I caught a glimpse outside, and of a few teen boys were still hanging around – Lipo spoke to them in shooing tones, and I suppose informed them in no uncertain terms we needed our privacy.

Salleh came back and sat. Sat at the head of bed, back against the wall, legs up and hand stroking his cock through Lipo's sweatpants. He eyed me, opening his left arm, while I crawled over the sheets to sidle in next to him.

In an instant we were very cozy, and I could forget about the soft murmur of teen-boy conversation outside Lipo's front door.

"Warm?" I asked.

"More warm. Are you OK?"

"Yes, I'm good." I snuggled down.

"Did you like the dinner?"

After our afternoon at Nusa Dua, Salleh had taken me to a hole-in-the-wall restaurant to have nashi goreng, or that wonderful Indonesian fried rice with thin slices of chili. It was what my sexy Arab boy referred to as Indonesian 'comforting food,' and it certainly warmed the belly very nicely. "It was delicious."

His hand came up to brush hair across my forehead.

I asked conversationally: "Are you sure Lipo isn't Gay?"

Salleh stiffened; he was taken aback. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, tell me – does he ever talk to you about meeting and fucking around with guys?"

"Well, yes – but—"

I gestured up to wall with my chin. "He has lots of movie posters, but he likes the leading men. I don’t see any posters here of pretty girls."

My stud screwed on a funny face. It was the kind a parent might make for a precocious brat, just before swiping down a silly notion. "We like men – not maybe to have them sex us, or we puck with them – but to teach us how to be cool. American men are beautiful. Don’t you think so…? We like to look, we like to act like what we see." He gently balled a fist and patted the place over his heart. "Like James Dean. You know?"

"Yes, I know James Dean. But did you know Dean was Gay? He was pretty open about it too. Like Brando, he had no fear about it."

These words seemed to strike Salleh to the fundament. I seemed to have a way of dong that, unfortunately. I added, "Maybe Dean and Brando were playing the same role that's familiar to a lot of guys. A show for appearances' sake, but still they didn't really give a damn who knew."

He was silent, and his introspection reminded me of something we'd talked about over dinner.

I gave a small shiver thinking about our arrival at the local diner….

 

It was pouring like a motherfucker. Fat drops pelted us as we dashed across the busy road in Denpasar.

Night had fallen, and our bemos ride from the beach had been uneventful, except for it starting to rain after sunset.

Good smells and fluorescent lighting assailed my senses as Salleh pulled me inside.

He went to the back and claimed a small table.

I felt bad for him; he was cold. That much was obvious.

"I hate winter," he said.

It was eighty degrees, but when you're used to a hundred, I guess this felt like winter. "I'm sorry. We can eat quickly and then make a dash when it lets up some."

That made him smile. He seemed to like me thinking about him.

A waiter arrived and placed two piping-hot plastic glasses of tea before us.

"I order, all right?" Salleh asked.

I nodded in agreement and gripped my glass for warmth.

The waiter wriggled his head as my sexy Arab boy rattled off a couple of items. He then left with a grin.

"I ordered, what you call – comforting foods. Indonesian comforting foods."

I smiled. "OK, sounds good."

He drank his tea and warmed up a bit. "Lipo lives near. We come here to have meals sometimes."

"I'm glad we don’t have to take another bemos."

"Why? You no like?"

"It's fine; just a little tight in the back."

"Yes, I see. We walk from here."

We drank for a little while and his gaze drifted over my shoulder. I turned. The rectangular cutout of the restaurant front was completely open, and a number of bare white lights stung together swayed in the breeze created by the downpour.

"The rain reminds me of Bollywood films," he said.

I turned back around. "It does?"

He beamed. "Yes. They like to dance in the rain, get married in the rain, have parties in the rain."

"Oh, wow. I guess I never saw one."

"They play them on TV late at night. It's something to watch and laugh at."

"Why?"

"Because they dance and sing for even the smallest reason. They just smile and start. It's too much sometimes, but sweet too. Like sometimes I wish life were like that – with happy people doing happy things. And romance."

"Oh, it sounds nice. I should check some out when I get home. But then again, it sounds pretty much like Hollywood movies. All about a chance encounter turning into something real."

His expression went wan.

I chuckled. "Life is not like in the movies – Bollywood or Hollywood. It's not so over the top. It's messier, trickier, more complex to navigate."

He drank, set his cup down and turned serious.

"You asked me personal question on the beach, now I ask you, OK?"

"Yes. Go ahead."

"You no have boyfriend, for real?"

"I don’t. For real."

"How?"

"What do you mean how?"

"You work too much, don’t you."

I wasn't feeling collected all of a sudden. "I suppose you're right. Hard to devote to another when I barely have time for myself."

"And when's the first time you had sex with a guy?"

"Seventeen. Playing around with a school friend. Pretty typical story, I guess."

"And you no become boyfriends with him?"

"Well – I – I loved him. That's true, but he was a closet case. Still is, I guess, since I was best man at his wedding, and now a godfather to their oldest son."

"Don’t be sad."

I guess he was right; I guess I could tell my own voice had become 'stuck' in a bad memory.

"I ask because I hard believe you no have a boyfriend, or husband. You, you're so…."

"So what?"

"And in the U.S., you are free. You can make marriage with guy you love if you want. Is it nice to be Gay in U.S.A.?"

I grinned. "It – ah – has its bright spots. You can certainly have a lot of fun if you live in the big cities, but I think even in small communities, things for us are getting better. We should stay where we are, I think, and make backward places move forward even when it's hard."

"I still find hard to believe such a beautiful guy has no one to take care of you. If Indonesia slightly more open, I would take pride in being husband to a man like you – to walk in the world with head held high. That’s what I like about Bali so much. So free, so open here. The Hindus here don't care, and they make romantic houses with guys sometimes instead of marriage – everybody OK with it here.”

“You think…?” I hesitated. Maybe I shouldn't ask.

“Think what?”

“Think you want to live here, after you finish your university degree?”

“Yes. Lipo helps me if I want. He's moved here two years already, and will never go back to Medan to live and have pamily, he says. But, you mean, you might consider moving here too…?”

Although I instantly registered the laid-bare emotional honestly of his question, I laughed. “Me?! No. It’s too far away from everything, it’s…too—” I stopped.

I think I hurt him.

“I mean, don't take it personally. I – I would love to come back sometime, and if you are here – I’d love to see you again.”

Half his mouth rose at the side. “Have me puck you again…?”

“Yes, tiger. Have you ‘puck’ the shit out of me all night again.” I lifted his hand and kissed the back of his fingers – quickly.

With that same hand, and with a full-grown leer, he adjusted the rock-hard cylinder, just beneath the gauzy red fabric of his shorts, where it rested on top of his upper thigh.

Maybe he knew, maybe he didn’t know, but I was sporting my own jeans-suppressed hard-on as well. The kid knew how to make me leak, that was for sure.

 

In Lipo's room, I dreaded having to do it, but I told Salleh I couldn't stay the night.

"Why!"

"I have to be ready to leave early tomorrow. Our bus goes at ten."

I had saddened him. I grasped his fingers and played with them. "Look, unfortunately, real life is not like a Hollywood movie – relationships are messy, sometimes temporary, no matter how grounded in connection they are. We have to do the best we can, in the time we're allowed. That's all."

He kissed my fingers. "The time we have…?"

"Yes, what time we have to share. Treasure it."

"Like we have tonight…?"

"Yea, and we do, but honestly, the way you fucked and fingered and jammed and fisted me last night, I can’t take you. There's just no way."

Now he looked like he was about to cry, but he said slowly, "Then you puck me. I never before, but for you – for you, I will."

He tugged on my hand to make me sit up. He then reached behind his neck, his armpit hair flashing up to view. "Here…" he fumbled with something "…I need you to have this."

He detached his gold chain and pendant and drew it before my eyes.

"No," I said, half laughing, "it's yours!"

He kneeled behind me, lifted it over my head, and I felt its pendulous weight slowly alight on my chest.

As he latched it, he told me, "This is our movie. When you go back to America, and people ask you if you have a boyfriend – you peel this gold on your chest, and you tell them, 'Yes, the man who loves me in is Bali.'"

I touched the hand that lingered over my heart; I used it to pull him down into my kiss and tongue, and he moved to lay his head in my lap.

I stroked his hair for a while, and ventured to ask: "So, you do want to get fucked?"

He nodded, clearly apprehensive, but sat up, lifted my tee-shirt off and began to play with my nipples. We resumed our tongue exploration of each other's mouth and I felt his hand on my fly. I kneeled on Lipo's bed and he unzipped me. My already-hard cock came out to meet his lips. He sucked me and reached up to tweak my nipples, and I stroked his hair, which felt like silk velcro. I pulled off his hoodie, lifted him up by grabbing under his arms, and raised his left elbow high. My tongue explored the soft and dark folds of his armpit and the hair growing there, and he moaned in yet another found pleasure. I licked and sliced my tongue along the back ridge of his triceps while he shuttered with the sensation. I knew he liked it for that low and garrulous tone again wafted out to fill the small room with his sonorous joy.

I licked his nipples, made my way to his other armpit and again he loved it. He pushed me back onto the bed and yanked off my socks, then pulled the half-off jeans and shorts clear away from me. They went flying to land in a loud thump against the door.

He sucked my cock like this morning, holding my eyes and drinking in the way his tongue on my pee slit thrilled me.

Now it was my turn. I stood, pulled him up and yanked down his sweatpants and shorts. I laid him down again, and sat on the edge of the bed. I picked up one of his feet and loosened his toes, smelling the undeniably familiar scent of the boy; I bent down to kiss them. Slowly working my way along, making sure each little piggy was properly greeted and freed and kissed, my tongue slipped between the smallest toe and its neighbor. Salleh groaned loudly, and I stopped to make a hushing signal to him. He looked with eye slits closed by pleasure, then clamped one hand over his mouth. I slipped my tongue between the next toe and its neighbor, and now the young stud wriggled under my gripping hold on his calf, but I wouldn't let go. Each crevice was tongued, until finally his entire big toe went into my mouth and I sucked it, hard. He nearly kicked me, involuntarily I suppose, but that sonar reverb pinged around the room to tell me I was doing right by him.

I let his foot drop. He sighed, but stiffened again as I picked up his other foot. While I played with this one, I also grabbed his hard cock and toyed with the tip. A small drool of delicious precum made me sop it up, but only for a moment, for I had his knees pinned up by his ears in the next moment, admiring his virgin hole.

It was round and pink, and I do believe it had never seen the light of day of another man's cock.

I loosened my pushing a tiny bit and went down on it. He moaned loud, and I covered his mouth with my hand. As I licked his slowly-relaxing flower bud, he shifted his mouth so that he gently began to bite the side of my hand. This pressure, gentle as I say, telegraphed his feelings through cycling spasms as I pleasured his love button.

This time I came with proper lube. I pulled up my jeans and fished out a packet from the pocket. I tore it open and dribbled it down his perineum, catching it on my fingers before it was wasted. I lifted him back again and rounded his hole in increasing circles. I was going to get in there, but he was going to enjoy it too.

Slowly, I stopped. My index finger's tip paused at the threshold, and pushed. He gasped; I applied more pressure, and waited for him to relax. He did and my finger slipped in.

He looked at me like he'd never felt anything so exciting, but then I twisted my digits, and his eyes grew round with wonder. I pulled out. Now my thumb was going in: again, lube, pressure, waiting – entry. He writhed under me, but I held him still and buried my thickest finger up to my palm. He loved it, grabbed onto my arms and grew short of breath. I took his hand, spit into it, then guided it to start jacking his own dick. He did and I positioned myself close to his ass. I lubed my cock well, from tip to base and guided it down.

I slowly leaned forward, naturally sinking it into his body, and at the first resistance, I stopped and looked onto his eyes. He paused, then signaled OK, and I fucked him. At first I toyed with my throbbing head just inside of his hole; in out, in out, driving him wild. Soon though, I leaned all the way over to kiss him, and sank my shaft down to my balls. I knew I'd have to kiss him, because the moment I got all the way in, my stud panted and groaned so loud, the rafters would have fallen in had my mouth not been there to stifle it.

I was not going to cum quickly – no six times for me – one or two long slow and deliberate fucks; that was the ticket.

I went in and out: sometimes deep, sometime just the tip to see which he liked better. He loved it deep – positively writhed and yanked my hair when I slid over and beyond his prostate – yes, another joy encountered.

So I stopped. I pulled out and motioned for him to get up. I lay down on my back, and he looked puzzled.

"Sit on it," I said.

He kicked his leg over mine, facing me and reached for my dick. He held it as he slowly lowered his cum-hole onto it. Now he was in control, and just as I suspected, he loved it deep – sat on it so hard, his own cock pulsated precum on my belly, and naturally conveyed this pulsating throb as a tight circle around the base of my cock. I was fully buried in him, and I started to jack his cock while he fucked himself.

Now I felt the weight of his half-ounce of gold upon me, his ass riding my dick, his gold on my heart. I thrust up, pummeling him harder and deeper, forcing him to let me pull out into longer strokes with each thrust. I thought he was about to blow, so I stopped. "Get off," I told him. I was going to make him cum in a way he'd never forget for the rest of his life. I simply told him to face the other way. He did. I guided his ass and made him re-sit on my dick, when I stated to pump again. He moaned and moaned, and I half sat up to grab his shoulders. "Let go," I told him, and slowly lay his back on my chest. His cock stood straight up in the air and I started to thrust deeper and deeper, knowing the pressure from the inside on his prostate was driving him mad. "Yes?"

"Yes…."

"Going to cum?"

"Yes…."

I thrust deep and almost entirely pulled out; thrust again and knew I was about to fill him with my load; and then I saw it, and then I felt it. His cock shot a jet of pure white spunk straight onto Lipo's wall poster above and behind my head. His muscles around my cock spasmed, then relaxed into a regular tightening and releasing, and I shot and shot and shot, matching each of his pulsations with seed of my own.

He rolled off of me, his ass slipping off my dick and cum spilling out of him, but he turned and kissed me like he meant it – like he really did love me.

            

˚˚˚˚˚

 

He cried as I left him in Lipo's room.

We wrote, and a few months later Salleh began to mention a new schoolmate, one he liked, one he felt he could tell anything to, and then his letters stopped. I knew he had found a piece of his dream, and I hoped he was happy.

I have it still, his half-ounce of gold. Sometimes when my partner is away on a business trip, I take it out, slip it around my neck, feel his weight upon my chest and have a long slow wank. When I cum thinking about Salleh, it's always the same things that get me spurting – how he looked with that wicked smile walking backwards on the beach before me; how he thrilled to the touch of my hand on his nipples, there under the berm – public and dangerous – how he gripped me and filled me with his cum, load after glorious load. And then of course, there's his smell. It is something that has the essence of memory itself about it – like apples bobbing off a faraway shore.

                    

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