Chapter 5

I'm going to fast-forward now, to a time slightly more than six months after that first supremely-exciting night when Sharon returned home after the meeting of her women's club. During the first month following that meeting, my love for her deepened far beyond anything I'd ever thought possible, and I have no doubt hers for me increased, also, although maybe not as much.

During that time, she had extracted a promise from me to not masturbate, she had made me tell her that I wanted to be a cuckold, and not only that, but she had also revealed she wanted the same thing. Even more exciting to me, since it spoke to a fantasy I'd long had, she told me of a magazine story she'd read at a tender age, in which a woman explained how she had trained her husband to serve as her body slave, even to the point of forcing him to perform Immaculate Body Service.

To top off even that, my wife had then informed me that she had fantasized ever since our wedding about using me in that manner, and when I admitted to sharing her fantasy, she informed me that "in the near future," she was going to do exactly that. She had even hinted at an unrevealed part of the other woman's story, in which she did something to her husband that made him her total, enthusiastic slave, but she had never explained exactly what was done to the man.

There is one other thing she required of me during that time, and which, while it was exciting to me, had no other meaning than that. As it turned out though, it was just another step in preparing me for the most-intense, most-exciting night ever, for both of us. Her requirement was that I, from that day forward, keep my crotch free of hair. She said that not even a stubble would be acceptable when we went to bed, which meant that I would need to shave every day, and I did from then on.

Now, if I may, allow me to resume my narrative at a point, as I said earlier, approximately six months after that first Wednesday night.

I mentioned earlier that I sometimes joined get-togethers of my male friends and colleagues, as I'm sure many men do. I had done that sort of thing infrequently until just a couple months before Sharon began meeting with her own friends every Wednesday night. It was at that time when a man, who had been my close friend all the way through public school, moved to Denver, where we also live. All our young lives we had been friendly rivals in school sports, and then in our Senior year in high school, in vying for Sharon's affections. We had both dated her, with me trying my best to get her to go steady with me, and Chad trying to get her to choose him. She never would do that, always saying that she wanted to be friends with both of us.

After graduation from high school, I moved to Denver to pursue a college degree, and to my great good luck, she did also. I think Chad realized that Sharon had made her choice, and although he never said so, I have no doubt that he felt a great deal of sadness and disappointment that I'd won out over him. He moved to Chicago to work for a nationwide insurance company as a salesman, and from what I learned in our letters and telephone calls to each other, he had a natural talent for that sort of thing. He rose higher and higher in the organization, and after working as an Assistant Manager in Chicago for a couple years, he made the decision to purchase a franchise office in Denver.

Sharon had at last agreed to marry me after we'd both received our Master of Education degrees, and we had purchased a home in a Denver suburb. For that reason, when we received Chad's news that he would be relocating to the same city, it made both of us happy, because we still regarded him as a good friend. We helped him locate a house to buy, and were lucky enough to find one only a few blocks from our own. From that point on, we saw each other frequently, and were soon once again the good friends we'd been in our hometown.

Chad had always been more outgoing than me, and he was usually the one who would organize parties at his house, or when he received an invitation for one at another man's house, he'd arrange for me to accompany him. So, it was not unusual when he called me early on a Saturday morning, and said he was looking for someone to fill in at a poker party that night, at the home of someone he knew. I asked my wife if it would be okay for me to go, and she nonchalantly gave me permission, saying, "You go right ahead, honey. Maybe it'll be your lucky night."

That evening, Chad picked me up about 7:00, and we drove to the house where the card party was being held. When we arrived, he introduced me to the four other men, and I was momentarily surprised by their appearance. All of them were wearing earrings, and two of them actually had things called "studs" in their eyebrows and noses. I had seen that sort of thing on the college campus where I taught, of course, but it had never occurred to me that my best friend would have people like that in his circle of acquaintances. They all seemed like nice guys, though, so I just accepted their appearance, and in a short time I no longer noticed anything unusual about them.

We played poker for about three hours, and all the time the beer bottles sitting beside me were constantly replaced. I rarely drink more than three or four bottles during the span of a day, and as I started on the fifth in three hours, I could tell that I was feeling more than a little woozy. However, since everybody else was still drinking, as well as urging me to do the same, I did my best to empty the fifth bottle.

When it was at last drained dry, I kept holding it in my hand, hoping the host wouldn't notice it was empty, and bring me another. He did notice, though, but instead of bringing another bottle, he said, "Hey, Glenn, I want you to try a little taste of some homebrew I've been working on. I'll bring the rest of you guys some, too, to see what you think." The other four men thought that would be a good idea, so I had no choice but to join in, and did so. In less than a minute, he was back with six shot glasses on a tray, and I was sure he'd had them all ready for us, even though he tried to make it sound like a spur-of-the-moment thing for us to do the taste test.

As he approached the poker table with the tray, I could see there were five glasses arranged in a circle around the edge of the round tray, and a single glass sitting in the center. He stopped beside me, picked up the center glass and handed it to me, saying, "I made this one especially for you."

He then distributed the other four glasses, then taking the last for himself, sat down in his chair. Chad immediately extended his upraised glass to the center of the table, and as he did so, said, "To exciting women and exciting nights. May this one be the best yet." The other fellows clinked their glasses against his, and I followed suit. He then moved his glass to his lips, said, "Down the hatch in one swallow. Last empty glass is a wimp." Everyone laughed at that, and then quickly upended their drinks and swallowed as rapidly as possible.

I tried to empty my own drink in one swallow, but that proved impossible. Whatever was in the glass may have qualified as homebrew, but it wasn't my idea of beer. It was very bitter, and had a strange, medicinal flavor to it. Still, there wasn't very much of it, and I did my best to swallow every drop. However, my hesitation had cost me the race, and by the time my empty glass was on the table, the other five men were sitting there staring at me with their arms folded across their chests, telling me in no uncertain words that I was the loser in that contest.

Our host then looked directly at me and asked, "Well, what did you think of it?"

I was experiencing the strangest sensation of my life at that time, almost as if I were in a waking dream. His voice was somehow muffled, although I could understand his words. My eyes were affected, too, and when I looked at the ceiling light, it seemed to have very faint rainbows encircling it. I was sure the final glass of beer had been the straw that broke the camel's back, in terms of my capacity for alcohol, and that I was fully drunk.

I strained to think of some suitable answer to the question, but all I could think of saying was, "It was really strong." I'm sure my words were slurred, because they certainly sounded that way to me. Apparently they were understandable to the fellow, because he just said, "Good. It's working."

That was so confusing to me that I just gave up trying to decipher his meaning, and instead went back to gazing at the pretty lights above us.

One of the other men said, "I think that's enough cards for tonight. Why don't we go sit in the other room now. I brought the new issue of "Modern Mods," and we can take a look at it." That brought a chorus of agreement from the other four guys, but I was still feeling so disconnected that I didn't say anything.

I felt my chair being moved away from the table, and then Chad and one of the other men pulled me to my feet. Taking my elbows, they helped me walk to another room, where I was seated on a couch, with my helpers beside me. There were three easy chairs across a coffee table in front of the couch, and soon all six of us were seated there.

The man who had suggested we move to this new room picked up a glossy magazine that was lying on the table, and then handed it to Chad. He held it in front of me, giving me time to focus on the thing and make sense of it.

What I saw first was the large title, in lurid red letters, reading "MODERN MODS." I had no idea what that strange word even meant, but it didn't trouble me in any way, because my eyes had been drawn to the photograph prominently centered on the cover.

There for all the world to see was a full-color photograph of a man's crotch, and it was centered on his genitals. His penis was semi-erect, which was riveting enough to my befogged brain, but the thing that drew my entire attention was what had been done to the organ. The thing had been almost completely tattooed, from his abdomen to the tip of the head. Not only that, but a very-strange looking device appeared to be resting on the top of the head, looking for all the world like a small dumbbell, similar to the ones I used when exercising.

I tried to ask what that thing was, but my tongue was almost completely asleep. Luckily, one of the men must have understood my words, for he said, "It's a piercing, which is just one kind of mod that people do."

Chad must have known I was still confused, because he tried to explain, saying, "The word 'mod' is short for 'modification,' and it refers to things people do to change their bodies for the better. That one you're looking at is used to give women more pleasure when they get fucked."

He then shocked me, even through the fogged state I was in, by asking, "Would you like to see mine?"

I'm sure I made no reply in words, but I suspect my head must have nodded in assent. His only response was to get to his feet, then turn and stand right in front of me. As I stared in fascination, he unbuckled his belt, unfastened his jeans, and pushed them down his hips. What happened to them after that, I have no idea, because by then my vision was limited to a small circle directly in front of my face, with everything else being black. And centered in that circle was his cock, which was slowly beginning to fill. I had a momentary thought that he wasn't wearing any undershorts, but that was very fleeting because my entire attention was on the small barbell that was somehow sitting on top of the head.

He said, as if from very far away, "The shaft goes all the way through the glans, and the balls are threaded on it. If you rub it, you can feel the thing inside me." The man who was sitting on my other side lifted my limp arm, and held it out to Chad. He took one of my fingers and placed it between the silver balls, and then began rubbing it back and forth. He had been right when he'd said I'd be able to feel the shaft that pierced his cock head, and the sensation of such a hard thing inside such a soft, sensitive part of this body gave me a flush of arousal that I thought I'd never feel again.

Just touching his glans brought back vivid memories of my early-teen years, when I was thirteen or fourteen years old. My cousin, who was a boy one year younger than me, had always been my constant playmate, since he lived next door to our house. We did everything together, it seemed, so I guess it was nothing but natural that we would also share our first, fumbling attempts at sex.

I'll never forget the first night it happened. We were constantly sleeping over at either my house or his, and always shared a bed when doing so. He must have been slightly more than twelve, when we were doing that at my house one night.

After we had both undressed to our undershorts, we climbed under the covers and lay there talking for quite awhile. I don't know how long we talked like that, but at some point he turned on his side, facing me, and placed his hand on my penis. To say I was shocked would have been putting it mildly, but it felt so good that I wasn't about to tell him to stop. And then, when he pulled my opposite shoulder so that I, too, turned on my side, he took my hand and put it on his own member, which was completely erect.

After we'd caressed each other for a couple minutes, he whispered, "Raise up." When I did so, he pulled down my shorts, and then he in turn lifted his waist from the sheet as I pulled down his. We continued our caresses for another few minutes, until both of us were as hard as we'd ever been. Again he was the one to direct our activities, saying, "Turn around."

His hand on the back of my head told me all I needed to know, and I doubled over and crawled under the covers, stopping only when my head was right beside his crotch. He put his hand on the back of my head again, then as he moved his body closer to mine, pulled me toward him. He didn't need to tell me to open my mouth, for that part must have been instinctive. Soon his little dick was buried as far as it would go in my mouth, and my own had found a similarly wet and warm shelter in his.

That night was the first time I tasted semen, and although it made me gag when he spent himself in my mouth, I swallowed every drop of it, and then recycled it back to him, in a matter of speaking.

That was my introduction to homosexual relations, and during the next couple years it was repeated many times. During that summer, we spent lots of time in a treehouse we'd built in our backyard, and as soon as we'd climb inside the thing, he'd say, "Suck me off." I would drop to my knees in front of him, quickly pull down his jeans and shorts, then do what we both wanted. I always hoped he'd do the same for me, but most of the time all he'd do was tell me to jack off, so I did.

Those early experiences figured large in my early mindset, and even to this day, I still feel those early urges when I see a picture of a penis, or even the bulge in another man's tight-fitting pants.

Now, on that fateful night, there was a full-grown cock right there in front of my face, and it was stiffening more by the second. Not only that, but my finger was still caressing the head of my best friend's penis, even though he was no longer holding it there.

Through my stupor, I heard someone say, "Run your tongue over it." Like a mindless robot, I leaned forward on the couch, stuck out my tongue and did as told. Again the old urges blossomed, and I welcomed the next voice, which told me, "Now take it in your mouth and suck it." I did, and then was completely unable to stop myself from moaning with pleasure as the taste of his pre-cum flooded my tongue, and the exquisitely soft, yet completely hard head of his cock was caressed by my tongue.

I heard Chad saying, almost as if his head were turned away from me, "I guess you were right when you said he's as queer as a three-dollar bill."

Continued in Chapter 6.