Hi Everyone,

Here’s my flash with the Free Fiction Friday Group!



( IYLS )



David and Jesse are childhood friends who get separated in their teens but meet up again at university in Newcastle, Australia.

They soon find out that though some things remain the same, other change… oh boy, do they change.




“This is so good,” I moaned, taking a sip of my flavored milk before heaping another forkful into my mouth. Looking across the table at Jeremy, I tried not to laugh as he nodded furiously, his cheeks bulging as he emitted a small grunt of agreement. The boy clearly loved his food.

About halfway through my second pie, I sighed regretfully, laying my fork down in defeat. I was full. No way could I fit in so much as one extra mouthful.

“You going to finish that, David?” Jeremy asked, licking the crumbs of pastry from his lips, his hand already reaching over for my plate.

I shook my head, hiding my knowing smile behind a paper napkin. “Where the hell do you put it all, man?”

“What? I’m a growing boy,” he laughed, pausing with the fork touching his lips and giving me another glimpse of his dimple. I watched, amazed as he polished off the remains of my pie. “Mmm, that was good. I might have to order one of them next time,” he commented, wiping his mouth with a serviette, a sly grin curving his lips. “But then again, I can always nick a bit of yours…”



My lecture ended much later than Jeremy’s, so I’d volunteered to catch the bus home to save him waiting for me. Having paid the driver, I made my way down the aisle of the bus, jostling against the seat rails as I went. Obviously, there was an art to walking to one’s seat on a moving bus, and I needed to work on my technique. Thankfully, there were only a handful of passengers and I managed to miss bumping into them on my way to the rear section. The driver’s decision to push his way on to the roundabout decided my seat for me as I half fell into it. With a snort, I slid across the bench, placing my backpack between my feet.

Knowing what should have been a twenty minute trip was going to take more like forty with all the stops, I leant my head against the window, closing my eyes and letting my thoughts drift. Naturally they drifted over the last couple of days, each moment of which had been filled with Jeremy.

Part of me, the biggest part, was ecstatic to have my childhood friend back in my life, but a small kernel railed against him. Well, not so much him, as my overwhelming physical reaction to him. I didn’t want to be getting hot and bothered about my best friend. Having to deal with, and hide an erection, every time he was within ten feet of me was not my idea of a good time.

I wasn’t ashamed to admit to myself that the attraction I’d been feeling for him, unnerved me. My thought from the previous evening that I might have broken up with Erik because of it, had really thrown me. By the morning, I’d managed to convince myself I was overreacting, telling myself that had Erik still been in Australia, I wouldn’t be looking at Jeremy as a young, attractive man. Once I’d gotten used to being around him again, I decided, my body’s reactions to him would settle down. God, I hoped I was right. I didn’t want to spend each morning after having surfed with him, feeling like my brain had turned to mush, and the air had been ripped from my lungs, draining all strength from my limbs while all the blood in my body pooled in my crotch.

My phone buzzing in my jean pocket distracted me from my thoughts. It was Laurence wanting to confirm if we would still be flying on the following weekend, seeing as it was Easter. Having cancelled on him the previous day, I didn’t feel I could do so again, and Jeremy had said he didn’t mind returning from our Surfari on the Sunday so I flicked him a quick text telling him I was okay to meet him at the airfield at our usual time of 3pm. His reply came back almost immediately, and having run a quick eye over it, I re-pocketed my phone.

A quick glance out the window made me bolt out of my seat, pressing the buzzer as I went. I’d almost missed my stop. Ignoring the foul look I received from the driver, I practically leapt from the bus, shouldering my backpack and turning to face the small sports oval, beyond which was my street.

The sun still had some warmth to it and the turf felt soft and spongy under my joggers as I loped across the park, enjoying the light cool breeze on my face. It only took five minutes to reach my flat, and after having dumped my bag on the small dining table I headed straight for the shed, deciding to oil Mrs. Gilmore’s veranda door while I had a chance. In no time at all I located some WD40—thanks to my re-organization of her shed when I’d first moved in, everything was now neatly arranged and stored.

Making my way to her front porch, I knocked on the door to let her know my intentions.

“Hello, Sweetie,” she trilled as she opened the door to me, looking the epitome of a sweet, little old lady. She always reminded me of one of the old ducks on a TV show Mum used to giggle over, called the Golden Girls, or something similar. To look at her you’d never guess her irreverent sense of humor, or her feisty nature.

“Hey, Mrs. Gilmore. I thought I’d oil your screen door for you as I heard it squeaking the other night. Is there anything else you want oiled while I’m at it?”

“You’re such a good boy, David. Nothing else is making a noise, but I could use some of your muscle. Would you mind helping me move a couple of things?”

An hour later we were seated in her cozy kitchen after I’d moved, what I felt sure, was half her wardrobe and linen cupboard to the front room in readiness for collection by the Salvation Army. I watched, with a smile on my face, as she busied herself making us both a cup of tea to have with her to-die-for scones. Personally, I preferred coffee, but I’d never tell her that, as she loved to make a pot of tea for the pair of us to share.

“There you go, Sweetie, help yourself,” she chirped, placing in front of me a platter overflowing with scones, a variety of jams and a bowl filled to the brim with clotted cream. You’d have thought she was feeding a dozen people instead of just the two of us.

“Mrs. Gilmore, if I don’t watch it you’re going to make me fat!” I teased, smearing a thick layer of her homemade raspberry jam onto my first scone.

“Don’t worry, dear, Jeremy will help you work it off. An hour of plugging is the equivalent of a thirty-minute jog, you know. Even a bit of enthusiastic oral sex burns off about sixty calories,” she replied nonchalantly, daintily taking a sip from her cup.

My mouth dropped open. I felt too shocked to even laugh or protest, like I ordinarily did, at her irreverent comments and observations.

“Do try and shut your mouth while you eat, Davie.”

Doing as she requested, I swallowed my half chewed scone noisily. “How do you know these things?” I croaked.

“My dear, sweet boy, you don’t get to my age without having learned a thing or two,” she chuckled, pleased to have yet again knocked me for six.

“Well, anyway… um, yeah, about that, Mrs. G.,” I continued, “Jeremy’s not my boyfriend. When I was a kid, we lived in Byron Bay and Jeremy was my best friend, but we lost contact when he and his family went to Africa for a couple of years and Mum and I moved to Speers Point. We met up again just a couple of days ago.”

“But you fancy him. I can tell,” she said, smiling at me knowingly, raising her cup to her lips.

“Well, yes,” I agreed reluctantly, my eyes on my plate. It was pointless trying to lie to her—she’d see right through me. “But it’s useless, ’cause he’s straight.” I finished, feeling the color creep up my neck and into my cheeks.

“I do so love gay-speak! Straight!” she chortled, almost dancing in her seat. “Personally, I’d prefer to be known as ‘twisted’, ‘bent’, or even ‘sideways’. They all sound so much more interesting than ‘straight’, don’t you think?”

I couldn’t help laughing, “Yeah, ‘straight’ does sound kinda boring, now that you mention it.”

“How about you be a ‘twisted gay’ and I’ll be a ‘bent unit’?” she chuckled happily, obviously taken with her own joke.

“Oh, there’s no denying you’re a ‘bent unit’, Mrs. G.” I grinned at her. “A ‘bent unit’ that makes the best damn scones on the planet!”

“Well then, eat up, dear!” she encouraged, waving her small, wrinkled hand at the platter between us. “Seriously though, David. Why are you so convinced that Jeremy is boringly straight?”

“Because he’s obviously into girls, and I think he would have told me if he was into guys,” I replied, ladling a spoonful of cream on a fresh scone. I was amazed at how quickly I’d gotten over my embarrassment at having this type of conversation with her. She was impossible to stay uncomfortable with—she was so accepting of everything and everyone.

“Mmm, well, I suppose only time will tell,” she mused, taking another sip of her tea. “I wouldn’t give up on him yet though, if I were you.”

She shook her head at my skeptical look, and mindful of her earlier words, I refrained from answering, keeping my mouth shut as I chewed.

“You really must learn to stop overthinking everything, dear. You’ll turn yourself into an old man before your time if you keep it up,” she advised, patting the back of my hand, and smiling fondly at me.

Looking at her hand on mine and seeing her ancient wristwatch made me remember the time. “God, I’ve got to go, Mrs. Gilmore, or should I be calling you Bent Unit, from now on?” I teased playfully, rising from my seat. “Jeremy is coming to pick me up shortly and I’m staying at his place tonight,” I explained so she wouldn’t worry about me.

“Okay, dear. One last thing before you go. I’m going to pass on to you some words of wisdom my Granddad passed on to me, and he lived to be 102,” she said, as she came around the table to stand before me, reaching up to cup my face, her gaze locked on mine, “Don’t sweat the small stuff.”

All I could do was nod, leaning down to kiss the papery thin skin of her cheek. “Okay, Mrs. G.”

With a final pat on the cheek she let me go and I walked toward the back door.

“Oh, David,” she called as my hand wrapped around the door handle. I peered over my shoulder at her, smiling to see her grinning at me. “And then you have to remember, it’s all small stuff!”


Lightly kicking the door closed with my sneakered foot, I started ridding myself of my clothes, tossing them into the open lid of my wicker laundry hamper as I went. Doing a few chores and having afternoon tea with Mrs. Gilmore had taken me longer than I’d thought it would. I smiled thinking of our bizarre conversation. She never failed to shock and surprise me.

Shaking my head, I pushed our chat out of my mind and concentrated on what I needed to do to get ready. My leisurely get-my-gear-together had become not so leisurely. Quickly checking my watch, I shed it too, tossing it onto my bed, watching it bounce once before settling near the edge. With a smile, I wondered if Jere’s idea of punctuality had improved any over the years, hoping in this instance, that it hadn’t.

Giving a little shiver as the cool air touched my naked skin, I stepped into my small bathroom, which suddenly seemed even tinier to me after having used Jeremy’s massive one. With a flick of my wrists I turned on both the hot and cold water taps at the same time, deciding to take a quick leak while the water temperature adjusted. Once I was happy, I stepped over the lip of the bath, pulling the plastic curtain across behind me.

Keeping my back to the spray of water, I tilted my head, pausing as I relished the feeling of the water massaging my shoulders and soaking my hair, which still felt a little thick and tacky from the saltwater. Maybe if you had concentrated more on rinsing it this morning, Sadler, and less on studying Jeremy’s cock, it might feel cleaner now.

Smiling at myself, I reached for my shampoo, squeezing a healthy dollop into my palm. I inhaled deeply, liking the woody citrus scent that mixed with the steam to fill the room. Raising my hand to lather my hair, my fingers scraped pleasantly over my scalp, eliciting a deep satisfied sigh from me—I loved scalp massages.

With my hands full of excess suds, I reached down to my cock, using the shampoo to wash the trimmed patch of my pubic hair. I ran a gentle, yet thorough soapy hand over my bare balls, enjoying the velvety texture of them. The action brought fond memories of Erik to mind as it was he who initiated me into man-scaping. It was just another of the ‘firsts’ he’d introduced me to. Now I was addicted, loving the smoothness.

My cock gave a twitch at the attention, but I ignored it as I slanted my head back under the flow to rinse the shampoo from my hair, feeling the bubbles cascade down my back, and over the cheeks of my arse.

Turning to face the spray, I rubbed my genitals, rinsing them free of suds, my rod lengthening at the contact. It throbbed insistently. I sighed, wondering if I’d have time to squeeze in a quick wank. I hadn’t jerked off in a few days and my cock had obviously decided it was time to stage a protest: banners, placards, marching band, and all. Maybe if I do, I won’t walk around with a boner tonight. Grinning at my justification for rubbing one out, I reached for the conditioner, applying a generous amount to my hair, fingering it through my locks and detangling them. This crap might make my hair soft but it doesn’t do shit as far as taming it goes! Chuckling at myself, knowing they were yet to invent a hair product that could make my wayward locks behave—it had always gone where it wanted to, and probably always would.

Moving my hands down to my crotch, I slowly massaged the excess through my pubes; Erik once again fleetingly crossing my mind, as this was another habit I’d learned from him. I tried to hold on to his image as I worked my fist up my length, gently tugging at my balls with my other hand, and coating them in the creamy conditioner. I liked the way the conditioner made my hands slip over my skin.

My mouth dropped open, a soft moan passing my lips, as much from the pleasurable sensation as to bemoan my rebellious mind that had transformed Erik into Jeremy. I didn’t want to masturbate to images of Jere—it felt kind of wrong. He was my best friend and straight to boot, but my disobedient imagination wouldn’t listen to reason, insisting on substituting Erik’s gray eyes with Jeremy’s sparkling ones.

Groaning in defeat, I closed my eyes, succumbing to the lure of my imaginary Jeremy’s sexy smile and husky voice, my hand beginning its steady rhythm along my pole. Looking down with half-lidded eyes, I imagined it was Jere’s hand wrapped around my thickness and his thumb flicking over my slit, spreading the precum over the rosy, engorged head of my cock.

My fevered brain conjured up his voice, having it whisper in my ear, “The weight of you feels so good in my hand, David.” It sounded so real; I almost turned around to check I really was alone.

“Do you like that, Davie? Do you like my hand on your cock?”

“Yes,” I breathed, rocking my hips into my fist.

Steam swirled about me, further distancing me from reality as my dream Jeremy continued to whisper sweet, dirty nothings in my eager ear; each spray of water feeling like his tongue lapping at its shell.

Moaning, I gently rolled and squeezed my balls, feeling them tighten in tandem with the coil in my belly, signaling the approach of my orgasm.

“Your balls feel so full and tight, David. I can feel you’re so close.”

Leaning forward, my forehead resting on the tiles, I slipped one hand between my thighs, and using the conditioner as lubricant inserted one finger into my rectum. Immediately, my hips bucked, one hand moving like lightening over my rod while the other continued to finger-fuck my ass.

“Yes… so close… so fucking close. Oh, shit. I’m gonna come!”

“That’s it, Davie,” Fantasy Jeremy rasped in my ear. “Come for me.”

I moaned, my movements now frantic, but just as my climax was about to thunder through me, overwhelming me, I stilled, and for one sweet, agonizing moment I balanced on the precipice, before his final imaginary words sent me rocketing over the edge.

“Give it to me, David. Give it all to me.”

And I did, giving him wave after wave of my seed.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s