This story contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable. Readers agree that they are age 18 or older.



“It’s always naked men with you.”


Martin tilted his head sideways and licked his lips. The shadows and contours of the painting showed off ripe male bodies portrayed within the confines of the canvas. The sight provoked an eagerness in him that had no means of being satisfied. It had only been a month since he last got laid, but the heat of summer and the sheen of sweat along Elliot’s lean, paint-covered arms had him longing to bite into a peach just to sublimate his cravings.

Elliot was an artistic genius and leeway was often given for the perversions of artists. Lord knew, the 1960s had roiled with social revolutions of all kinds. But Mississippi was still Mississippi. Home of cotton and trees holding the memory of ropes swung over branches. Danger’s relative and they weren’t in New York anymore.

Yearning sliced through Martin as Elliot carefully added contour to a crouching man’s gorgeous ass. The sad thing was Martin knew that ass had nothing on Elliot’s rear. Not that he’d had the honor of enjoying Elliot’s body, but they’d gone to a bathhouse together before heading home, both eager and excited, neither of them having been before, and he’d gotten an eyeful of Elliot’s ass flexing as he’d pounded into some stranger.

On the canvas a tree rose from the ground like a phallus obscuring the man’s no-doubt-erect penis.

“Your mother will see it.”

“Let her.”

Martin sputtered, his arms flailing. “You said they almost sent you to military school last time!”

“I was in high school then.”

“I’m just saying you never know.”

“I’m a grown man. What are they going to do about it? I’ve graduated from college now. Remember the cap and gown we wore last month? Too late for Eagle Terror Military Academy now.”

“Was that actually the name of the place?”

“Jesus. And to think you’ve been accepted into that damn MBA program.” Elliot’s lips twisted in a fond smirk. “Besides, it’s only a painting. It’s not like I’m fucking anyone in their home, am I?” Elliot’s eyes slanted toward Martin with a gleam that made Martin’s throat go dry. Martin licked his lips again.

“I just think….” Martin trailed off, staring at the painting. He admired the shadows across the men’s naked skin. He took in the blue of the sky and the gold of the grass. He witnessed the tree standing so handily for an engorged cock, aimed with purpose toward the second man’s ass on display across the field. “I just think—your mother—forget it. It’s damn brilliant is what I think. You’re brilliant.”

Elliot chuffed softly, pleased with himself. “Of course. I’m a shining star upon—“

“Art’s suddenly brighter horizon. Yes, I know,” Martin quoted the Times review of Elliot’s first show.

Elliot quickly turned to him, paint slinging from his brush and spattering across Martin’s throat and right cheek.

Martin glanced down at his white button-up shirt, the top buttons undone and sleeves rolled to the elbow. It was dotted with an orangey flesh tone. He should have known better than to wear it anywhere near Elliot when he was painting. But he’d been so eager to escape the misery of Wednesday night church service that he’d raced to Elliot’s as soon as possible. As he’d climbed the stairs to the private studio over Elliot’s parents’ detached garage, he’d rejoiced in his freedom.

“Do you think this counts as their house?” Elliot asked as his hazel eyes went all wide with faux innocence.

“What?” Martin asked, feeling warm again.

Elliot’s dark curls and strong jaw line had done things to his insides since they were both fifteen when they met in their high school gym class. The moment he’d first locked eyes with him, all air had left him, punched out of his lungs by the sight of Elliot’s swarthy beauty. If he hadn’t had the basketball clutched to his crotch already, he’d have needed to get out of there fast.

“This. The studio. Or the garage. Does it count as part of the house?” Elliot seemed to consider this a long moment while Martin wondered if the dropping sensation in his stomach was good or bad. Maybe it was like Elliot’s work—beyond any assignment of value.

“Why?” Martin asked.

“Because…” Elliot tossed his brush into a messy jar of solvent and turned his back on the painting. “Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter, does it? Either I’ll fuck someone up here or I won’t. Right, Marty?”

Martin took a step back. Elliot only called him Marty when he was planning something fool-hardy. He’d called him Marty before the bath house adventure, and while that had gone okay—great, actually, as far as his dick was concerned—there was something about the look in Elliot’s eyes that made Martin break into a fine sweat.

“I know you’ve thought about it.” Elliot stepped forward slowly. His white tank top was a mess of blue, orange, yellow, and gray paint. A splotch of green ran over the muscles bisecting his shoulder, drawing Martin’s eyes to the strong line of his neck and the stubble growing along his jaw. He wondered how soft it was, or how bristly. Was it as dense as his own? Of course, he’d just shaved for church, but—

“Marty, do you want to suck my cock?”

“No.” Because he didn’t. He’d never thought about that. He’d only ever wanted one thing from Elliot, and it wasn’t his dick in his mouth. Though, now the deliriously arousing idea was introduced, he had a hard time shaking his head clear of it. “No, Elliot. I’m not sucking your cock here over your parents’ garage.”

“Let me fuck you then.”

Martin shivered. Now that was something he’d wanted for a very long time. The idea of Elliot’s big fingers—always crusty at the nails with color, never completely clean of paint—working him open before giving way to the glory of Elliot’s cock had been the stuff of masturbatory fantasies throughout high school and college. The only problem was—why now?

“Why? Just to piss them off? I don’t think so.”

Elliot sighed. “Pissing them off would be the gravy, Martin. Sex with you would be—well, hell, it’d be good don’t you think? I’d like it. You’d like it. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you come so hard you don’t see straight for a month.”

“Promises, promises.”

Elliot stepped close enough Martin could smell his musky scent underneath the overpowering odor of oil paint and turpentine. He could feel the heat pouring off Elliot as he hooked fingers still smeared with wet paint into the belt loops of Martin’s pants and jerked him closer. “I’ve wanted to fuck you since we were in high school. And now we’re going our separate ways. Me back to New York to shine on art’s brighter horizon, and you to fucking Pennsylvania for some stupid business degree that mainly just means you’re too far away from me.”

“I didn’t know you cared.”

“I’ve always cared.”

“Could have fooled me.”

“Oh. Is this about all the boys at school?”

“There were a lot of them.”

Elliot’s lips quirked. “Well, I figured college is for screwing as many guys as I could. Figured when I got out, I’d want to settle into something a little more realistic. A little more permanent. I’ll need someone to support me while I work on my masterpieces, you know,” Elliot said, his eyes crackling with mirth and sparking with heat. “Will that business degree let you get a good job to pay my bills?”

Martin’s cock didn’t seem to care at all that Elliot was always a mess of motivations. Aroused as he’d ever been, his mind had skipped to the part where he was on the paint-spattered wood floor, getting screwed on all fours, staring at the asses of the men in the painting.

“You want to. I know you do. Tell me no or else I’m going to have you, right here. Right now.”

‘No’ was on his lips but all that came out was, “Yes, yes, yes.” He helped Elliot get him naked, raking his jeans down his legs, and going down to all fours on the floor.

“I want to see your face when I fuck you. Roll over.”

Elliot gazed down at him, his smile soft, and he ran a gently hand over Martin’s straight, short brown hair. “Such a good boy you are Martin. Such a churchgoing sweet boy. You even have the hair cut for it.” Then he smiled, and Martin thought there was something more than fondness in it, something stronger, but he didn’t let himself linger on the idea because he wouldn’t fool himself. This was little more than Elliot feeling horny and eager to disrespect his parents.

“You’d look good with it long, you know.”

“Not going to happen. Someone has to pay your bills, remember?”  He could see it now—the two of them in a tiny apartment in the city. One room all for art, and the other a studio-like room for their bed and kitchen and all their belongings. They could start small, but one day he’d advance and maybe they could get something bigger.

“I’m going to paint you like this. Naked, hard for me, your face all red and embarrassed because I won’t just shut up and fuck you so you can stop thinking about how you don’t trust this, but you want it so much you’re willing to risk it. It’s gorgeous.” Elliot mused, still in his jeans and his tank, standing over Martin.

Elliot’s chest heaved with his heavy breath and his cock was reassuringly hard and pressing against the front of his jeans.

“Are you?” Martin said, and he could barely get the words out.

“I’ll paint you just like this and I’ll name it Wanting.”

“Shut up and fuck me.”

Elliot grinned, his hands going to the button and zipper of his jeans, and he shucked them smoothly. “I sure as hell am.”

Elliot tasted like salt, paint and turpentine. Martin’s mouth was everywhere at once, greedily taking in skin, and he hooked his legs around Elliot’s back, dragging him down firmly against his body. Elliot’s tank rucked up to his chest so their dicks and stomachs rubbed together as they kissed each other’s necks, licked, and bit one another shoulders. It was only when Elliot pulled back to spit on Martin’s exposed asshole and lined his cock up, pushing with a burning pressure until the head finally popped through, that Elliot dove forward and kissed Martin’s mouth. He kissed him sloppily, urgent and desperate in a way Martin had never expected from Elliot.

“Wanted you so long,” Elliot said. “Why didn’t you ever offer yourself to me?”

“Like the assholes you fucked at school, like those sycophants who worshipped at your feet? No thanks.”

“But you worship me,” Elliot said, gasping as he slid his cock balls deep and quivered, seeming to reach into himself for strength to go slow. “You adore me.”

“So the fuck what? You don’t adore me.”

“I do. I do, Martin. Oh, I do.”

Martin’s heart clenched in his chest. “Prove it,” he said. “Fuck me like you adore me.”

Elliot murmured in Martin’s ear as he pulled out and pushed back in, gently at first, and then harder, his voice getting louder and louder. “Every painting’s for you, Martin. For you. And you don’t even know it. God, you don’t know, and now I have you, I’m in you, finally!”

Then he whispered again, muttering against Martin’s neck as he pounded into him, sweat pooling between them, Martin’s cock lending its own slippery pre-come. “—and you’re such an asshole, Martin. Such a fussy little jerk who never would admit he wanted me to touch him. I wanted you to beg me, like all the rest, but you wouldn’t, and I even took you to that stupid bathhouse. But you just watched me, never came over, and never asked me to fuck you. Christ, all I thought about the whole time was bending you over, and—”

Elliot shut up, giving himself over to thrusting, and Martin went with him until Elliot’s orgasm gripped him. Martin rubbed Elliot’s back as Elliot shook, hunched into him hard, and whined, his hands clinging greedily. Elliot collapsed on him, boneless and trembling. Martin let him lay there until he couldn’t be patient for a moment longer. He’d wanted this since high school, and fuck if he wasn’t going to get it. He started moving, rutting against Elliot. Martin buried his face in Elliot’s curly hair to muffle his cry as he came, thick, sticky mess coating their stomachs and smearing into their pubic hair.

They clung to each other.

“What’s your mother going to say, choir boy? Skipping out of church as soon as possible to come lay with the devil?”

“She’ll never know.”

“How can she not know, Marty? You mean she doesn’t even suspect?”

“She doesn’t like you much.”

“See? She knows. It’s the only explanation. I’m totally lovable. Everyone says so.”

Martin smiled, wrapped his legs around Elliot to hold him inside a little longer, loathe to lose what he’d finally managed to gain. “What about your folks? They can’t ever know. You know they can’t know.”

Elliot laughed softly. “If they don’t know it’s because they don’t want to. Like you said, it’s always naked men with me.”

Martin kissed Elliot’s shoulder, smoothed his hand through his curls and relaxed his legs to the ground. He felt the empty tug in his ass as Elliot pulled out and rolled to the floor beside him, his tank still bunched up under his armpits and his nipples pebbled and tight.

Martin lifted on his elbows so he could study him in all his dark, long beauty. “I’m regretting Pennsylvania.”

“I bet you are.”

“I love you, you know,” Martin said.

“I know. And I love you, too.”

“So, that was pretty great.”

“Yeah.” Elliot grinned and slapped the back of his hand against Martin’s chest. “I guess for the foreseeable future it’s just one naked man for me. Should be an interesting change.”

Martin ignored that, content to lie with Elliot on the floor of the studio over his parents’ garage. “Thinking it over, I don’t think this counts as part of the house.”

Elliot leaned over to kiss Martin hard and chuckled into his mouth as he did.

– a free short story by Leta Blake. Copyright 2012.

Back to Free Reads.

4 thoughts on “Always Naked Men

    1. Thanks, Cryselle! I have a plan for more on most of these free reads here. Like anything else, it’s a matter of so much to write and so little time! 🙂 One day, I’d like to kick this day job to the curb. Today is not that day. 🙂

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