Happy endings

Q &A # Scott

This is an adult gay story if you aren’t an adult or “gay” isn’t your thing, you’d better look for something else to entertain you. 🔞 Cheers, Blake

Hello and welcome to the first episode of my Q&A series.

I understand that asking questions to fictional characters isn’t something everyone feels comfortable doing—it’s a little silly, right? Yet it’s something we do constantly or wonder about, for example, when it comes to movie stars, whom we often tend to associate with the characters they play.

I’ve received a few questions, but please, keep them coming!

Let’s go…

Hi Scott, you said you're pretty "vanilla" in bed. Has being in General Fulvius' body and mind changed that? The link to this free story is here

Oh, that’s a good question! I wouldn’t say I was necessarily -vanilla- before “meeting” General Fulvius. If you’ve been paying attention, I said I never minded a little kink, as long as I was the one who came out on top. That said, it’s true that the experience changed me in ways I’d have never imagined. Of course, there’s that -what the fuck happened that night?- kind of level, something I often find myself pondering; it’s both frightening and deeply comforting. But I can’t deny that what I experienced physically, and consequently mentally, had a profound impact on the kind of pleasure I seek these days.

The first thing I noticed after that night was that the type of men I fancied had changed, or at least become more diverse. Being in the General’s shoes, feeling his body, made me appreciate men older than me and possibly rougher than those I generally went for before. When I looked at my body—his body—I found his raw virility, his unkemptness, incredibly arousing. This, combined with his shameless lust, the abandon with which he let himself be taken, definitely opened my mind.

In other words, while I don’t necessarily seek out scenarios that deviate too much from my usual routine, it’s fair to say that, when the occasion arises, I’m open to embrace it or, in some cases, to be the one that gets the ball rolling.

If you remember, in the story I mentioned that my friends used to take the piss out of me -pun intended, and call me Cubicle Scott for my aversion to using urinals, well, things have definitely changed.

...

Julia, a good friend of mine from my days growing up in Edinburgh, was getting married in Brighton, on the English Channel, where she lives. A firefighter, she had met her future wife, a teacher, five years earlier during a fire safety demonstration at her school.

I took the train on the Friday; the ceremony was on Saturday, and I was coming back to York the next day.

We were in the midst of a heatwave—an English heatwave, but a heatwave nonetheless. The ceremony was taking place in the late afternoon at the town hall; it was great to see Julia again, as well as some mutual friends I hadn’t seen in ages.

Before the ceremony began, I looked around at the rows of guests, trying to figure out who was who and which of the brides had invited them. When I turned around, I saw a group of men, mostly in their forties, all smart in their suits, but what struck me most was that, despite being obviously different from each other, they gave the impression of belonging together. As if they were wearing their team’s football jerseys, or were members of the same political party. At first, I didn’t understand why I had that impression, but then it dawned on me: they were Julia’s colleagues; the firefighters on her team.

Then the ceremony started, music began to play, Julia entered the crowded room accompanied by her father, and I completely forgot about those men.

The reception venue was just down the road from the town hall: an elegant beach bar with bleached wood walls, and dim lighting. The DJ was already playing lounge music when we arrived, and the huge patio doors were open to the terrace, letting in some fresh sea air.

I was chatting, catching up with friends, drinking prosecco, when I noticed some men who weren’t at the ceremony but were clearly part of the same group I’d seen earlier. Some of the newcomers were younger, all wearing elegant dark trousers, but no jackets, just white shirts unbuttoned at the neck. Among them, one in particular stood out: he was tall, with well-defined muscles pushing under his shirt and a butt that filled his trousers with a perfect curve. His hair was close-cropped, but a thick mustache hung over his lips, which he often lifted into a friendly smile. He and his friends immediately went to the bar and ordered pints.

The evening continued along the same well-trodden path as many similar events: a toast, speeches in which the firefighters’ group was often coarsely alluded to, followed by the inevitable laughter, the delicious dinner, and finally the dance floor filling to the rhythm of loud music.

I danced, chatted, and had fun. I drank a little more, but not too much because I had a long journey ahead of me the next day and didn’t want to be too hangover. The firefighters stood near the bar, drinking beer and laughing out loud at their own jokes. I watched them: there seemed to be two groups, a larger one made up mostly of the men I’d seen at the ceremony, and a second, smaller group gathered around the man with the mustache I’d noticed earlier.

Among the men in this smaller group, one seemed older than me, shorter than the others, probably in his forties, shaved headed and a suntanned, his body appearing tight and compact. Another, standing next to Mr Moustache, was probably my age, early thirties, with short, dark hair, and physically the most similar to me: tall and athletic, without being particularly big; a shock of dark hair reached just above his sternum and could be glimpsed through his unbuttoned shirt. And then there was him: Mr Moustache, the youngest looking of the group: in his late twenties with brown eyes that stood out like dark stones against his pale face.

Every now and then, it was the one my age who would leave the group to come to the dance floor, dancing frantically, moving his feet as if the floor were scorching hot, and then returning to the bar for another pint. A couple of times he managed to convince his friends to follow him, and as they danced behind me, I imagined them checking me out. By then, I’d also taken off my jacket, remaining just in my blue-light shirt, black tie, and camel-colored trousers. Knowing they were behind me, I tried to show them my best moves, twirling with some of the girls. I was definitely giving out gay vibes for anyone who was ready to pick them.

As the night wore on, the number of guests began to dwindle: first those with children, then the elderly and those who had had to travel further. The firefighters’ group had also lost some members, and by midnight, only my three boys were still at the bar. I had gone out onto the terrace; it was still very mild, and the full moon cast a bluish, silvery light on the pebble beach. The music kept playing, muffled, the bass echoing in my head. I was sipping a large glass of water, wondering if it was best to leave, when someone came and stopped beside me, leaning on the terrace railing.

“Hello mate. Having a nice evening?” Mr. Moustache’s voice was thick with beer; he was still holding a pint in his hand.

“Great! You?”

“Yeah, Julia is fantastic,” he replied with that emphatic tone typical of someone who is pissed.

“Yes, she is. What’s it like working with her?”

“She’s fantastic!” he repeated without expanding.

“By the way, I’m Scott.” I thought I’d better introduce myself.

“Hi, Scott, Phill.” He shook my hand and patted me on the shoulder. “You’re Scottish, right?”

“How did you guess?” I said jokingly: my accent is unmistakable.

“Nice accent.” Phil looked at me, a little unfocused. “You’re a good dancer.”

So he’d noticed. I shrugged, but he continued: “Are you on the pussy team or the cock team?” So he didn’t beat around the bush. It’s worth remembering that we were at a lesbian wedding, so the question wasn’t entirely inappropriate. The majority of Julia’s guests were women, while the men were mostly family members or colleagues. So, even though I’d never have asked, I understood why Phil, drunk, was wondering. He wasn’t being threatening or sarcastic; just curious.

“Team cock, I’m afraid!” I don’t know why I added I’m afraid...

“Interesting.” The way he said it, taking his time, made me feel like I’d just revealed something incredibly important.

“Do you suck cocks?”

Let me explain. We weren’t talking about philosophy, yet it felt as if he was genuinely interested in my answer.

“Love it” I chose to be honest.

“Interesting,” he repeated with a serious expression.

I felt my dick getting heavier; I wasn’t sure where this conversation was going, but at the same time, I felt a rush of anticipation.

“I don’t know,” Phil answered a question I hadn’t asked.

“Okay. Listen pal, I need to take a leak” I really needed to piss and didn’t want to waste my time. If Phil was interested, he would have followed me; if he wasn’t, well, better to find out sooner rather than later.

“No problem, have fun”

So, no luck, no cute Mr. Mustache following me to the bathroom for a quick blowjob. I passed the two firefighters at the bar and nodded in their direction with a smile, then I reached the restrooms and headed for the first urinal, still hoping I’d been followed. The stream of piss came out strong and clear, my cock felt chunky in my hand, the hood halfway down its head. I shook it and put it back in my white briefs. I washed my hands and checked myself in the mirror. I thought I looked tired, so I decided to go back to the terrace, say goodbye to Phil, then to Julia and my friends, and head to the hotel.

When I opened the toilet door, he was outside, leaning against the wall, his half-full pint still in his hand.

“Oh, hi!” I sounded surprised, because I was.

But Phil just stood there, staring at me, smiling.

Suddenly that wave of anticipation washed over me once again. I knew I was going to get what I wanted, and instead of keep walking down the corridor, I backed away toward the toilet, my eyes fixed on him. Phil shook his head and nodded toward the bar instead, took another sip of his beer, licked his mustache, and began walking, checking to make sure I was following.

My cock was rock hard. I could feel it pressing against the light fabric of my trousers, and looking down, I saw its bulge curving up toward my belt.

The other two firefighters weren’t at the bar, and we continued walking, past the emptying dance floor, where I picked up my jacket, onto the terrace, and from there down the stairs to the beach. It was still warm, and the full moon made it easy to see where we were walking; everything looking rather unreal under its silvery light.

Two men were sitting on a low wall, one of them vaping, thick vapor coming out of his mouth like a chat bubble. I recognized the two firefighters and, of course, Phil stopped in front of them.

"Guys, this is Scott. Scott, that’s John,” he said, pointing to the man vaping, the one my age. His clear eyes shone in the silver light, he was more handsome than I had realized at the bar, with an assured cheekiness in his smile. "And that’s Simon." The bald man stood up to shake my hand, followed by John, who did the same.

For a moment we remained like that, in an awkward silence that I felt the need to break with some small talk.

"You’re from around here?"

"London, and Phil’s from Kent," John said, his voice had a strong London accent, probably from the Eastend. I had known other firefighters in my life, and everything about him seemed to confirm his profession. If I hadn’t known already, I would have already guessed he was one; otherwise, perhaps a policeman.

"Kent, the garden of England," Phil added proudly, toasting with his almost empty pint. Then silence fell over our little group again.

"So, our friend Scott, here," Phil finally broke the ice and put his arm around my shoulders. "He likes to suck cock, right, Scott?"

"That’s quite accurate..." Now I wasn’t entirely sure where this conversation was going. Those men had been drinking all night, and I knew how volatile the situation could be. I wasn’t scared: like I said before, I was pretty sure these guys weren’t homophobic or anything like that, it’s just that a little banter could quickly turn into something more sinister under the influence of alcohol.

"And we love getting sucked!" he said, emphasizing love.

"I don’t know, man..." Simon was shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe he was finding himself in that situation, and I’m sure if he hadn’t been drinking, he wouldn’t be in it.

"Come on, pretend it’s one of your girlfriends. Which one was the last one? Kelly, right. Pretend it’s Kelly. No offense, Scott," Phil seemed disappointed in his friend’s attitude, he looked at me, squeezing my shoulder.

"None taken."

"Have you done this before?" John was looking at Phil, I knew he wanted to go ahead and was trying to find a way to make sense of it; a plausible justification for his willingness.

"Never... I think." I liked Phil’s honesty; there was something rather childish about the way he said it. He went on: "...and I’m so fucking horny."

"How about the girls at the party?" Simon wasn’t really into it.

"All lesbians. And, you know, when in Brighton..." - fair enough: Brighton is the gay and lesbian capital of the United Kingdom.

"What happens in Brighton stays in Brighton..." I added hopefully. The possibility of sucking not one, but three cocks had suddenly made my long journey south much more rewarding than expected.

"I’m not touching you, right?" Simon was still hesitant, but I sensed his guard dropping. I was certain they had talked about it before Phil joined me on the terrace. Maybe it had started as a bet, a drunken dare between friends. But now it was becoming all too real, reaching the point of no return.

"You don’t have to do anything you aren’t OK with, mate," I reassured him. "Just relax, and let me take care of you."

"See, he’s a good guy our Scott." Phil had set his empty glass on the wall and was ready to move on to the next phase.

I raised my hands, indicating I was cool with whatever they decided. It was their last chance to change their minds.

But Phil, clearly the leader of their little pack, needed no encouragement. He turned and headed for the water. That night, the tide was very low, and the dark mass of sea had receded considerably from where we were talking.

"Are you coming, Scott?"

"Coming!" I was still turned on, but the thought that the other two might not follow us had turned into a kind of anticlimax.

I didn’t need to worry. I heard the crunch of pebbles underfoot and turned to see John right behind me, with Simon following at a short distance. The closer we got to the water, the louder the noise of the waves breaking on the beach became, but the sea was relatively calm, and their lapping sounded like the soothing sound of beads in an ocean drum.

We had reached the normally submerged line where the pebbles gave way to the sand. We walked a little further toward the water, until Phil stopped to look around. I did the same: the light from the bar and the buildings along the shore was a distant glow across the vast, deserted beach. John and Simon joined us a moment later, standing next to him and facing me.

Without saying a word, Phil unzipped his trousers and, after fiddling with his fingers for a while, pulled out his cock. Never had a cock matched a man like Phil’s matched him. It was large and long, but it wasn’t hard yet, as if, just like Phil, it had a certain relaxed attitude. The foreskin ended in a puckered teat that reminded me of a sausage or a balloon. In a way, I was disappointed that he wasn’t hard, almost as if, after all, he wasn’t into it as much as I thought. On the other hand, I’ve always loved servicing a soft cock, its malleability, playing with the foreskin and watching it grow.