Last night at dinner, my grandfather announced that he had business to conduct in San Diego next week. He would be leaving on Monday, and returning on Thursday or Friday. I assumed that he had nothing to do on Monday. Sunday was, of course, the ‘Lord’s Day,’ so he wouldn’t want to travel on Sunday unless it was absolutely profitable. Freeways were not yet a commonplace and it would take him several hours to get to San Diego, even allowing for the fact that he drove like a maniac. The Packard was equipped with a straight eight; I knew about straight eights, we liked them in Nevada where there were no posted speed limits on the highway, they weren’t very quick off the line (who, in any event, would expect a Packard or a Cadillac to be quick off the line), but they absolutely purred at a hundred miles an hour or so.
Granmum contributed that she had a Church Tea to attend this afternoon. This probably would have something to do with saving the souls of heathens. In my mind, being a ‘heathen’ had nothing to do with one's religion; and everything to do with running around naked, or close to it. I enjoyed running around naked so I tended to view heathens with approval. This approval, however, did not extend to attending a Church Tea where, even if they did mention ‘naked.’ it would be with grim disapproval.
We were eating pork chops. They had been simmered in a Dutch oven in the proper manner and were fork tender; we also had mashed potatoes and gravy. The potatoes had a very few tiny lumps in them so you knew they’d not come out of a box. We also had fresh green beans. Left to my own devices, I would have lavished mayonnaise on my green beans. We did that in Nevada. But Pobbin would have considered this entirely too ‘French’ which would have been almost Catholic and entirely decadent. I’d have said “delicious” but I had to make do with salt and pepper. Peach cobbler with heavy cream for dessert.
Yesterday, when parting, Johnny had told me that he was going to the dentist this morning so his Mom would miss the minimum amount of work while she picked him up and dropped him off. This meant that I had nothing to do this morning. Nothing but to think heathenish thoughts about me and Johnny.
Actually Granmum, who subscribed to the notion that “idle hands are the Devil’s workshop,” managed to find lots of little things for me to do around the kitchen and backyard. But this was totally okay because I do love my Grandparents an awful lot. And to tell the truth, none of these tasks were very arduous and did not interfere with my daydreams about a naked Johnny in the least. I mean, it’s not like I had a barn to muck out or anything like that.
At length, Granmum retired to the bedroom to make all preparations for discussing heathens. I began to think about interesting things that Johnny and I might do in the backyard. There was the Catalina Cherry jungle, which would be suitable for any number of themes from Tarzan to natives. Explorer adventures were out as they tended to wear clothes. We might climb trees, but our scope of action would be somewhat limited in a tree. I began to think that a tree house might be something to consider in the future. I went into the grape arbor and began to see some possibilities. Nobody would be in the house during the afternoon. Pobbin would drive Granmum to her tea, and then would occupy himself in some manner in greater metropolitan downtown Anaheim until tea was over. He would then pick up Granmum and they would return. The arbor, thanks to the grape leaves, was completely screened from the house and the neighbors; I was speculating on the arbor and the germ of an idea had come to me. When I heard the Packard murmuring into the driveway, I went to greet Pobbin. He was, as always, impeccably attired in a summer weight suit, starched white shirt, and a responsible tie. My grandfather was a Nineteenth Century gentleman in many respects. There was a Brooks Brothers Panama hat on the backseat that he would don when he got out of the car for any purpose downtown. We exchanged pleasantries. I’m sure Pobbin did not approve of my uniform of cut offs and sneakers (no socks); but apparently, he did not consider it to be a battle worth waging so long as I was neatly attired for church, meals, or for any other joint excursion. And, truth to tell, I thoroughly enjoy dressing up, though I would never admit it and always complain about it. I’m pretty sure there’s a rule about that.
Mounted on his Schwinn, Johnny came wheeling gloriously onto our driveway (two strips of concrete, separated by grass that ran back to the garage). He was dressed like me save that he wasn’t even wearing sneakers. He dismounted with a clatter then, with an instantaneous change of demeanor, turned and greeted my grandfather with solemn courtesy. Pobbin responded with quiet dignity and then left us on the grounds that he would “just hurry along” my Granmum. I think this was just an excuse to avoid too much conversation across the march of years that separated us. I’d heard him say this before and never, in my experience, had Granmum increased her tempo even the tiniest bit. The screen door banged.
I looked at Johnny’s crotch. I think he already had a boner. My dick stirred gently in my cut offs.
“They’re gonna be gone all afternoon. Do ya wanna do somethin’ here today?”
“That’ll be fun,” Johnny said, giving me his beautiful smile and pulling gently at the fabric at his crotch. “What’re we gonna do?”
“Dunno,” I replied, though I’d been considering just this question most of the morning. “Let’s make a sandwich and then decide.”
“Granmum, can I make sandwiches for me and Johnny?” I inquired of her as she was standing in front of the living room mirror seeing to the good order of her hat.
“Johnny and I,” she riposted, as I knew she would.
“Yes’um. Johnny and I.”
“You certainly may,” she returned to the original question and began a catalog of the lunch appropriate contents of the refrigerator and the kitchen at large as she drew on her gloves.
She gave Pobbin one of those: ‘are you finally ready looks’ and he rose and followed her into the kitchen. She kissed me. She never wore lipstick as that would have been vanity; but she wafted lilac and talc wherever she went. She kissed Johnny and rumpled his hair asking him when he would like to come to dinner. He thought that he’d love to eat with us at her convenience. “Sometime soon,” she determined as she enjoyed having “three men at table.” Of course, Johnny ate with us regularly; but here Granmum is discussing a feast. She left with my grandfather in tow. The doors of the Packard closed with the dignified thunks of a dignified car; it purred to life and they were gone.
We opted for Swiss cheese sandwiches with lettuce and tomato and mayonnaise, Fritos, stuffed green olives, and milk. The bread was home made by Granmum whose opinion of Wonder Bread was scathing. I could slice it beautifully as we had a proper bread knife.
“I’ve been thinking that we can play in the grape arbor,” I suggested with some diffidence, because Johnny had taken the lead so brilliantly yesterday. Sounding rather like me, Johnny wondered, “Yeah, but what’re we gonna play?”
“Let’s play King,” I suggested, as one of my earlier daydreams became a real idea. “You’ll be the King and I’ll be your slave that takes care of you. Here, let me show ya.” I put down the remnants of my sandwich and dashed off to my bedroom. I returned with an aged copy of The Book of Knowledge. It had been published before World War One. I opened it to a picture that I think was of Alexander the Great though I don’t remember for sure. He was sitting on a throne that looked like it should be marble. He was naked though he was in profile. There was a cloak or something draped over the throne, but he wasn’t wearing it. There was, however, this naked slave, standing next to the throne with a bowl of fruit, or something, and you could see his butt. And there was the idea.
“There are lots of grapes in the arbor,” I added helpfully. “I’ve got your costume all figured out and everything.” Johnny smiled grandly; he was going to be a Great King. I could tell that already.
We went to the back of the arbor where Johnny admired the abundant grapes. He started picking and eating them carefully. I unbuttoned his cut offs and he stepped grandly out of them. He did have a boner and it was standing royally up. I’m gonna have to measure him some day, I thought. I stroked while he continued to eat grapes.
I pulled this old metal lawn chair into the arbor and told him that it was going to be his throne. “Don’t sit in it yet cuz it’ll be hot. I’ll get your costume.” I was pretty bossy for the boy who would be slave. I dashed into the house and returned with two large towels. These were beach towels that my Grandparents would never use unless I managed to engineer a trip to the beach—not the good towels from the bathroom. I draped one of them over the chair in what seemed a suitably regal manner. I took the other to Johnny and put the center of the short end of the towel under his right arm; I pulled the two ends up and over his left shoulder where I knotted it. While the result was not nearly as classical as my imagination had made it, Johnny was beautiful with his left side bare, and his boner tenting the terry cloth. He strode down the arbor and turned with a flourish. The shoulder knot came loose. His robe would have fallen if he’d not pinned it to his side with his arm. He gave me a royal glare. I remembered that he was the King and I his Slave. I rushed to his assistance and re-tied the knot over his shoulder. While re-tying the knot, I managed to rub the cheeks of his butt, and stroke and fondle him pretty thoroughly. I also arranged the cloak so that it did not interfere with my view of his boner.
“Strip. Slave.” Johnny proclaimed. I did.
Johnny turned, he raised his left hand to just above his shoulder, as if he were acknowledging the cheers of the multitudes; he put his right fist on his hip, with chin and boner jutting, he majestically strode down the length of the arbor to his throne. He turned and faced me regally. The knot was coming loose again. He sat slowly on his throne, spreading his legs as wide as the throne allowed; he reached over and untied the knot and flung his cloak open and over the arm of his throne. His cock stood straight up while his balls hung loosely below, resting comfortably in the heat of the day.
“Grapes.” His majesty declaimed.
I hastened to obey. I plucked a large bunch from the side of the arbor and rushed to the foot of the throne. Remembering. I rushed back into the kitchen and rinsed them off at the sink and put them in a bowl. I rushed back and kneeled in the leaves while I offered the grapes up to him with both hands. Then I nuzzled his boner and took him in my mouth. The game of “King” was over and the game of “Sex” began.
It was intense and it was joyful.
We unwound in the dust and leaves of the arbor floor. “Let’s lay down together somewhere,” Johnny suggested.
“We can take the towels back under those trees,” I said, nodding to the Catalina Cherry jungle.
“Great.”
There was a perfect hiding spot back in the far corner. It had more than enough room for the two of us, plus there was additional cover provided by several large rose bushes in verdant bloom alongside one corner; we could see out, but no one could see in. We gathered the towels and I led Johnny through a barely visible break in the trees and down a path to the corner. It was like one of those great photos in the National Geographic: naked boys in a lush jungle. I started to spread the towels on the carpet of leaves in our nook. Johnny thought that we needed the grapes, so he went back down the path to the arbor and returned with the bowl, which he had filled with more grapes, as well as our cut offs. You know— just in case. I knelt on our towels and admired his lithe nudity as he moved through the jungle. We were Southern California heathens if ever there was such a thing.
“Will you lay on your stomach,” Johnny asked when he was safely back from his naked expedition. “I wanna try sumthin’.”
“Sure,” I said. Whatever you want, I thought. I moved over on the towels and obediently lay on my stomach. Johnny knelt by my waist, “spread your legs some, babe” and he worked at getting my legs into the desired angle. It wasn’t quite right, yet, but I liked that he’d called me ‘babe.’
“Here,” he said, “you need to put your head in that corner and lay across the towels like this.” He shuffled me all around till he had me in the proper position for exactly what—only he knew. He knelt between my spread legs and started putting grapes, one by one, into the crack of my butt. Okay, I thought dreamily. This was hot but also calm and relaxing because we had both just cum explosively. Johnny put one hand on each of my cheeks and then started lapping the grapes up with his tongue. It was very sensual but also somehow calming. I developed about half a woodie because of it.
“Did you like that,” Johnny asked reasonably.
“Yeah, I did. Lay down. But on your back. And let me eat some offa you.” Johnny quickly complied as I grabbed the grapes. I took great care placing individual grapes all along his dick and carefully on and around his balls. Then I slowly ate them, one by one, and then licked him thoroughly clean. When I was done, he had half a woodie too. We lay together, kissed dreamily, and dozed lightly in the soft embrace of the afternoon.
This had brought passion back to the jungle where the games of sex continued.
When the Packard swept into the driveway, we were properly dressed and the very picture of virtuous youth. We were in the backyard lawn chairs, we had grapes, Fritos and lemonade to hand. There were several copies of Superman and Prince Valiant on the little table. This was a mild naughtiness of the intentional sort. What made everything really perfect, though, was that we’d mowed the lawn.
Granmum smiled sweetly, said that dinner would be in about an hour, and went into the house. Pobbin had me drive the Packard into the garage as he surveyed our yard work; he nodded approvingly saying that we’d been very busy indeed, and went into the house. I walked Johnny home. We had been very busy indeed.