Tommy queen and the quest for the golden dildo

M R Westwood

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This zany idea has been in my head for a while. Hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoy musing about it. Here's a starting sample. Let me know if I should go on.

Chapter 1: Meet the Crew

Tommy averted his gaze from the lounge singer and tried to focus on his plate, instead. Dinner was the one part of the day aboard the cruise ship he had to spend with his parents, and when this broad-shouldered hunk with a sexy short beard strode to the microphone, Tommy had found himself staring. He cast a furtive glance at his parents. His mother smiled openly at the singer, while his father cracked open another morsel of lobster. Neither seemed to have noticed him checking out the entertainment.

"Man, you do not get seafood like this back home. Right, Champ?"

Tommy smiled politely and said something he hoped sounded enthusiastic and grateful. He was appreciative. Their family had never been poor, but they had never been rolling in the dough, either. When his parents announced that they were going on a cruise to celebrate his graduation from high school and acceptance into Northwestern, he was stunned and thrilled. He didn't realize he'd be surrounded by so much eye candy. The sundeck, with all those guys in swimsuits; the sauna, where they wore even less; and now the mess hall, where this gorgeous guy sauntered around, filling the air with his rich, deep voice. God, his backside was even better than the front. The way that tight ass slid in his slacks with every step. He was staring again. Food. Focus on the food.

A server came around to refill their drinks, and when she left, Tommy's father grinned and winked at him. Tommy put on a smile and pretended to check her out, though he really didn't know what he was supposed to be looking at. He had never understood the appeal of the female form, but he had learned to go through the motions. A few dates, here and there, with girls who had cute brothers. A playboy under his mattress, and an airtight history scrubber on his computer. Prom. It was a matter of survival for public school in their conservative town. Content at his hetero display, his father turned back to his food.

The recollection of his closeted high school days brought Mr. Rickson to Tommy's mind. Rumors spread behind the English teacher's back--he was much too handsome to make it past thirty as a bachelor--but Tommy knew the truth behind them, had learned that truth on a Summer afternoon after graduation.

"Well, I think I'm about ready to turn in," Tommy's mother said, giving his father a significant look. Moments later, Tommy had the table to himself, but he still could not gather the courage to ogle the walking statue of manhood that had so many women in the room smiling. Instead, he poked at his food and thought about Mr. Rickson, and when the singer bowed out a couple minutes later, he made his way out of the mess hall. At least, he tried to.

He found his way blocked by an angry customer, a couple inches shorter than Tommy and slight of build, on a tirade about the quality of the food and the state of his cabin. Tommy listened to the tirade, fascinated not by its content, but by its delivery. The man spoke with a lilt and made flamboyant gestures. He was at once imperious and flaming. Nobody within earshot would think he was straight, but this guy didn't seem to care. He just carried his tirade to completion, then turned from the apologetic staff member and left. Tommy made out a well-groomed goatee and some fancy--and flashy--hairstyle he couldn't name, before the stranger was out of sight.

The deck was surprisingly empty this evening, so Tommy leaned on a rail and looked out across the ocean. What would it be like to be so open, like Mr. Goatee? He thought, for the umpteenth time, about coming out to his parents. How would they react? Would they be disappointed? Would they blame themselves? Would they cut him off? Force him into conversion therapy? He ruminated, but found no way to ease the news. It would have to wait. Maybe it would be easier when he was in college.

"Would you look at that? The moon on the ocean. Ain't nothing like it in the whole, wide world."

Tommy hadn't noticed the stranger approach. He was brawny like a lumberjack, with a mop of red-brown hair and a broad smile. He was also leaning on the rail, but his demeanor couldn't be further from rumination. He looked out at the scene and took it in, wide-eyed, enjoying the moment, the breeze, the company. He turned to Tommy and introduced himself.

"I'm Andy" he said, extending a rough hand the size of a waffle iron. Tommy shook hands and gave his name. He was reluctant at first to break his dark mood and make small talk, but Andy's eager, unassuming manner was infectious. By the time the man excused himself, his eyes trailing two twenty-something girls on the deck, Tommy's mood had lifted entirely. He made his way to the private cabin his parents had reserved for him and undressed.

For all the lumberjack had lifted Tommy's spirits, his secret recollection abided. Mr. Rickson. The English teacher ran a volunteer project every year, the weekend after graduation. Tommy had been one of the few to show up for this year's project, about a month ago. Landscaping around the community rec center. They planted and transplated, weeded and sprayed, mulched and mowed. Tommy didn't mind getting his hands dirty, but there was no denying his real reason for showing up.

Mr. Rickson didn't just supervise the former students; he worked alongside them. By noon, his shirt was sweat-soaked and clinging to his muscular body. Tommy stole glances whenever he thought nobody was looking. The pizza arrived, and Mr. Rickson called for a break and passed around bottles of water. The other alumni clustered under the shade of a tree, and Tommy found himself talking to Mr. Rickson.

"So, Northwestern, is that right?"

"Mm-hmm." Tommy made eye contact and fretted. Was he being polite, or was he staring into those ice-blue orbs? Mr. Rickson carried on as though nothing were out of the ordinary.

"That's a wonderful school. Congratulations. They have one of the best journalism programs in the world. But then, they have a lot of great programs. Any idea what you want to study?"

"I'm not too sure, but I am for sure going to take an intro journalism class my first semester."

Mr. Rickson had smiled at him, then. Was it the pride of a teacher, or something else? Remembering his doubt, his awkwardness, Tommy tossed his clothes into the hamper at the corner of his cabin and climbed into bed, naked.

After gathering the paper plates and plastic bottles, Mr. Rickson thanked everyone for coming and congratulated them on a job well done. The other former students piled into their cars and were soon gone, but Tommy's phone rang with a text. Mr. Rickson found him by a flower bed.

"Something the matter?"

"No. I mean, kinda. My mom's meeting with a client, and it looks like they're going later than planned. She won't be able to pick me up for a while."

"I see. Well, I live just around the corner. No sense standing in the sun all day. Why don't you help me put all these tools away and rest up a bit as she finishes that meeting?"

That smile again. The memory of it gave Tommy a semi, as he pulled the bedsheets over his naked body.

Mr. Rickson's house had a lived-in feel, without being messy. Bookcases lined his living room walls, with a comfortable-looking couch and armchair facing a flatscreen. The teacher poured a couple glasses of orange juice, then excused himself.

"Hope you don't mind. I enjoy working with my hands and getting dirty, but now I need to clean up."

Tommy peeked into the bedroom as the older man peeled the shirt off his athletic torso. He had left the bedroom door ajar. Did that mean something? Without pausing, the educator dropped his shorts and walked naked to the master bathroom. Every step set the length of his cock swinging.

In the cabin bed, Tommy closed his eyes and recalled the image of that schlong. His own was at full mast and tenting the bedsheets.

Mr. Rickson turned on the shower, and Tommy was drawn into the bedroom as though by chords, hoping that the bathroom door was also ajar. It was. He sneaked a peek at the hunk behind the frosted glass and realized he had a hand on his crotch, stroking the boner beneath his shorts. He told himself to leave the bedroom and go back to the orange juice, but his feet--and cock--wouldn't obey. He sneaked peek after peek, rubbing himself. He would leave when the shower turned off.

Except the shower didn't turn off. Next thing he knew, the bathroom door was swinging open, and Mr. Rickson was staring at him, full monty and dripping wet, with one eyebrow raised and the shower still running.

"Didn't your mother teach you it isn't polite to stare?"

Tommy stammered. He wanted to drop to his knees and suction Mr. Rickson's length into his watering mouth. His shorts did nothing to hide his rock-hard erection. He looked for the polite thing to say and came up short. His cheeks flared red with embarrassment. Mr. Rickson chuckled.

"You're not my student, anymore, Tommy. You're eighteen and graduated."

Tommy looked into Mr. Rickson's gorgeous eyes, confused. The teacher chuckled again, shaking his head.

"Did you think I invited you to my house so we could talk about Beowulf? There's room in there for two." He said, nodding toward the shower. He stepped across the bathroom and opened the shower door, then turned over his shoulder to shoot an expectant look at Tommy, who disrobed at record speed.

--to be continued--
 

M R Westwood

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[Chapter 1, cont'd]

Tommy's heart pounded at the memory of that afternoon, and every beat pulsed in his cock. The eye-popping pleasure. His deep need to give that pleasure to another man. The guilty thrill of their secret rendez-vous. He stroked himself as he recalled the encounter, looking at the door to check and double-check that it was locked.

He had walked across the bathroom to the shower that afternoon with no idea what he was doing. He had dreamed of doing this--hell, he had had more than one dream about Mr. Rickson, specifically--but he had never actually, well, done anything. With nothing but porn to guide him, he stepped into the shower and looked at the adonis within arm's reach. Heavy semi that elongated by the second, thin waist that expanded into broad shoulders, 5'o'clock scruff around a smug smile. Their eyes locked as Mr. Rickson reached around to slide the shower door shut. The teacher's look was positively possessive.

"Have you ever been with a man before?"

Tommy swallowed and tried to lie, but no words came out. Mr. Rickson chuckled at first, but then took on a more serious look.

"Do you want to?"

"Yes!"

The word escaped Tommy's mouth before he had time to think, and the sheer honesty of it unlatched something inside of him. He grabbed Mr. Rickson's lengthy half-mast and started tugging. The older man grabbed his wrist and pulled his hand away, shaking a finger at him.

"Not so fast."

With a push and a twirl, Tommy found himself facing away from the teacher, who hugged him close. He could feel the massive erection hardening as it slid up and down his cheeks and he gasped, wondering what it would be like to have that thing inside of him. Would it hurt? Mr. Rickson grabbed a bottle of body wash and started massaging it into Tommy's shoulders, arms, chest, and stomach. Tommy's cock twitched with anticipation, but Mr. Rickson moved from stomach to thighs. All the while, his extra inches hardened between the cheeks of Tommy's virginal peach.

"Lean forward."

Mr. Rickson didn't wait for Tommy to comply; rather, he pushed between Tommy's shoulder blades with one hand and pulled his hips back and up with the other. Tommy found a ledge to lean against. The teacher lathered Tommy's back, then took a step back to squirt the body wash down his buttcrack. Tommy's eyes widened as Mr. Rickson slid a hand between his cheeks, but his embarrassment quickly evaporated with the pleasure of the massage. He felt a quick pinch.

"Are you. . . ?"

He trailed off as the teacher hushed him.

"Shh. Shh. Just relax." Mr. Rickson used his free hand to massage Tommy's back and shoulders. "You feel that? That's your prostate. Focus on that feeling."

Tommy felt another stretch at what he guessed was another finger, and he relaxed into it. There was a glow of pleasure somewhere between his ass and balls, similar-yet-different to the feel of jacking off. After a moment, the stretch disappeared. He looked back and saw Mr. Rickson putting on a condom. The teacher blocked the shower spray with his body as he applied lube to his cock and Tommy's ass. He put a hand on Tommy's shoulder.

"Deep breath in. . . breathe out and relax. . . Deep breath in. . . breathe out and relax. . ."

Tommy took up the rhythm. Deep breath in. Long breath ou--OH. He had thought the fingers were a stretch, but this was a whole new level. He gasped and tried to pull away, but Mr. Rickson's powerful arm wrapped around him and kept him close.

"Just keep breathing and relaxing. It'll feel amazing in a minute."

That sounded impossible to Tommy, but he did as instructed, and sure enough, the tearing feel gave way to a massaging feel. His cock, which had deflated at the moment of entry, began to stiffen again. He looked back over his shoulder and nodded at the teacher, who began thrusting slowly.

The glowing pleasure returned ten-fold. His cock was an iron rod, bouncing between his thighs. He started jerking himself off frantically, taking in the pleasure. Mr. Rickson pulled his hand away with a warning: "Not yet." The thrusting quickened. Tommy's cock was unbearably sensitive. Every time it brushed against his thigh, he was pushed to the edge. Mr. Rickson let out a low groan of pleasure, then pulled Tommy up and hugged him close, fucking him mindlessly. Tommy could not distinguish his own groans from the teacher's.

"Fuck!"

Mr. Rickson pushed in deep as he came, and Tommy stroked himself to climax. He turned around and looked up at his former teacher's broad, relaxed smile. It was an afternoon he would never forget.

Tommy opened his eyes back in the cabin. He had cum all over his chest, and the euphoria faded back into a familiar guilt. He was a fag. A pathetic bottoming fag. Angry at himself, he fished around for a discarded shirt to wipe himself clean. The evidence of his shame erased, he rolled onto his side and fell asleep, thinking of Mr. Goatee's open flamboyance and Andy's unassuming joie-de-vivre.

When he woke the next morning, he found that someone had slid an envelope under his door. He turned it over. No markings anywhere. Inside, he found a note:

Hannah's Cabana
7:30 tonight

Was this their idea of a flyer? He knew they were docking for the first time today, but you'd think a luxury liner would make more of an effort. He went to toss the envelope in the garbage chute and noticed a small piece of plastic tucked away in one corner. Digging his laptop out of a suitcase, he plugged in the thumb drive he had almost thrown away and found pictures. Him and Mr. Rickson at the Rec Center volunteer project. Him in Mr. Rickson's house, shot through a window. Him in the shower with Mr. Rickson's cock up his ass.

He tore the thumb drive out and stomped on it. Who knew? He checked and double-checked his laptop, making sure every last trace of the photos was deleted. He wadded up the note and envelope and opened the chute, then thought again. Better to keep the note. He tossed the envelope and stowed the note in the bowels of his luggage.

Who knew?

Someone knocked at the door, and he jumped. Was it the blackmailer? Shit, what was he going to do?

"Honey? You awake?" His mother called. Tommy schooled his features to a calm smile and opened the door. His mother beamed up at him.

"There you are! It's almost time to dock. Quick, grab your things. You don't want to be last in line!"
 

M R Westwood

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Tommy sat on the edge of his beach towel, arms wrapped around his knees, and watched the people walking by. Did one of them slide that envelope under his door? He registered every polite smile, every glance in his direction. He knew he stuck out among the vacationers lounging in the tropical sun on the white sand, but he couldn't bring himself to lay back and pretend to relax. Somebody knew his secret. Who? More important, how could he keep that person from outing him? He looked beside him at his parents. Maybe he should tell them? He could tell them the pics were photoshopped. . . no. He just couldn't risk it. And he didn't want to ruin their vacation besides.

His mother put down her reflective screen with an exasperated sigh. "Really, Dear, why bother coming to the beach if you're not going to enjoy it? Are you hungry? Is that it? I think I packed a granola bar in my purse. . ." She started rummaging through her handbag, but Tommy declined the offer and stood up, saying he was just bored and wanted to look around.

"Doesn't want to spend his day in paradise around his mom and old man, I think" his dad said. "No, it's ok, Tommy. I get it. I was 18 once, too. Here." He pulled his wallet out of a backpack and handed Tommy a couple bills. "This should get you through dinner. Just make sure you make it back on board before the ship leaves at 9, ya? Oh, and. . ." He sneaked a glance at Tommy's mother and lowered his voice, "I understand there are a few, ya know, gentlemen's clubs in town. Here." He handed Tommy a stack of one's with a wink. "Don't spend it all in one, uh, place."

Tommy forced an excited smile that scrunched into disgust the moment his father turned back to lay down by his mother. Strippers were the last thing he wanted to think about with this blackmailer on his trail. The thought of those photos left him feeling naked. He snatched his street clothes and pulled them over his swimsuit, but still he felt prying eyes behind every tourist's smile. He set off down the boardwalk, hoping his fake smile rendered him inconspicuous.

After searching a few minutes, he found a map of the island town and ran a finger through the index on the back side. Hannah's Cabana did not appear anywhere on the list. He frowned. Maybe it was on the map itself? Nope. His frown deepened, and an elderly couple noticed.

"You lost, young man?" the husband said.

"No, I'm just looking for a place--Hannah's Cabana? Do you know where it is?"

The couple looked at each other, then shook their heads.

"Never heard of it."

"Oh. Well, thanks, anyway."

He asked around. Most people shook their heads like the elderly couple. A few people placed hands over embarrassed smiles. "Um, I don't think you're old enough for that one, Kiddo," said a middle-aged woman with bright red hair and gigantic sunglasses.

What was this place? Tommy wondered, but it really didn't matter. The note's instructions were clear: Hannah's Cabana, 7pm. If he couldn't find it on a map or get directions, he would find it in person. He started into town. Looking at the map, he divided the town into three major sections and began searching the streets systematically. Two hours later, he was walking down an empty street in section two, beef kebob in one hand. He was about to cross the street off when a reflection caught his eye and he looked down an alleyway at a sign faded beyond legibility. It hung over a warped wood door. On the off chance the sign had once read "Hannah's Cabana," Tommy walked up to the door. A few remaining chips of blue paint speckled around the hinges and doorknob. Did he hear something on the other side of the door? A sort of thumping sound, maybe? Well, there was only one way to find out if this was the place. He pulled the door open.

"UUUNNNNGH!"

Tommy stood, hand still on the knob, speechless at the sight in front of him. A man-shaped wall of muscle, facing the door, shorts around his ankles, and a woman on her back, luxurious grin on her face, with her skirt hiked up and her legs against the man's chest. Wide-eyed and mouth open, the man hugged the woman's legs close as his pelvis and abs twitched, and Tommy guessed he was coming balls deep in the woman's pussy. When the spasms finally stopped, the man's grin was even broader than the woman's, and he locked eyes with Tommy.

"Tommy! Good to see you again!"

"Uh, hello, Andy."

The woman started, looked at Tommy, then punched Andy in the chest.

"I told you someone would walk in on us!"

"Babe, it's not a big deal. He's cool."

The woman got up and adjusted her sun dress. With a scathing look at Andy, she flounced out of the room, decidedly not looking at Tommy, who stepped aside to give her space. With her gone, Tommy looked back at his acquaintance and his jaw fell open. Andy was hung thick, really thick. The lumberjack knuckled the small of his back and yawned, sticking his post-coital semi straight out in the air. He gave Tommy a lazy, unconcerned smile.

"I don't suppose ya got any wet wipes? No? Ah, well."

With a shrug, he pulled his shorts up. He twisted his torso one way, then the other, as though limbering up for a workout at the gym, and made for the door.

"Is. . . is this Hannah's Cabana?"

Andy stopped mid-step and raised an eyebrow at Tommy. "Hannah's Cabana? Now, that's not one many people know. How'd ya swing an invitation to that place? No matter--" He stepped outside and put an arm around Tommy's shoulders. "I'll show ya the way. Don't bother with the map. Won't help you where we're going."