Ups and Downs
By: Brock Archer
(© 2022 by the author)

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...

barcher@tickiestories.us

Chapter 29
Dreams

Once I got back to San Diego, I spent the next three days doing two things: helping Kim prepare for the annual Halloween bash and re-reading all of my favorite Brock Archer stories—which means all of them. And, of course, I beat off a lot. That’s three things, you say? Actually, I don’t think it’s possible to read a Brock Archer story and not beat off or fuck the first person you see, so I count those as one thing.

Of course, there were plenty of opportunities to fuck and no shortage of guys who were willing and eager, but I had a lot on my mind after the trip back east, and I just wanted some time to decompress.

On my first full night back home, I got a call from my sister Amy. She had heard from our brother Eric and said she was delighted that the two of us had bonded. “He’s almost as proud of you as I am,” she gloated.

We talked for over an hour. She wanted to hear every little detail of my trip to New York and Connecticut. I told her all about it, leaving out the most salacious details, of course, which she nevertheless coaxed out of me. She brought me up to date on everything that was happening back home. “Dad is still being a dick,” she said, “but not as bad as he was. He’s coming around slowly.”

“What about you?” I asked. “You got a boyfriend?”

“Oh, loads of ‘em,” she teased. She then proceeded to tell me about how handsome they all were and what big dicks they had. “And they really know how to use them,” she boasted.

“You’re just saying that to make me jealous,” I laughed.

The next night I got another call—this one from my brother Eric. He told me how glad he was that we had some time together in Greenwich but lamented that the time was so short. “You’ll have to come visit us in New Haven,” he said. “Cindy is dying to meet you. And so are some of my buddies from Yale,” he snickered.

I thanked him for buying the four sketches of my initiation at the auction, and he pretended not to know what I was talking about. Big brothers!

Mr. Block and Woody flew back from New York three days after I did. Since Rafael was gone, I was now the chief chauffeur, so it was my duty to pick them up at the airport. Naturally, I was   excited to see them again, but I was also apprehensive. I never got the chance to talk to Mr. Block about secretly being Brock Archer. I thought maybe I would get my chance in the limousine as I drove them home, but the two of them sat in the back seat chatting with each other. They did greet me, and Mr. Block asked how I was doing. “Fine,” I said with a pasted-on smile, and then the two of them basically ignored me the rest of the way home.

The next day I went through my regular chores, washing the cars, cleaning the pool, and helping Ron with the cleaning and Kim with preparations for the big party. At dinner, Mr. Block and Woody focused mostly on getting caught up with Kim and Ron. I guess they figured they didn’t need to catch up with me since I had been with them most of the time. Even so, I can’t deny that I felt a bit like I was being ignored. Truth be told, I felt like I was slowly drifting away, and I didn’t know what to do about it.

After dinner, I decided to escape to the library. There was no one else there as I browsed the shelves for a literary diversion. I had read enough porn the past few days; now I needed something different, so I pulled a Simon Tracker thriller off the shelf, took a seat at the long, empty library table, and drowned myself in the fantasy.

“How ya doin’, Joe?” Woody asked perfunctorily as he strode briskly across the library toward the door to his office. “Fine,” I said in the same hollow tone I had used in replying to the same question from Mr. Block the day before. Woody, already past me, froze in his tracks, turned, and strolled back toward me, taking a position standing across the table from me.

“Joe, what’s wrong?” he asked, propping his hands on the back of the chair across from me and leaning in. And for a moment, I thought he really cared, but then I shrugged it off.

“Nothing,” I replied.

“After the week you’ve just had, I would think you would be on cloud nine right now.”

Once again, I just shrugged and retreated into my book, but I could feel his stare piercing through the pages as he paused for what seemed like an eternity, waiting for me to reply. Eventually, he straightened up to his normal commanding posture, sighed, and said as he was walking away, “When you’re ready to tell me what’s bothering you, let me know.”

Just before he reached the door to his office, I called out, “Woody?”

“Yeah, champ?”

He had never called me that before, but it sounded so sincere, so reassuring, that I continued. “It was an incredible week, and I can’t thank you and Mr. Block enough for making it happen for me. I don’t know if I am on cloud nine, but I definitely feel like my head is in the clouds.”

By the time I had finished the sentence, Woody had strolled back to the table, pulled out the chair directly across from me, and sat down. “I’m listening,” he said, and I felt like he really was listening.

After taking a deep breath, I continued, “I think I’ve mentioned to you before that Brock Archer is my favorite writer.”

“Yeah,” I think you’ve mentioned it a time or two.”

I had to laugh because I knew I must have said it a thousand times.

“And when I saw that he is also an artist…and a damn good one…I got even more excited.” Woody just sat quietly, but I could tell that he was really listening, hearing me.

“And when I heard that he was at the art show, I couldn’t wait to meet him, but then when I learned that Brock Archer is actually Mr. Block, I felt.…”

“Felt what?” asked Woody when I cut my sentence short.

“I dunno,” I replied. “I guess I felt kind of…betrayed.”

“Betrayed?” Woody asked in reflexive consternation.

“Yeah, I dunno, I guess I just feel like you and he didn’t trust me enough to tell me—especially since everyone else seemed to know.”

“Not everyone,” Woody replied. “In fact, very few people know, but it’s not that Arthur…Mr. Block…doesn’t trust you. It’s just that…well, he’s a very private person, and we try to respect that.” Seeing the still-blank look on my face, Woody continued, “Look, Joe, if the shoe were on the other foot, he would show you the same courtesy. He likes you, Joe. He has made that abundantly clear, I think…especially this past week.”

“Yeah, I guess he has.”

“No, Joe. You know he has.”

“But why—”

“When Art started writing gay erotic fiction years ago, he was already a very successful businessman. Times were different then, and he was concerned that if people knew the truth, that might hurt his business, so he adopted the name Brock Archer as a cover, a pseudonym. Then, when he started painting a few years ago, he kept the same name, partly for the sake of privacy and partly because the name had become something of a brand.”

“I can see that,” I acknowledged. I was beginning to feel more relieved since Woody had gone beyond my immediate concern and was sharing more about Mr. Block than I had expected. “He must have been one helluva businessman,” I offered as I surveyed the room and tried to encompass the luxury surrounding us.

“He was,” said Woody. “Successful enough that he could afford that penthouse by Balboa Park.”

“And this,” I added, referring to the estate.

“All of this,” Woody explained, “was paid for by his ‘secret career.’”

“I love his stories,” I repeated, “and now I love his paintings, but I can’t imagine that he would have made enough money from those to buy this place and keep it running the way he does.”

“That’s not the ‘secret career’ I’m talking about.”

Seemingly changing the subject, Woody asked, “Are you a Simon Tracker fan?” pointing to the book I had been trying to read.

“Yeah.”

“And have you seen any of the movies that have been made from his books?”

“Sure,” I confessed, “they’ve all been box office hits,” and when Woody just sat there and smiled at me, I jumped, “Oh, hell, you’re not telling me that Arthur Block, a.k.a. Brock Archer, is also Simon Tracker?”

“Do you recall the first time you went into Art’s office?” Woody asked.

“Of course.”

 “And do you recall a man coming out of the office as you were going in?”

“The guy who looked a bit like George Clooney? Oh, fuck! That was George Clooney. He starred in a couple of those movies.”

“And he served as the executive producer, along with Brock Archer, of several others. Right now, he and Art are working on another one that is sure to be a blockbuster. That’s the reason the two of us stayed over in New York for three days, to go over some script and casting issues with him. They had chosen an actor to play the lead role, but then that asshole made some disparaging remarks about gays, so Art pulled him immediately just before shooting was to begin, and they had to find a replacement. Fortunately, Chris Evans was available.”

“Chris Evans? He is so fucking hot!”

“Yes, and after he heard about your artistic debut in Greenwich, he’s eager to meet you.”

I had to laugh at the teasing, but when I saw the way Woody was looking at me, I gushed, “Holy fuck! You’re not kidding are you?”

“He’s coming here next month to go over some script issues, and he wants to see your sketches. He might even want you to sketch him.”

“Oh my god! Am I dreaming?”

“Maybe,” replied Woody, “but the dream is real.”

After I threw myself back in my chair and gazed at the ceiling in wonderment, Woody reached out and put his hand on mine. “Joe, don’t ever hold this kind of shit in. Whenever something is bothering you, come talk to me, okay?”

Given the way Woody was looking at me, I thought I would melt into his eyes. All of a sudden I was feeling extremely aroused. Was it the thought of meeting that hunky Chris Evans, or was it the sensation of Woody’s hand on mine?

Either way, I sprouted a boner that required immediate attention, so when Woody got up and went into his office, I raced out to the pool and grabbed the first guy who smiled at me. I don’t think he knew what hit him, but he sure as hell knew what entered him. I grabbed his hand, pulled him up from his lounge chair, dragged him over to the grassy area, pressed him down on his knees, and shoved my cock into his mouth. He gagged but didn’t complain.

I skull-fucked him until I was almost ready to explode in his mouth, but I wanted more. I pushed him backward, lifted his ankles over my shoulder, and drove my cock into his fuck hole. As I fucked him mercilessly, other guys walked over to urge me on.

“Yeah, man! Fuck that frat boy. Fuck him good.”

“Hey, Pete. How do you like that dick? Give it to him, Joe. Drill him, man.”

“That’s what it feels like, dude. You’re gettin’ it from a pro.”

As I continued to ram the guy harder and faster, another guy sat on his face while another one worked on his cock. He squirmed, moaned, and screamed, but that just made the event all the more exciting. When the guy sitting on his face got up, two other guys shoved their rods into his mouth, alternately fucking his tonsils until they both shot all over his face. Those blasts triggered his own orgasm as he spewed his white seed all over himself, which launched my own orgasm. I came and came and came until I felt like I had dumped gallons into his guts and drained my body completely.

Sweating like a pig, I dragged myself over to the pool and fell in backwards. Once I surfaced, I swam to the opposite side of the pool and watched as the gang finished up with my prey, the guy they had called “Pete,” licking up all the cum and feeding it to him.

When one of the guys who had been egging me on swam up beside me, I asked, “What did you mean when you said, ‘That’s what it feels like’?”

“You didn’t know?”

“Know what?”

“Pete’s never been fucked before. He always brags about being this super-hot top and swore he would never take it up the ass. You got yourself a virgin tonight, bro.”

When the gang finished up with Pete and left him lying alone on the grass, I got out of the pool, walked over, and lay down beside him. “I’m really sorry, dude. I had no idea you had never…. I’m…I’m…really, really sorry.”

Pete’s face remained stoic until he finally spoke, “If you really want to make it up to me.…” But before he finished the sentence, he grabbed the back of my head and pulled me into a deep, wet, very fucking hot kiss, and when he finally let up, he repeated, “If you really want to make it up to me, do it again.”

Pete spent the night in my bed with me that night. We fucked again that night and still again the next morning. I warned him that his ass was going to be very sore, but he just smiled and said, “Yeah, thanks for that.”

To be continued...

Posted: 12/23/2022