Our summer house near the ocean has an outdoor shower. It's open to the sky, but enclosed by cedar shake walls just low enough to see over.
It's a great place to wash off the sand from the beach and the ocean salts, but in warm weather it's an all-purpose shower. It's a large but simple enclosure with exposed framing on the inside, a few hooks to hang towels and clothes, and a full length mirror on the inside wall opposite the shower head. The mirror makes it perfect for shaving while standing under the stream of water.
In the warm weather I use it to the exclusion of the inside showers. There's something liberating about it, standing exposed to the sun and sky as the water streams down on you. I've even showered in the rain, with the warm shower water mixing with the cool raindrops to create a very pleasant effect.
Last year, I was alone in the house for the summer and Jayce came to visit me for a week. He'd been here before, but never in the summer. When I told him about the outdoor shower he was skeptical. His natural modesty made him concerned about showering outdoors. "Can't the neighbors see?" he asked.
"Nah. The nearest one is 100 yards away. And besides, you're screened by the wall. Sort of."
"Sort of?"
"Well, the walls are only five-feet high, so they can see your head, of course. And that one neighbor's house is on a hill, so I suppose if he were upstairs, and happened to be looking down..." My voice trailed off.
This seemed to excite him. He tried to hide a smile. "You mean that hot guy we saw on his deck this morning?"
"Yeah," I said. "He is kinda hot, isn't he?"
So he tried the shower the next morning. After he got out I asked him how he liked it.
"Well?"
"It was kinda cool," he admitted. "After you get used to it." He paused. "What's with the mirror?"
"It's for shaving," I said.
He knitted his brow. "Oh really." He didn't sound convinced.
He was hooked. The days were hot, and every morning he'd get up and tramp off to the shower. Each time it seemed he spent longer in there. I enjoyed watching him returning through the back yard with a towel around his waist and still dripping wet, his brown skin glistening in the morning sun.
"How's the shower?" I'd say.
"Nice."
"You sure seem to like it. Those are pretty long showers."
"It helps wakes me up," he said, a little defensively.
One afternoon we returned from a long bike ride to the beach. We were both hot as hell and sticky. We slumped in the lawn chairs on the deck.
"I'll flip you for the shower," I said.
"No," he says. "You had first shower this morning. It's my turn."
"I don't think so," I say. "These are Afternoon Rules, and I'm going first. Unless, of course, you want to join..."
The words aren't even out of my mouth and he blurts, "Yes!" and is up out of the chair.
Woo hoo, I thought.
We grab our towels and head to the shower. You have to duck to get through the arched doorway, because the shower walls were built so a six-footer could just see over them. "Watch your head in the shower" became the running joke.
I duck and Jayce ducks and he follows me in.
We hang up our towels and I turn on the shower, letting it run in my hand to get to just the right temperature.
He's standing between me and the mirror, watching us in the reflection. He starts to pull off his t-shirt, but I wrap my arms around him from behind and trap his arms.
"No, let me do it," I say.
He says nothing, but stops. He's watching the mirror. He watches my hands as they slip to his stomach to tug up the t-shirt, exposing his navel. We both watch the mirror and behind us we can see a bit of steam rising from the shower as it hisses. I slide my hands up inside his shirt, one hand across each nipple, and then hook my thumbs inside his armpits.
"Lift up your arms," I say.
He does so, watching.
He catches my eyes and watches me watch. The shirt goes over his head. Now only I can see.
The chest, nipples, navel, flat stomach, trick trail. All exposed. His head, covered in his white cotton shirt. I pause briefly. "Yum," I say.
He says nothing, waiting. I pull the t-shirt the rest of the way and he looks in the mirror. His eyes flash, once, and one eyebrow lifts. A hint--only a hint--of a smile. He licks his lips. My chin rests on his left shoulder and I briefly hold his t-shirt to my face as he watches in the mirror. I inhale the sweet smell of sweat from his shirt.
The water continues to stream out of the shower head behind us.
I drop the shirt and begin to unbutton his cargo shorts. As I do I give a sharp upward tug on the shorts, my thumbs looped inside the waistband next to his warm skin. His shorts are full, it seems.
I get the button undone. I can see his eyes transfixed on my hands in the mirror. He pushes his butt backwards against me, firmly.
I open his shorts just a bit. The top of his white briefs are visible in the mirror. "Maybe I should stop here," I say flatly.
"No!" he exclaims before he realizes I have no such intention. He looks down at my hands.
"Watch the mirror," I instruct, and he returns his gaze there.
"Now what?" I tease.
"The zipper," he says.
"Please?" I say.
"Please," he says.
"Please what?"
"Please do the zipper."
"The zipper?"
"My zipper. Please do my zipper."
"As you wish, sire."
My left hand holds back the flap of the fly and my right hand grasps the pull and gently, slowly, tugs it down. As I do, both of us have our eyes transfixed as the white cloth is being exposed in the mirror. His fly is all the way down. He pushes his butt back into me.
"Hmm." I say, trying to sound like a prospector who has found some promising gold flecks. Now both my hands slide down the insides of his thighs, still inside his shorts, the backs of my knuckles brushing his skin. The white cotton has a pronounced bulge where he is trapped at an awkward angle, and there is a globular rounded W-shaped mass at the point of his crotch.
"Hmm," I say again, and with one hand I cup the globes through his briefs.
"Hmm, what are these?" I say now, cupping with both hands.
He shifts from one foot to the other. He's watching the mirror, and his breathing is quick, but shallow. A bit of steam rises behind us from the shower.
His cargo shorts are loose and with one deft move with my forearms I force them to drop to his knees, all the while still cupping his pouch.
He is now fully exposed in the mirror---his torso bare, his chest heaving slightly, his nipples prominent and erect. He is glistening from sweat and mist from the shower. He stands in his white underwear, watching me cup his balls through the cloth.
"Well look what we have here," I mutter softly. "I wonder what else there is."
He shifts his feet. He pushes back against me. "Matt." he says.
"Shall we find out?" I say, caressing his pouch. "Shall we?" I repeat.
"Yes," he breathes.
By now the bulge in his briefs has grown substantially, but it is still caught in an awkward horizontal angle. The cotton is damp in one place. He squirms.
I continue to grasp his pouch with my left hand but slide the other across the front of his briefs and along the thick ridge of cotton. He watches in the mirror.
"Hmm. What's this?" I say as I wrap my fingers around it, grabbing it firmly. He presses against me.
"What is this?" I say insistently and move my fingers toward the end of the ridge. "It's wet, too, right here." I give it a squeeze.
"Huhn" he breathes, still watching.
"I think this needs to get out," I say. "Don't you?"
He's still watching as both hands have him firmly in their grasp---one from below, fondling the orbs ever so slightly---and one clamped around a cotton shaft.
"Yes." he says.
"Yes what?"
"Yes please."
"Ok, you're the doctor," I say. "Step out of your shorts."
He lifts one leg, then the other, sliding the shorts past his ankles and off.
I still have not loosened my grasp with either hand.
"Now stand at ease, with your hands at your side," I say. "And watch the mirror."
He does as I say.
I let go of the cotton orbs with my left hand but still hold on to the ridge of cloth with the other. The left hand finds the waist band and slides a thumb under it and tugs the briefs up.
"This is like a treasure hunt," I say. "Do you think I'll find buried treasure? Huh?"
"I… I . . .don't..."" is all he could muster. There is a hint of smile in his reflection. Quickly my left hand slips down inside the briefs past the trapped shaft and cups his two warm globes. The flesh is smooth and pulled tight across them.
He gasps slightly.
"Hmmm." I say "These are nice. They feel like gold ballions."
He snickers softly. I begin to roll the balls around in my hand. "I like these. Do you like them?"
"Yes," he mutters.
"What? I can't hear you."
"Yes."
"Yes what?"
"Yes I like them."
"May I have them?"
"Yes."
"What?"
"Yes you can have them."
"Oh goodie." I roll them around inside his briefs. I still have his cock firmly grasped with the other hand.
His eyes wander.
"Don't look down. Don't look down or your friends are gonna get it." I give his balls a gentle squeeze. He looks back in the mirror.
"Hmm," I say. "I think something else needs some work. What do you think?"
"Yes," he breathes. His chest is heaving and glistening with sweat. A trickle runs down toward his navel. His lips part. His tongue flicks across them.
"I think we need to see where that stain is coming from. Don't you?"
"Mmmmm."
While fondling his testicles I release his cotton-covered shaft, still trapped in damp white cloth tenting to the left. Once released, the tent moves more toward vertical. The cotton stretches even more.
"I do believe you've got a boner," I say.
"Yeah," he says as he looks down.
"Watch the mirror! Yeah what?"
"Yeah I have a boner."
"A BIG boner."
"Yeah a big boner." He squirms again.
With that, my right hand slips inside his briefs and grabs his warm stiff cock.
"Ohh," he breathes. He pushes back against my lap.
"Well, so it is," I say. "A big hard, hot boner."
I begin to slowly slide my hand up and down the shaft and fondle his tightened nuts. "Can I pet it?"
"Yes"
"Yes what?"
"Yes pet it. Pet my boner."
My hand slides up and down the shaft, rhythmically, slowly. He pushes forward against the briefs.
"Oh Matt," he says.
"This is bigger than a boner, I think." I jack slightly faster and roll the balls around in my hand.
"I think you've got a hardon. A raging hardon. Right?"
"Yeah," he whispers still straining forward, then back. He spreads his legs slightly and slides his palms up and down the outsides of his thighs. He gazes at his bulging crotch in the mirror.
"Yeah what?"
"Yeah I have a hardon."
"What kind of hardon?"
"A raging hardon."
"I'm not sure though," I say, still jacking. "Maybe we should look?"
"Yeah."
"Yeah, what?"
"Yeah, look at my hardon. My raging hardon."
"OK, you're the boss. Watch the mirror."
Quickly with the back of my hand I flip the cloth under his nuts, where the white cotton catches and pushes his tight scrotum out prominently toward the mirror. His balls are the size of two walnuts in a smooth leather pouch, exposed and vulnerable.
"Well, look at that," I say. "Major Hardon and his two friends."
When released from the cloth and the grasp of my hand, his cock leaps upward like a spring. It was indeed a major hardon, the shaft glistening with sweat and the tip seeping and slick and translucent.
I jack him slowly. His butt tenses as he pushes back into my crotch and then forward at the mirror, humping toward his reflection. He reaches back and grabs the back of my thighs, trapping my arms as I beat him off.
"I think Major Hardon needs a spanking, don't you?"
"Yes," he breathes.
"You want me to jack you off?"
"Yes."
"Yes what?"
"Yes, jack me off." He didn't wait: "Please."
He is straining now, pushing into my hand. His eyes are glued to the mirror. So are mine.
"You're the doctor. Watch the mirror."
I jack slightly faster, up and down, over the slippery head---now swollen and red---and all the way down to the base, where his balls, still cupped, are being insistently massaged and tugged and rolled around.
"You like that?" I ask, as I pull on his sac.
"Yes."
"Yes, what?"
"My balls," he says, "pull on my balls. I like it"
"Like this?" I say as I tug them out, simultaneously slowing the jacking so his entire dick is jacked from head to root in the same motion as his scrotum is pulled taut.
"Yeah," he mutters, as he eyes the mirror.
He pushes toward the mirror, straining, pushing harder as I tighten my grip on his slick cock and slow the pace even more.
His hands tighten their grip on my thighs as he thrusts insistently toward the mirror. I push forward into his butt, matching each jack with a thrust of my own.
All the while my eyes are on his eyes in the mirror. He's watching my hands and his cock and his balls and my hands and his cock and his balls thrusting, thrusting toward the image of himself in the mirror.
My chin is resting over his left shoulder, with my cheek up against his. He smells delicious. I jerk down on his cock and tug his sac and he thrusts toward the mirror.
He looks up and catches my eyes in the mirror. We lock on each other's gaze---both totally absorbed. As I plunge on his cock he thrusts one final insistent rippling thrust, staring into my eyes.
"Matt, oh Matt. Please."
It's a great place to wash off the sand from the beach and the ocean salts, but in warm weather it's an all-purpose shower. It's a large but simple enclosure with exposed framing on the inside, a few hooks to hang towels and clothes, and a full length mirror on the inside wall opposite the shower head. The mirror makes it perfect for shaving while standing under the stream of water.
In the warm weather I use it to the exclusion of the inside showers. There's something liberating about it, standing exposed to the sun and sky as the water streams down on you. I've even showered in the rain, with the warm shower water mixing with the cool raindrops to create a very pleasant effect.
Last year, I was alone in the house for the summer and Jayce came to visit me for a week. He'd been here before, but never in the summer. When I told him about the outdoor shower he was skeptical. His natural modesty made him concerned about showering outdoors. "Can't the neighbors see?" he asked.
"Nah. The nearest one is 100 yards away. And besides, you're screened by the wall. Sort of."
"Sort of?"
"Well, the walls are only five-feet high, so they can see your head, of course. And that one neighbor's house is on a hill, so I suppose if he were upstairs, and happened to be looking down..." My voice trailed off.
This seemed to excite him. He tried to hide a smile. "You mean that hot guy we saw on his deck this morning?"
"Yeah," I said. "He is kinda hot, isn't he?"
So he tried the shower the next morning. After he got out I asked him how he liked it.
"Well?"
"It was kinda cool," he admitted. "After you get used to it." He paused. "What's with the mirror?"
"It's for shaving," I said.
He knitted his brow. "Oh really." He didn't sound convinced.
He was hooked. The days were hot, and every morning he'd get up and tramp off to the shower. Each time it seemed he spent longer in there. I enjoyed watching him returning through the back yard with a towel around his waist and still dripping wet, his brown skin glistening in the morning sun.
"How's the shower?" I'd say.
"Nice."
"You sure seem to like it. Those are pretty long showers."
"It helps wakes me up," he said, a little defensively.
One afternoon we returned from a long bike ride to the beach. We were both hot as hell and sticky. We slumped in the lawn chairs on the deck.
"I'll flip you for the shower," I said.
"No," he says. "You had first shower this morning. It's my turn."
"I don't think so," I say. "These are Afternoon Rules, and I'm going first. Unless, of course, you want to join..."
The words aren't even out of my mouth and he blurts, "Yes!" and is up out of the chair.
Woo hoo, I thought.
We grab our towels and head to the shower. You have to duck to get through the arched doorway, because the shower walls were built so a six-footer could just see over them. "Watch your head in the shower" became the running joke.
I duck and Jayce ducks and he follows me in.
We hang up our towels and I turn on the shower, letting it run in my hand to get to just the right temperature.
He's standing between me and the mirror, watching us in the reflection. He starts to pull off his t-shirt, but I wrap my arms around him from behind and trap his arms.
"No, let me do it," I say.
He says nothing, but stops. He's watching the mirror. He watches my hands as they slip to his stomach to tug up the t-shirt, exposing his navel. We both watch the mirror and behind us we can see a bit of steam rising from the shower as it hisses. I slide my hands up inside his shirt, one hand across each nipple, and then hook my thumbs inside his armpits.
"Lift up your arms," I say.
He does so, watching.
He catches my eyes and watches me watch. The shirt goes over his head. Now only I can see.
The chest, nipples, navel, flat stomach, trick trail. All exposed. His head, covered in his white cotton shirt. I pause briefly. "Yum," I say.
He says nothing, waiting. I pull the t-shirt the rest of the way and he looks in the mirror. His eyes flash, once, and one eyebrow lifts. A hint--only a hint--of a smile. He licks his lips. My chin rests on his left shoulder and I briefly hold his t-shirt to my face as he watches in the mirror. I inhale the sweet smell of sweat from his shirt.
The water continues to stream out of the shower head behind us.
I drop the shirt and begin to unbutton his cargo shorts. As I do I give a sharp upward tug on the shorts, my thumbs looped inside the waistband next to his warm skin. His shorts are full, it seems.
I get the button undone. I can see his eyes transfixed on my hands in the mirror. He pushes his butt backwards against me, firmly.
I open his shorts just a bit. The top of his white briefs are visible in the mirror. "Maybe I should stop here," I say flatly.
"No!" he exclaims before he realizes I have no such intention. He looks down at my hands.
"Watch the mirror," I instruct, and he returns his gaze there.
"Now what?" I tease.
"The zipper," he says.
"Please?" I say.
"Please," he says.
"Please what?"
"Please do the zipper."
"The zipper?"
"My zipper. Please do my zipper."
"As you wish, sire."
My left hand holds back the flap of the fly and my right hand grasps the pull and gently, slowly, tugs it down. As I do, both of us have our eyes transfixed as the white cloth is being exposed in the mirror. His fly is all the way down. He pushes his butt back into me.
"Hmm." I say, trying to sound like a prospector who has found some promising gold flecks. Now both my hands slide down the insides of his thighs, still inside his shorts, the backs of my knuckles brushing his skin. The white cotton has a pronounced bulge where he is trapped at an awkward angle, and there is a globular rounded W-shaped mass at the point of his crotch.
"Hmm," I say again, and with one hand I cup the globes through his briefs.
"Hmm, what are these?" I say now, cupping with both hands.
He shifts from one foot to the other. He's watching the mirror, and his breathing is quick, but shallow. A bit of steam rises behind us from the shower.
His cargo shorts are loose and with one deft move with my forearms I force them to drop to his knees, all the while still cupping his pouch.
He is now fully exposed in the mirror---his torso bare, his chest heaving slightly, his nipples prominent and erect. He is glistening from sweat and mist from the shower. He stands in his white underwear, watching me cup his balls through the cloth.
"Well look what we have here," I mutter softly. "I wonder what else there is."
He shifts his feet. He pushes back against me. "Matt." he says.
"Shall we find out?" I say, caressing his pouch. "Shall we?" I repeat.
"Yes," he breathes.
By now the bulge in his briefs has grown substantially, but it is still caught in an awkward horizontal angle. The cotton is damp in one place. He squirms.
I continue to grasp his pouch with my left hand but slide the other across the front of his briefs and along the thick ridge of cotton. He watches in the mirror.
"Hmm. What's this?" I say as I wrap my fingers around it, grabbing it firmly. He presses against me.
"What is this?" I say insistently and move my fingers toward the end of the ridge. "It's wet, too, right here." I give it a squeeze.
"Huhn" he breathes, still watching.
"I think this needs to get out," I say. "Don't you?"
He's still watching as both hands have him firmly in their grasp---one from below, fondling the orbs ever so slightly---and one clamped around a cotton shaft.
"Yes." he says.
"Yes what?"
"Yes please."
"Ok, you're the doctor," I say. "Step out of your shorts."
He lifts one leg, then the other, sliding the shorts past his ankles and off.
I still have not loosened my grasp with either hand.
"Now stand at ease, with your hands at your side," I say. "And watch the mirror."
He does as I say.
I let go of the cotton orbs with my left hand but still hold on to the ridge of cloth with the other. The left hand finds the waist band and slides a thumb under it and tugs the briefs up.
"This is like a treasure hunt," I say. "Do you think I'll find buried treasure? Huh?"
"I… I . . .don't..."" is all he could muster. There is a hint of smile in his reflection. Quickly my left hand slips down inside the briefs past the trapped shaft and cups his two warm globes. The flesh is smooth and pulled tight across them.
He gasps slightly.
"Hmmm." I say "These are nice. They feel like gold ballions."
He snickers softly. I begin to roll the balls around in my hand. "I like these. Do you like them?"
"Yes," he mutters.
"What? I can't hear you."
"Yes."
"Yes what?"
"Yes I like them."
"May I have them?"
"Yes."
"What?"
"Yes you can have them."
"Oh goodie." I roll them around inside his briefs. I still have his cock firmly grasped with the other hand.
His eyes wander.
"Don't look down. Don't look down or your friends are gonna get it." I give his balls a gentle squeeze. He looks back in the mirror.
"Hmm," I say. "I think something else needs some work. What do you think?"
"Yes," he breathes. His chest is heaving and glistening with sweat. A trickle runs down toward his navel. His lips part. His tongue flicks across them.
"I think we need to see where that stain is coming from. Don't you?"
"Mmmmm."
While fondling his testicles I release his cotton-covered shaft, still trapped in damp white cloth tenting to the left. Once released, the tent moves more toward vertical. The cotton stretches even more.
"I do believe you've got a boner," I say.
"Yeah," he says as he looks down.
"Watch the mirror! Yeah what?"
"Yeah I have a boner."
"A BIG boner."
"Yeah a big boner." He squirms again.
With that, my right hand slips inside his briefs and grabs his warm stiff cock.
"Ohh," he breathes. He pushes back against my lap.
"Well, so it is," I say. "A big hard, hot boner."
I begin to slowly slide my hand up and down the shaft and fondle his tightened nuts. "Can I pet it?"
"Yes"
"Yes what?"
"Yes pet it. Pet my boner."
My hand slides up and down the shaft, rhythmically, slowly. He pushes forward against the briefs.
"Oh Matt," he says.
"This is bigger than a boner, I think." I jack slightly faster and roll the balls around in my hand.
"I think you've got a hardon. A raging hardon. Right?"
"Yeah," he whispers still straining forward, then back. He spreads his legs slightly and slides his palms up and down the outsides of his thighs. He gazes at his bulging crotch in the mirror.
"Yeah what?"
"Yeah I have a hardon."
"What kind of hardon?"
"A raging hardon."
"I'm not sure though," I say, still jacking. "Maybe we should look?"
"Yeah."
"Yeah, what?"
"Yeah, look at my hardon. My raging hardon."
"OK, you're the boss. Watch the mirror."
Quickly with the back of my hand I flip the cloth under his nuts, where the white cotton catches and pushes his tight scrotum out prominently toward the mirror. His balls are the size of two walnuts in a smooth leather pouch, exposed and vulnerable.
"Well, look at that," I say. "Major Hardon and his two friends."
When released from the cloth and the grasp of my hand, his cock leaps upward like a spring. It was indeed a major hardon, the shaft glistening with sweat and the tip seeping and slick and translucent.
I jack him slowly. His butt tenses as he pushes back into my crotch and then forward at the mirror, humping toward his reflection. He reaches back and grabs the back of my thighs, trapping my arms as I beat him off.
"I think Major Hardon needs a spanking, don't you?"
"Yes," he breathes.
"You want me to jack you off?"
"Yes."
"Yes what?"
"Yes, jack me off." He didn't wait: "Please."
He is straining now, pushing into my hand. His eyes are glued to the mirror. So are mine.
"You're the doctor. Watch the mirror."
I jack slightly faster, up and down, over the slippery head---now swollen and red---and all the way down to the base, where his balls, still cupped, are being insistently massaged and tugged and rolled around.
"You like that?" I ask, as I pull on his sac.
"Yes."
"Yes, what?"
"My balls," he says, "pull on my balls. I like it"
"Like this?" I say as I tug them out, simultaneously slowing the jacking so his entire dick is jacked from head to root in the same motion as his scrotum is pulled taut.
"Yeah," he mutters, as he eyes the mirror.
He pushes toward the mirror, straining, pushing harder as I tighten my grip on his slick cock and slow the pace even more.
His hands tighten their grip on my thighs as he thrusts insistently toward the mirror. I push forward into his butt, matching each jack with a thrust of my own.
All the while my eyes are on his eyes in the mirror. He's watching my hands and his cock and his balls and my hands and his cock and his balls thrusting, thrusting toward the image of himself in the mirror.
My chin is resting over his left shoulder, with my cheek up against his. He smells delicious. I jerk down on his cock and tug his sac and he thrusts toward the mirror.
He looks up and catches my eyes in the mirror. We lock on each other's gaze---both totally absorbed. As I plunge on his cock he thrusts one final insistent rippling thrust, staring into my eyes.
"Matt, oh Matt. Please."
...........but he is right excellent story
Welcome to JUB!
I didn't check sooner, but I just saw your note. I'm with everyone else. You don't look like a dork -- or even a penis. That was pretty good. You were just really upset 
about stuff none of us understood. If I thought you were a dork you wouldn't be my best bud. Would you?
