Gay Erotic Stories

(c) Copyright 1999 - 2000, Michael Edmond, All Rights Reserved

"More wine, Monsieur?"

I nodded yes to Jacques, as he filled my glass and smiled at me with his eyes. As I sat on the café terrace, he looked as inviting as the surrounding country.

"So, isn't our French countryside beautiful in early August?"

"Yes, indeed it is." I sipped the wine and tried to look beyond him out over the Meuse river to the fields beyond.

I was on my way to Germany, but decided to spend some time in the French countryside, visiting some World War I battlefields, sites where my Great Grandfather had fought.

Stopping for lunch at this picturesque café, early afternoon had turned into late afternoon, as Jacques and I exchanged subtle glances and looks. Surprise encounters are such unexpected delights. They spark arousing and tingly sensations.

"You should stay awhile," Jacques said. "I could show you the country, the out-of-the-way places, and some interesting battlefields." He finished refilling my glass.

"That would be nice, thanks. I'll think about it." He faintly smiled and went off to wait on another table.

At first, I thought Jacques was just another attentive waiter with a ravishing ivory smile. However, after four refills of house wine, idle chat about the village, comments about how much he liked Americans, especially ones who could speak French, and the softest brush of his thigh as he passed by, I had no doubt that he could probably provide great, not just good, service.

I watched him wait on other customers. Jacques had that wholesome, fresh country look, all scrubbed and cleaned, with a country body, lean and hard. His strong muscles stretched over his agile frame, his thick, brown hair flopped over his forehead, and those lovely, soft brown eyes had played hide and seek with me all afternoon. Christ, another waiter, I sighed. But I could hardly keep my impulses in check. At least he wasn't sucking liver pâté off of his fingers. He returned with a menu.

"I get off at six. Would you like to have a drink?" He whispered.

I was about to answer when another waiter brought out an order. "Oh, excuse me. I'll return in a moment."

I watched as Jacques lifted the food cover, reveling a baked fish. But then he picked up a fork and a very sharp knife! And he started cutting! He was very good with a knife and the knife was very sharp.

My libido went into a tailspin and as I watched him quickly cut and dice the fish, and I unconsciously crossed my legs.

All I could think about was what Gramps had told me about this village: "Verdun was where it all started, where the American doctors decided little American baby boys should have their foreskins cut off!"

I was only thirteen years old when Gramps spoke those words on a warm Memorial Day, but they ringed in my thoughts as if he had just said them. My cousins and I were all gathered around our Great Grandfather in the back yard, listening to stories of duty, honor and glory about the War to End all Wars, The Great War, World War I. Gramps had been there. He knew all about it.

"You mean the Germans? They wanted to cut off our skins, right Gramps?" one of my cousins asked.

"No! The Americans. The American doctors wanted to cut them off."

Our eyes grew wider, with quick glances around the group, then even quicker glances below the belt. We shifted uneasily. World War I was suddenly no longer fantasy. It was real. You could almost hear all those young cocks sucking back into their protective hoods.

Sure, most of our friends were circumcised, but not any men in our family. From as early as we could remember, we had been taught foreskins were natural.

My parents had admonished me, over and over: "Keep it clean, roll it back when peeing, and wash it every time you take a bath or shower!"

And my parents had also told me the consequences of being unsanitary: "If you didn't keep it clean, then your dick could fall off!"

Nothing worked better than penis incentive. My room could look like the Verdun battlefield in 1916, but my pecker was as clean as Gramps' sword and scabbard.

"Some doctor, probably Princeton educated," Gramps continued, never missing a chance to stick it to Princeton, "decided if he could reduce foreskin infection, then the Army could keep more men in the front lines. Circumcision was the answer."

Gramps pulled out his pocketknife and ran his thumb over the blade. "And when those doctors got back to the States, they started cutting off penis skin. The next generation of troops wouldn't have infected dicks!"

We nervously stared at the knife, licked our dry lips and pressed our legs tighter together.

"You see, there was a high risk of infection in the trenches. You sloshed around in mud and muck up to your waist, week after week, month after month. Instead of cleaning themselves, the troops would let their foreskins become infected. Infection got you out of the trenches and into a hospital, away from shells, gas, snipers and battles. Maybe even a furlough to Paris, in which case the ladies could help you recover." Gramps smiled and looked around. There were no parents within hearing distance. We looked at each other with an uneasy laugh, still holding our legs together.

"More wine?" Jacques politely asked, startling me out of my memories.

"Oh, merci," I feebly answered, nodding my head.

He poured more wine and pointed to an item on the menu. "Is a drink okay, or how about dinner tonight at my apartment?"

My common sense felt like asking him how many knifes he owned. But those warm, soft, brown eyes sparkled at me and a lick of his brown hair settled over his forehead. Before my common sense could speak, my libido whispered back, "Oui! D'accord! Certainment!"

Christ, my libido was always overpowering my common sense. My libido had no regard for danger, even when foreskin mutilation was a risk. I loved my foreskin, especially how it made my cock look bigger and how it made me feel so good when I stroked it up and down my shaft and slurped it over my cockhead. Of course, it also felt good when a luscious tongue licked and suckled it, pushing underneath and roaming all over, or a wet mouth took the place of my hand. I smiled at him. Damn, my libido had overpowered my common sense, again.

Jacques whispered, "Good. I'll fix a special meal and we can enjoy a quiet evening."

My common sense felt like running for the car and racing until I crossed the border into Germany. The Germans had a high regard for foreskins. But then he turned and walked to another table. His tight ass and my libido overpowered my common sense again. Damn!

At eight in the evening I knocked on the door of his apartment and took a deep breath. Ever since I had left the café, my common sense and libido had been debating about this rendezvous du coeur. It had turned into a ferocious battle - not unlike the one fought here in 1916 between the Germans and French. Naturally, my libido had won every skirmish, the battle and the war.

As I knocked on Jacques' door, my libido was trying to ease my anxiety. "You're doing the right thing. Otherwise, you'd be silly and foolish. Here is an incredibly good looking guy, with a body to kill for, who wants to spend the night with you making passionate love. Wake up and smell the musk, you stupid fucker!"

"Bon soir, Michel!" Jacques' warm words and smile greeted me, along with his incredibly hard body outlined under his tight shirt and faded jeans.

"Bon soir, Jacques."

We gently hugged, then warmly embraced, both of us sighing. My cheek rested against his soft brown hair and he nestled his face against my neck. The pleasure of our embrace warmed both of us.

"Christ!" My libido screamed. "What an asshole you were to worry about anything. If he feels this good in an embrace, then the night is going to be incredible."

He looked up at me with those inviting eyes. "Do you like fish, Michel?"

I involuntarily tensed.

"Ah, sure . . . yes . . . I like fish."

My eyes darted around the room until I saw it - the fish and, worse, several sharp knives next to it!

"Something wrong?" Jacques asked.

"Oh, no. I'm fine. Just been a long day."

Damn, I thought, why couldn't he fix a casserole or a quiche?

He rubbed my shoulders with his strong hands. "Perhaps you need to relax," he said. The words oozed out of him with a sexual undertone, as he escorted me to the couch and we sat down. "Here, let me rub your tense muscles."

I sighed, as he massaged my chest, slowly working his hands down my torso.

"Thanks for the nice tip," he whispered. "I bought the fish with it and some new cutlery."

I blinked and tensed. "My pleasure. The service was very good."

He rubbed my lower stomach. I took slow, deep breaths, trying to relax, even though my eyes kept glancing at all those knives. Why, I thought, did he need so many of them to cut just one fish?

"You're still tense. Shall we get more comfortable?" He asked.

"Sure," My libido answered. We stripped to our underwear.

As I watched him undress, he slowly revealed a body more incredible than I had imagined. There wasn't an ounce of fat on him, just lean, well defined muscles wherever I looked, covered with silky smooth skin.

His chest was hard and flat, with pecs like two square plates and nipples like rivets. I lightly ran my fingers over his skin, feeling its supple touch. I circled and lightly pinched both nipples. They were erect and hard. I softly kissed one, then the other with my wet lips. He sighed and closed his eyes, rubbing his hands through my hair.

He gently rested on me, lacing my curly hair with his fingers. Our lips were almost touching. Slowly he nibbled on my lower lip, licking it with his tongue, until our mouths warmly and sweetly melded together.

I hugged and pulled him against me, flexing my muscles, feeling my skin sensuously rub against his taught body. As he suckled my neck, his hands gently glided down my sides, softly caressing me. I stretched and twisted in delight. Finding the band on my boxers, his fingers laced underneath, tracing along the elastic edge.

As he scooted down, he licked his tongue over my chest, suckling and gently squeezing first one, then the other nipple with his moist lips. The warmest of sensations cascaded through me, as I sighed and I gently closed my eyes.

More sighs and deep moans of pleasure, as his tongue laced through the strands of hair from my navel to my groin. I sensuously moaned when he gently buried his face in between my legs, nibbling and softly pulling on my boxers, licking his tongue and tracing his lips over the bulge of my cock.

Breathing deeply, I pulled my leg up, hooking my toe over the band on his shorts, gently pulling them over his narrow hips and smooth, tight orbs. We chuckled, as he lifted up and slipped them off.

My God! I blinked and softly gasped. Hanging before me was a gorgeous specimen of erect country cock. His shaft was sticking out of a luscious patch of light brown pubic hair and it had the slightest upward curve to it, a gently arching magic wand of smooth pearly-beige colored skin. His cockhead was exquisitely tapered, peeking out from a smooth jacket of foreskin. A glistening drop of precum oozed from his slit. Dangling softly from his luscious garden were his testicles, one resting slightly lower than the other, like sweet nectarines wrapped in a smooth pouch.

"Your turn," he said devilishly. He slowly pulled off my underwear.

"Mon Dieu!" He softly exclaimed. "C'est fantastique!"

He stared at my penis draped over my testicles. Of course, with my view of the kitchen table, my cock and balls were as aroused as a bowl of jell.

His wonderment turned to joy, as he lifted my cock and softly licked on my balls, moaning as he buried his face in my groin. In spite of the fish and all those knives, a warm, oozy feeling started crawling up my spine. I closed my eyes and squirmed a little. Nice, very nice, I thought.

He was bathing my balls with his tongue and mouth. I felt him gently fondling the bottom of them, resting them one at a time on his slurpy tongue, licking around them, letting them roll off and slip down between my legs, only to feel his tongue start over. His soft face borrowed lovingly between my legs, and his hot breath wafted against my groin and around my shaft, gently tickling my pubic hair as a warm breeze rustles summer leaves.

My cock stirred, as he sensuously pulled and pushed my thick skin up and down, rolling his hand in a gentle embrace around my heavy shaft. His tongue slowly slurped from the base of my scrotum to the tip of my partially exposed cockhead.

"Oh Lord!" I moaned. With a sensuous slurp, he engorged my cock into his mouth, his moist lips slipping down my thick shaft and resting at my base. I jerked from the explosion of pleasure. Slowly he pulled off, his luscious lips and tongue caressing my entire length.

All thoughts of knives disappeared as my eyes feasted on what his incredible mouth and tongue were doing to my now hard bone. Sensuous sparks charged up my spine and filled me with delight. With each luscious suck, I winced in sweet anguish.

I was helpless as he attacked my cock with deep sucks. My sight faded from the intensity of his force and my senses soon cried out for relief.

I could feel his finger, deliciously wet and warm, slowly advancing between my cheeks, opening a new front of attack.

"Oh Fuck!" I cried out. As his finger broke through my sphincter, my balls erupted. My body coiled like a bent iron bar, as the pleasure rushed to my cock. My mouth opened, my eyes rolled back, and I violently jerked, jism erupting from me.

I heard a muffled growl from deep in his throat, as his mouth devoured my cock. I heaved again and again, helpless as my hard dong twitched and spewed, and his mouth sucked my man juice from me.

Finally satiated, I slumped on the coach, my resources entirely drained. With each deep breath my body went more limp, as I surrendered to his embrace. I smiled and felt Jacques' own shaft probing between my cheeks. Was it a reconnaissance or a major push? He pulled my legs up, bending them and resting them on my chest. It was a major attack, as I felt his wet cock slide down my crack and push at my entrance. Oh sweet Jesus, I thought, I had completely surrendered, wanting only to feel his thick, beige rod breaking through my defenses and rushing into the hole.

"Fuck me, Jacques. Fuck me just like you sucked my cock - wantonly and violently."

Jacques hovered over me, smiling, looking down at my cock. "Your cock was so delicious to suck, so large, so much skin."

My eyes snapped wide open, glanced at the knives on the table and back to Jacques. "So much skin . . . Do you think there is too much skin?"

Jacques looked puzzled, but stared at my cock and frowned, as his hips relaxed and the pressure of his cock pulled away from my anus. "Well, I guess some might think so. Do you think there is too much?"

"No!" I shouted, startling both of us. "I mean," I continued in a lower voice, "as you said, some might. Do you think so?"

"Well, I don't know. If there is too much, then you could always cut some of it off. But . . ."

"Cut some of it off!" I shouted. "Why would I want to cut any of it off?"

"Well, most Americans are cut, aren't they? Don't you Americans like to be circumcised?"

"Well, maybe most Americans are cut, but I don't want to be cut!"

My voice was desperately intense. I noticed my cock had retreated deep within my foreskin, drooping to one side, looking like a large stuffed pasta shell. Jacques' cock didn't feel as warm and nice as a few moments ago and my sphincter had closed tightly like a camera lens.

Jacques climbed off of me and sat up, nodding his head seriously. "I agree. I'm against circumcision. Did you know, that during the First World War, Verdun was the birthplace of the American circumcision movement?"

"Well, yes I did know that," I said.

We looked at each other and I suddenly realized his words had completely relieved me of all my anxiety. I was now more attracted to him than ever, wanting him to conquer me more than ever. But he stiffly settled back against the couch.

"I get all worked up every time I think about circumcision."

I noticed his erection was disappearing, the erection that was going to breach my defenses and give me so much pleasure.

"Did you know there are groups in France, a cell of them in Metz in fact," he continued, "that are devoted to circumcision." He folded his arms and looked upset.

I tried to console him with hugs and caresses, even gently fondling that gorgeous piece of artillery hanging between his legs, but he didn't seem to notice.

After a while, he finally suggested, "Maybe if we have dinner, then I can calm down."

I'm happy to report he cooked and cut an excellent fish, even though he never stopped talking about the sins and horrors of circumcision. It seemed as if we were going to talk into the night. But, having finally exhausted all discussion, he agreed it was time to have dessert.

And I thought the fish was great. God, but do the French know how to prepare and serve dessert! He was a true artist, a skilled practitioner of le nouveau dessert de guerre, the new dessert of war.

"Just what is it?" I asked.

"It's difficult to describe, Michel. Like war, one has to experience it."

With that we plunged headlong into the battle, where dessert become an instrument of conquest, much like the battles of the First World War. I vaguely recall the first engagement was to attack each other with whip cream, globing and smearing it over each other's nude body. Like all major conflicts, it was a fogy, shifting experience, as we repeatedly bombarded each other with sensuous sauces. There were multiple artillery duels, with each of us firing rich, milky-white cream into pockets of resistance and repeatedly pounding our pieces into surrendering receptacles. As our forces attacked and counter-attacked, I had no doubt that we each provided to the other, the perfect end to the evening.

We awoke early in the morning, too exhausted to even mention breakfast. As we parted, we vowed to continue our struggle at dinner that night, marshaling our reserves for a fierce battle.

The End

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