I was an impressionable teenager and prone to fantasies I couldn’t shake. And, like any teenager, I was raging with hormones. One such fantasy was Mr. Baker, who lived down the block from us. He was a former Marine in his thirties, who worked hard to keep himself in tip-top shape. He was a runner, and I’d frequently see him running around our neighborhood, wearing no more than skimpy shorts and running shoes without socks. He wasn’t muscle bound by any stretch of the imagination, but he was finely built and there wasn’t an ounce of fat on him anywhere. His buzz cut and exercise regime screamed that once a Marine, always a Marine.

The first thing that started me to fantasizing about Mr. Baker was his wife. She was a cute little blonde thing who always looked so satisfied with herself and who popped out a baby every twelve or thirteen months or so. In my adolescent mind, this suggested to me that every minute Mr. Baker wasn’t out running, he and Mrs. Baker were in their bed “doing it.” The mere image of that turned me on. As I said, I was suffering from raging hormones then, when I was fourteen, and I found myself fantasizing about being in bed with the Bakers—for several weeks about being in bed with Mrs. Baker, and then for a while with both of them, and finally, distressingly, I fixated on being in bed with just Mr. Baker.

The Bakers belonged to the same community club my family did, and in the summer of my fourteenth year, I found myself at the pool the same afternoon the Baker clan was there. Mr. Baker looked mighty fine poolside in that Speedo of his. He was in the shower of the men’s locker room soaping himself up when I entered the shower after my swim. A lump went to my throat. His body was magnificent—all sinew and muscle in motion and rolling veins lacing his body, having been pushed to the surface by his muscle and lack of any fat in which to hide. My eyes went directly to his dick, which was the biggest and thickest I’d ever seen as it plunged out of a clump of red hair at his groin. I hadn’t thought of Mr. Baker as a red head; his buzz cut was just too short to tell from that, and the rest of his body appeared smooth and hairless from a distance. I could see now, when he was soaping himself all over, that he had tufts of red hair at his pits as well. My own cock came to quick attention at what I was seeing.

Mr. Baker obviously saw me staring at his package as well as what my own was doing in response. What really got to me that day, in the summer of my fourteenth year, was that I saw Mr. Baker’s dick harden as I looked at him and he looked at me in the shower. From that moment, I wanted more than just looks from Mr. Baker.

“Hey, you’re the kid living up the block from us, aren’t you? Jimmy, is it?” he asked in a pleasant tone, not bothering to stop soaping around his dangling dick. He let his hand stay there, at his dick, holding it. And all the time it was getting bigger. So was mine.

“Yeah,” I managed to burble out. “I see you running in the neighborhood sometimes.”

“Well, how old are you, kid?” he asked straight out.

I told him.

“When’s your birthday?” he then asked, which seemed a strange question at the time.

I told him that too.

“Well, on your fifteenth birthday, we’ll meet again,” he said. “And at your sixteenth. We’ll really light up the candles then. I like them at sixteen—closer to being muscled up like a man. Until then, keep yourself clean, ya hear? And you could stand to do some running of your own.” With that, he rinsed off and left me and my boner alone in the locker room shower. I realized then that I’d been holding my dick, like he had been, in the shower—and that he’d seen me do it.

He must think I’d be real easy. I was so raging with curiosity and need, that I think I’d have laid down for him then, at fourteen. I know I had fantasies of kneeling to him and taking that big dick of his in my mouth.

Later that summer, we went that far. I knelt to him in the shower at the swimming pool and, under his guidance, gave him head. And he gave me a hand job. It was the first time that someone got me off other than myself.

I wanted more. I didn’t want to wait. But he had more patience than I did.

“That was nice,” he said when it was over, “but not real fucking. Not like we’ll do when you’re older.”

He said it like we would be sure to do it. And I was sure too—if he still wanted me when I was older.

When I’ll knelt to me, he’d repeated that he’d like it better if I was more bulked up—had a more athletic body. So, I started running after that, but I never stopped fantasizing about Mr. Baker.

On my fifteenth birthday, I was out running a woodland trail. I’d gotten myself in great shape with my running, and I was grateful for that little nudge Mr. Baker had given me months earlier. I was doing real well on the cross-country team now.

As I was steaming down the trail, I heard another runner coming up behind, someone, incredibly, who was opening it up a lot faster than I was. When he came up level to me, I saw that it was Mr. Baker in his skimpy shorts and sockless running shoes.

“How’s it going, Sport?” he called out to me in a voice that showed no signs of breathlessness. “Happy birthday. Today is your birthday, isn’t it? I remembered right, didn’t I?”

Besides being breathless from the exertion of running myself, what he was saying—having kept track of my birthday like this just from a chance encounter at the swimming pool—bowled me over so that the most I could do was mumble an affirmation that today, indeed, was my fifteenth birthday.

“I see you took my advice on running,” he said with a grin. “Lookin’ good, Sport. You got a present for me on your birthday?”

I asked him what he wanted. He told me, and once again, I went down to him on my knees and gave him a blow job. I was pretty good at it by now. He wasn’t the only one I was giving that to. The difference this birthday from the last was that this time, Mr. Baker gave me head too, having me lean back into the branches of a crepe myrtle tree, taking me in his mouth, and getting me off.

Afterward, he told me, “See you on your sixteenth. We’ll do it all then. Keep clean.” And then he was off in front of me, leaving me in his dust as if I weren’t even flat out running myself.

This encounter didn’t cut down on my fantasy time about Mr. Baker for the next year.

It was my sixteenth birthday, and I was moving up the walk to my house after school, when a big SUV with smoked windows stopped beside me and the passenger window rolled down. I came over and looked inside. It was Mr. Baker. He was wearing a loose, long-sleeved shirt, worn blue jeans, and shiny black boots.

“Happy birthday, Sport,” he said with a big grin. “Climb in.”

Was this “IT?” Shit, I hoped so.

I opened the door and climbed in. As the door shut, he rolled up my window. We were alone now, in his big SUV with the smoked window.

Without fanfare, he took my right hand by the wrist and brought it around and laid it on his basket. I could feel him hard and massive through the worn material of the blue jeans.

“This can be your sixteenth birthday present, Sport, if you still want it,” he said in a husky voice. “Not just handling or blowing it—riding it. You wanted it two years ago. Do you still want it, Sport? I won’t go any further unless you want it.”

“Yes, oh yes,” I managed once the frog had been cleared from my throat. He’d remembered. I knew I should say no and just get out of the car and bury myself in a safe, normal life. But this had been my fantasy for years.

“Well, then, let’s take a little ride. Buckle yourself up, but you don’t have to take your hand back, if you don’t want to. Here, let’s give it some air.” He pushed my hand to the top of his thigh and worked his zipper down. Then he went back to putting the SUV into gear and driving away from the curb. I worked my hand into the gap in his pants, not believing I was even doing this, imaging it was happening to someone I was watching from across the room, and his big plump dick just popped out of his pants. I gently ran my hand up and down and around it as we drop into the countryside. It had this large, popping vein running up the underside that I remembered and fantasized about from previous birthdays. It got impossibly large and hard as we drove along, and I was smearing some precum around the knob of the head when we pulled up to a small cabin in the woods, well off the main road.

Mr. Baker was actually breathing pretty hard when he came around to my side of the SUV, pulled me out with a strong hand on my wrist and guided me to the door of the cabin. I was wondering if he had been fantasizing about me that past two years as much as I had been fantasizing about him. He certainly had made a point of knowing exactly when we could do anything about it—about wanting it all.

He unlocked and pushed open the door to the cabin, but then he turned and looked hard into my eyes.

“Last chance, son. We can go back now if you’re scared. I like to do this kind of special like. This probably won’t be like anything you’d imagined it to be. Birthdays should be memorable, I think.”

I just set my jaw and moved closer to the door. He got the message, and spoke again, in a softer voice.

“I can see you’ve kept up with the running, as I suggested, Sport. But did you keep clean too? You do understand what I mean by that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I answered faltingly, trying to keep my eyes connected with him. “I mean yes to both. I understand, and I’ve kept clean.”

“Good,” he said with a satisfied tone. “It’s better, it feels better, if cleanliness can be assumed—if nothing has to get between skin and skin. You’re not going to be able, with confidence, to do it this way—skin on skin—ever again after this first time, but it’s good the first time to have it all.”

While I contemplated if I’d really understood what he meant, he put the palm of a hand in the small of my back and guided me to a door. He opened this, and we were descending stairs to a basement. The door at the bottom of the stairs was locked, but he unlocked this and pushed me into a small, square room. The walls, floor, and ceiling were a stark white, and in the very center of the room, prominently located, was a black leather sling suspended from overhead beams by strong chains. Half way up each chain was a black leather cuff, now open, padded on the inside. My thought was whether his wife knew he had a room like this. But he took care of it.

“This place belongs to a friend of mine,” he said. “We can use it whenever we want to.”

“Have you used it with other guys?” I asked. “For their first time.”

“Yes,” he said, “it’s how I like it.”

I just stood and stared at this. Something inside me was stirring. This was beyond my fantasy, but I found that it was turning me on. I heard the door close behind me and the key turn in the lock, but I just couldn’t take my eyes off that black leather sling. When, at last, I was able to do so, I turned and my eyes popped open.

Mr. Baker had taken off his shirt and jeans and stood before me, nearly naked. He was still wearing the black boots that came up above his bulging calf muscles, but, beyond that, all he was wearing was a black leather harness criss-crossing his chest, studded with silver studs, and studded black leather wrist bands and bands around his biceps. His horse-hung cock was at full staff, and he was wrapping a black leather, studded cock ring tightly around its base as I watched.

“I do this to keep hard,” he said, seeing my eyes bug out at what he was wrapping around his dong. “So, we can take our time and do it more than once. Strip, Sport,” he said in a throaty voice. I just stood there, mesmerized by the sight of him.