The Scouse Touch.

Hotel beds and I have never gotten along. Even a five-star hotel can’t fix it. I want my own bed—the simple kind, cheap but firm, the one that knows my back and doesn’t fight me.

Rome. That was the problem this time.

I’ve spent years working from home, sending scripts, shaping characters, building worlds—all from Koppang. Producers love the idea of Norway: quiet rivers, fly fishing, and untouched wilderness. That’s why I make them come to me. Koppang isn’t a filming location—it’s a trap. I sign the contracts, they leave, and I don’t care where they go or what they do. Home is mine.

But not this time. This time, the producers refused to return to Koppang. I had to come to them. Rome. Five-star hotel. And a bed that wasn’t mine.

In the elevator, I caught that fresh scent again—someone had been there just before me.

“Do you smell that?” I asked the attendant.

“No, sir, but it’s a nice fragrance,” he said, turning back to the buttons.

I walked into the room and stared at that big bed. It looked comfortable but foreign, and untamed.

A voice said, “Sir.”

I tipped the man, muttered thanks, and prepared for battle.

I had to move it. Push it, pull it, shift it so the first light would hit my feet, not jab my face. Every twist made my back scream—sharp, immediate. I cursed under my breath, but I had to. I had to position it just right.

Finally, naked, I collapsed onto it. It welcomed me instantly. I let the sheets and mattress hold me, my body giving in to the slow sinking, the quiet cradle of the pillows. Minutes passed. I didn’t move. Not because I had to—but because the right position felt like the only right one.

The phone rang. Late morning had stretched into early evening. I grabbed my phone, my back still whining from moving the bed.

“Adriano, this is Arlo Baxter. I’m your character—Aiden Reese.”

I froze. This was Arlo Baxter—the celebrity, the Englishman with a gorgeous Scouse dialect and a gorgeous nature. I tried to sit. Only a groan escaped.

“Aau!”

“Yous wankin’ or what?” Baxter said, his tone sharp, teasing, unmistakably Scouse.

I stayed still. “No, silly. I pulled my back moving the bed.”

“What? Stealin’ beds now, la? Ah, never mind. I know your room. I’ll pop over.”

Click.

The line went dead. I realized I was naked, had to pee, and couldn’t move. Rome could keep its five stars. Never mind you, sissy, I said to myself. You can crawl to the restroom with your arms.

I finally made it. The phone rang again, but I was too busy trying to get up from that porcelain floor. I managed to pee, grab a towel, put it around my waist, and that was all I managed to do.

Then I heard voices—and Baxter’s charming dialect.

“Eh, la! Where you at, then?”

He found me standing against the sink, washing my hands, in pain.

“There you are! Come on, I know a trick, hold on a sec.”

He went into my room and came back with a pair of my boxer shorts. He dropped my towel and slowly helped me get my legs into my underwear.

“Right, where’s the pain then, left or right?”

“Left,” I said.

“Ah, sound. Get that leg in first, la.”

I moved my left foot into the boxers.

“Now t’other one, right leg. Take yer time, eh?”

“Thanks, Baxter.”

“No worries, la. I’ll pull ‘em up for ya.”

I felt whole again. And then I noticed his scent. It was the same fresh scent dallying in the elevator.

I shifted slightly, letting my weight settle, trying not to groan as I tested my back.

Baxter then said, “Right, la. Face me an’ grab me neck, don’t let go. Where’s it hurt?”

I tried to explain that I had broken my coccyx years ago and that… he interrupted, “Ah, so it’s up top o’ yer arse crack, is it?” The way he said it sounded like a raw reminder of my stupidity.

“I’ll put some pressure on it, la,” he said, trying to feel where it started.

“Oh!” I said.

“Ah, sorry, man, didn’t mean to go deep, la,” said Baxter.

He found the right spot with his fingers and pressed hard. It went from high pain to lower pain.

“Hold on, la,” said Baxter, and lifted me with his neck off the floor, twisting my waist left to right. The pain was gone.

“Can yer stand?”

I was fine. I could walk without pain. I felt a chill.

Baxter smiled. “Ah, I can see it’s workin’. Yer cold, eh?”

I am. “How d’you know?”

“Yer nipples, la. They’re hard.”

He stepped back and washed his hands, the casual domesticity making the scene even more absurd. Then, with that dark Scouse humor, he said:

“Right, Adi… rest on the floor for at least a night, la. An’ if it happens again—don’t worry, next time I won’t finger ya.”

This was not the way I planned to meet heartthrob sexbomb Arlo Baxter.

Next morning, I’m on set, coffee in hand, trying to look confident, when one of the other actors sidles up.

“Hey… I heard Baxter had his way with ya,” he says, smirking like the cat that got the cream.

Arlo the Red — Part Two (cont.)

The man on the other end of the phone said the cocks were on their way and that I would have to pick one out of twelve.

My hens were outside in the sun. Like any animal rooted in the present, the only things real to them were the grain I scattered on the ground, the worms twisting in the dirt, and—if chance favored her—an occasional mouse that Bertha, my dominant hen, liked to chase whenever her cravings noticed one too close to her food.

The road to my farm is a long ribbon of dust in the summer. That was all I could see at first: a yellow jeep cutting through it, dragging a cloud behind it toward my front lawn.

Certainly not the way one should transport twelve cocks intended for breeding Scots Dumpy hens.

It wasn’t the cock dealer.

It was Arlo Baxter.

I was shocked—then happy—and for a moment I forgot entirely about the hens.

Arlo parked well away from them and walked the rest of the distance.

The man respects my hens. That alone earned him a point in his favor.

“Adi! What a gorgeous place.” He pulled me into a hug. “How’s your back, mate?”
His hand slid down my ass in a quick grab. He laughed.

Then, glancing down at the birds, he said, “Scots Dumpy. Tricky to mate, those.”

I blinked. He wasn’t just a pretty face.

“How do you know about chickens?”

“I grew up on a farm,” Arlo said. “We had Dorkings—excellent layers.” He studied my hens. “You’ve got the short-legged ones. For that, you’ll need a long cock—” he paused, smirked, “—I mean, a long-legged cock.”

The way he said it—eyes on the hens, voice calm and certain—made the words land heavier than they should have. I noticed he wore plain clothes, no brand names.

“Well, right you are.” I said, “I have twelve cocks arriving today, and I’ll have to choose one. Maybe you can help.” I gestured toward the house. “Come in. I’ll show you inside.”

My dogs greeted him as if they already knew him. Wilma—half guard dog, half something gentler—studied him carefully. I stayed back a moment to make sure the door was properly closed. Corns—my other female mix—loves to rile up the hens. She never hurts them, but she likes to sniff their rears, and today was not the day for that.

Once the door was shut, Corns stood on her hind legs to greet Arlo, tail wagging furiously.

“You’re a pleasant surprise, Arlo,” I said, “but I have to ask—why now?”

Before he could answer, the man with the cocks arrived.

“Come on out,” I called. “My girls stay in. Let’s pick a good cock.”

The truck was specially built. Inside were twelve cocks, each in his own cage—proud, alert, magnificent in their confinement.

We began the selection.

“Pick the red one,” Arlo said. “Long legs. Perfect for a fifty-fifty mix—short-legged and long-legged chicks.”

“He’s right,” the man said. “That red one’s young, but he doesn’t scare easily. He’ll fit right in.”

I was happy to make it a quick exchange. Money changed hands, papers were signed. The cock wasted no time. Bertha charged him with a high jump and a sharp run. He dropped one wing, circled the nearest hen, and began immediately—his waltz.

“What did I tell you?” Arlo said. “I’ve got an eye for horny cocks. That’s courtship.”

“All right then,” I said. “I’ll name him Baxter.” Arlo replied, “You should name him Arlo the Red.”
I smiled and turned toward the house. “Come on. Let’s go back inside. And you can tell me how the hell you ended up in Koppang and more about that yellow jeep.”

That whole morning and well into the early afternoon, farming, gossip, and projects were our main topics.

I told him about Koppang—how easy it was for me to live here, how the work gave my days a purpose, besides my writing. He told me about his parents, and about the pride they took in honest labor. His father had been both a bricklayer and a farmer; his mother a housewife who later trained as a nurse.

She died when Arlo was nineteen. His father stayed behind in Cumbria.

Arlo said he was grateful he had tried acting and made a good living from it. It meant he could help his father and support his younger sister, now in college, studying to become a nurse like their mother. He spoke without drama. To Arlo, responsibility came naturally.

The conversation flowed easily, without effort.

I told him about my own parents. My mother, from Brazil, and my father, from Poland, had been total opposites—yet they stayed together. What they never accepted was me. Not really. Not as a gay man. Over time, distance became easier than faking it. We don’t have much contact.

Arlo listened without interrupting.

There was something in the way he did it—steady, attentive—that made the room feel smaller, quieter. As if the animals outside, the dust road, and even time itself had agreed to leave us alone.

Arlo got up, walked closer, and landed a kiss. I didn’t fight it, and for the first time, I did not think or judge myself. I allowed my body to feel, and it felt a little too much, too fast. I wore khakis, and my hard-on was obvious. Arlo’s was huge.

He stopped to ask, “I guess you don’t mind, do you?”

In answer, I took my shirt off and kissed him back. I pulled him toward the sofa in the kitchen, and he put me on my back. He grabbed my khakis from behind and pulled them off.

With a heavy amount of spit, he fingered me open, and before I knew it, I was the hen, and he was the Red cock I had needed for a long time. That’s right, Arlo was a natural red.

Arlo pinned me down with a contained desire that, now free, was hard as a gem and as tender as well-cooked steak. His body was a solid weight that held me firm against the cushions. His cock, which I’d only seen as a formidable outline in his jeans, was now exposed and a hot, heavy pressure against my thigh. He looked down at me, his green eyes intense, searching my face for any sign of hesitation. There was none.

“You ok?” he asked, his voice a low growl, the tip of his cock now pressing against my anus.

“Shut up and fuck me”.

Arlo smirked at my demand and pulled my left leg up and over his shoulder. He pressed the thick head of his cock against my anus, and with a guttural groan, he started slow at first, stretching me wide. He buried his thick, long cock to the hilt, his balls slapping against me. I felt him pulse, a deep, warm torrent of cum that marked me as his.

He didn’t stop. ‘I still got another load,’ he grunted, voice rough as gravel, making my ass clench around his cock. He yanked me closer, hoisted both my legs high, and rammed in deep—tip to balls—pounding with brutal ownership, each thrust claiming me harder. The sound was racy, a wet, slapping tempo against my cheeks that filled the kitchen with my sexual, desperate whines. I felt his cock bury into me, hard and heavy, each thrust against my prostate.

I came hard without a single stroke, my cock pulsing sharp and wild, tearing a raw, low holler from my throat. “That ‘s right, mate, tighten up that pussy”. Arlo didn’t break stride, his hips slamming forward in a frenzy of rampant need. I exploded again, his grip pinning my legs to his shoulders, “Let me come one more time, babe,” said Arlo with a begging tone. His deep angle grinding my corn until I shot five times total—each burst squeezing his cock in me, I wanted every drop in me. I was a disjointed wet mess beneath him and willing to cum more. What a rush! I wanted him more. I felt my eyelashes curl, my brain empty except for his thick cock stretching my ass. His final thrust unloaded his second load, hot cum flooding my guts in waves.

All he did after was kiss me, his mouth gobbling mine.

I was lost in him, his skin, his scent of fresh hot cum dripping from my ass all over my kitchen sofa. He licked my pussy clean, my chest too.

That Scouse cock, thick with a curve to the left, a hammer head, and a big sack, was my freedom from years of abstinence. “I need more,” I said, “I want you, Arlo Red Cock”.

We fell asleep in each other’s arms.

Serving musty bussy to a virgin - Part. 3

We were still in bed when the cock started crowing.

“Jesus. That’s loud,” I said.

Arlo pulled me closer, his pelvis tight against my ass. “You forgot about this one?” He lifted my leg and slid his hard cock between my thighs. “Umm, let me rest like this a bit.” I was happy. “Is that cock gonna make me sing as loud?” I asked. Arlo looked at me and smiled. “Umm. You smell good.”

It wasn’t really morning yet. Just that grey light that shows up early and doesn’t commit to anything. Arlo rested against me, arm loose around my neck, breathing slowly, his dick hard and warm.

I looked at the window, then at the reflection of someone else still in my bed. The night hadn’t fully let go of either of us.

“This can’t turn into anything,” I said.

Arlo moved the covers, lifted my leg, and settled on top of me, pulling the blanket back over us. Not dramatic. Just sweet. “I know,” he said softly. “Doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy it.”

“If anyone finds out,” I went on, “It’s the end of us. The network would fire us.”

“I know how the network works,” Arlo said. “They like their love stories simple and God-approved.”

I laughed under my breath. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

“So? Are they here?” Arlo stated. “Just enjoy. This is your home, your privacy. Love me all you want, that is your biggest fear, ain’t it?”

I smiled.

“Adi-darling. I don’t need permission to live,” Arlo continued, pressing his cock closer into my hole. “I work. I show up. I pay my taxes. I sleep with who I want. That part’s mine. His smile deep into my eyes, “And your cunt right now is very open.”

I giggled. “And no one around here watches the network,” I added.

He was good. He had me listening to reason, and his dick was halfway up my cunt.

Arlo looked up, the sun streaming through the roof window. “I want to see this place in daylight. Come on.” Arlo swung his legs out of bed.

Suddenly, the guys who helped me move furniture were at my door. “Oh! My furniture is here! Come on. I’ll show you.”

“Should we get dressed?” Arlo added with a naughty smile. I grabbed my sweatpants and a t-shirt. Arlo grabbed his jeans, buttoned his cock under them, and pulled his t-shirt over it.

Outside, the men hauled the furniture into my workshop. I waited until they were gone. We walked in. It smelled like dust and old wood. Sunlight came in through the high windows and landed on tools, half-finished pieces, and a stripped sideboard in the middle of the room.

“This is what I do when I can’t think,” I said. “I work with my hands.”

I showed Arlo the sky-blue chest of drawers. “Almost finished,” I said. Arlo ran his fingers along the edge. “It’s solid. Old. Used. Still good. Nice,” he mumbled, his eyes locking on mine. He moved to a big table, hopping up onto it. His gaze never left me as he shucked his pants, letting them fall away. He leaned back, spreading his legs, “Has anyone served you pussy?”

The question hung in the air, raw and electric. I was frozen, speechless. Arlo fingered his hole.

“Never had a ride on the bullseye?” His voice was a low rumble that vibrated through my dick. I was wet.

My hand trembled as I reached out, my fingers barely grazing his skin. He caught my wrist, pulling my finger to his lips. His mouth was hot, wet, and he swirled his tongue around my digit before guiding my hand down, pressing it against his tight hole.

“Finger me, get to know me. Don’t be afraid,” he urged with need. “Stick it in. Just think of me… think of what I’m feeling. Think of what I’ll make you feel. Come on, Peach, fuck me.”

Such a divine creature. His ass did look like a peach. Arlo’s cunt was slightly open. I fumbled with my fly, looking at his thick, 22cm cock. My 19cm cock was ready, out, and it wanted that ass. What a gorgeous vision. His wide legs open, his cock with that mushroom head already slick with precum. His balls, heavy and hanging low. I pressed against his cum hole and pushed inside.

A guttural moan escaped my lips. It was my first time, and the sensation was overwhelming—a velvety, clenching heat that pulled me deeper. Arlo’s soft, warm sac caressed my rigid shaft with every motion. The feeling was incredible. His lips seemed fuller, redder, as his mouth fell open in pleasure. I drove into him, each thrust a little harder, a little deeper, chasing a feeling I couldn’t name but desperately needed.

I slow fucked him, my first fuck. My pace was deliberate, savoring every clench of his ass around my shaft. With one hand, I gripped his hip, pulling him back to meet my strokes. With the other, I reached around and wrapped my fingers around his thick cock. He was rock-hard, and I began to wank him in time with my thrusts, my fist gliding up and down his length.

The pressure built to an unbearable peak. I could feel his entire body tensing, his ass clamping down on me like a vice. His back arched violently, a hoarse cry tearing from his throat as his cock pulsed in my hand. I angled him back just as he came, his own hot cum shooting straight up into my open mouth.

“Slam dunk,” he gasped, tasting him send me over the edge. My own orgasm tore through me. My balls drew up tight against my body as I slammed into him one last time, burying my cock to the hilt. My cock pounded, spilling my load deep inside his clenching ass as we both jolted in a blinding, shared release.

For a long moment, we were still, the only sound our ragged breaths.

“My contract ended last week. I’m free until the next offer.”

“Okay,” I replied.

“This,” he said, his gesture taking in the workshop, the half-finished projects, the quiet space between us, “this feels right. I’m tired of being on all the time. Let me help you with the furniture. A week, maybe two. Just… this.”

Then, slowly, Arlo pulled up his pants. I followed his lead, my body humming, wearing a lazy, satisfied smile.

“Yes,” I said, the word coming out sternly. “God, yes. I could use the help.” I looked him straight in the eye. “And the company.”

A real smile finally broke across his face, warm and brilliant. “Good. How about we shower before I fuck you? Because you do owe me a fuck. Let’s first take a drive. I do want to see what’s beyond this property.”

“Mr. Arlo, you’re boss for a day.” And by God! then it hit me. I had fallen for him hook, line, and sinker. Wow. I straightened my back, cleared my throat, and filed the feeling away where it could do me no harm.

THE END.

Credit: 1. Maksim Kotić, the man in bed. 2. Males unknown to us but not to each other by Clifford Baker, Photographer.