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He comes back in the nick of time.

A revolution was erupting around them, and they had to hide out in interior rooms of the house they had let. They went through travails of protecting each other from the threats around them, and they became closer and closer. And they bonded, becoming one. And the young man was writing now. Writing from a wellspring of experience and passion. And after the revolution, when they emerged from hiding, he wrote a Pulitzer-winning novel. A novel enriched by deep experience and passion.

Sometime during the weaving of this mesmerizing tale, the waves were no longer moving us together. Kincaid had his butt plastered into my groin now and had my now half-hard cock encased between his thighs. And I hadn't even noticed this was happening until he took one of my hands in his strong fingers and wrapped it around his very hard cock, his hand on top of mine.

He was murmuring to me in that sing song baritone voice of his, "I know you want to be a writer, Jamie," he was saying. "But do you really think you have the experience and passion for it?"

"Yes, of course," I quickly answered, trying to take my hand away from his cock, but being held there firmly in his grip. And then, with more thought. "No . . . No. Probably not. I do find it hard to decide what to write about. And when I do, it often comes out so naive."

"You know what all of the successful men writers have that you're lacking?" Kincaid whispered.

I remained silent, afraid of the answer. And my mind focused on my cock being held closely between Kincaid's thighs and my hand on his throbbing cock.

"Bonding," he continued. "That's the success of my writing, Jaime. I write of the most important things-men bonding and taking on the elements together. I live on passion. I need passion for my writing. I can't imagine that you are different. And I'm eternally grateful for all of the inspiration I get from bonding. And I am a giver. I help those who feed my needs."

He let that sink in, as his thighs began massaging my cock, making it harden out, and his own tool lengthening and thickening between my fingers.

I was confused. And frightened. And aroused. I remembered that I had come out here with some sort of resolve, but I couldn't quite focus on what I had resolved. His voice. His strong body. His very presence. His slow persistence. I was melting.

"Have you ever experienced someone's lips on your manhood, Jamie? Have you ever experienced the passion of that? I have, and it has inspired my writing."

"Uhhh . . . yes," I had to admit. "Sure, there have been girls . . ."

"And no men, Jamie? No men? The level of passion and inspiration is entirely different, I assure you. No men?"

"No, of course . . . well, there was a fraternity party once last spring . . ."

"And the passion of it? The comparison of the girl and the boy?"

"Well, I was more than half drunk at the time. But as I recall . . ."

"Oh, no. You have to be fully there, Jamie. Fully there to make full use of the experience, of the inspiration. Here, let me show you."

"I don't know . . ." But before I could go further, Kincaid had turned me around in the water, facing him. He had crouched down in the water and my legs were hooked on his shoulders as he pulled my torso into his face. He was supporting me with hands on the small of my back and my shoulders and the back of my head were floating in the salt water of the lake while he gave me a cock teasing and deep-throating blow job like I'd never experienced before, not that I'd experienced much of anything like that before at all, of course.

He was right. I had known nothing like the feel of his lips and warm, moist mouth on my cock. I'd had no experience until this moment worth inspiring writing anything worthwhile. I had no passion. This was more passion than I'd ever felt before. Who was I kidding? Kincaid was the real writer. You had to go through what Kincaid had gone through to be a real writer.

I howled with passion and experience as I shot off all over his face, globs of my passion peppering his face.

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