Date: Mon, 27 Feb 2017 07:27:20 +0100 (CET)
From: z.blake@tutanota.com
Subject: Screwed, Glued and Tattooed (Revised)

SCREWED, GLUED AND TATTOOED
By Zachyboy
M/M, b/b, oral, anal

This story is a work of fiction, and the two grown men in this story who
are talking about the boys they banged on their baseball team are sort of
bragging, talking trash and making it up as they go along. So, how about
that. It's really fiction within a fiction.

Still, it's bound to be offensive or illegal in a few of the wacky-ass
parochial places where some of you live in your mind or in your geography,
so if that's the case, slip out the back, Jack. The rest of you trash
talkers, grab some lube and let's get biz-zy!

Give a little love back to the guys who make your weenie hard:

http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html

On with the show.

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Big Bob Rumple and Fast Freddy Footman had another hot Saturday night in
the works. As usual, their clothes were tossed into a disheveled heap, the
Malibu and Cokes were flowing freely, the middle school yearbook was
cracked open on the coffee table and both men had their cocks in their
hand, slowly stroking and remembering the boys they'd butt fucked back in
the day. (Or HADN'T butt fucked back in the day more likely, but hey, cut
`em some slack. It's been a long week and they're only trying to relax and
get off).

Last weekend they jacked off and fucked each other remembering a little
hottie named Brandon, who rumor had it was taking the coach's shlong up his
twat at the tender age of who-knows-when. Bob and Freddy knew him at 12
when his fresh-fucked roll as the coach's favorite ball boy was already
sealed, but rumor had it the coach had been nailing him since he was a lil
9-year-old squealer, fresh off the triple-A farm team.

Bob claimed he'd nailed Brandon too, when the two boys were 12 – bent
him over his bottom bunk bed and gave him what-for – but Freddy called
bullshit. Either way, they had a great time fantasizing about Brandon's
little bottom, and Bob wound up fucking Freddy like they usually did on
Saturday nights when the Steven Shelter Junior High Yearbook from 1979 came
out of mothballs for one more round of trash talk.

"Oh now, there's that little fucker Jake Connolly," Freddy said, nodding
respectfully and pointing toward page 25, the page after Brandon. Staring
up was a cute little tiger of 12-at-the-most, with a curious rub-off tattoo
on his neck – a club, a spade, a diamond and a heart. One of each from
that tattooed little cutie.

"Jakey the Snakey," Big Bob said in hushed tones. "Now there's a kid who
could lick your balls like a German Shepard, smack a fake tattoo on you,
then bend over and take one up the chute before you could read off Al
Chambers' batting average with the Mariners.

"Yeah," Freddy said with a lustful, wistful sigh. "He was a fine little
piece of third base, that's for sure. Half the team fucked him. He'd come
to practice in those pants that were just a little too tight..."

"His brother's uniform from the season before," Bob said...

"And mother of God," Freddy sighed. "You just wanted to drop to the dirt
and lick his ass crack on the spot."

"As a matter of fact, I did," Bob boasted.

Freddy almost did a spit take with his rum and coke.

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Bob, you did not," he grumbled. "There is no way in
hell you ever licked Brandon Connolly's ass crack. He may have been doing
the rest of the team, but he wouldn't touch your cock with a ten foot
Louisville Slugger."

"He sure as shit did," Bob bragged. "He bent over, rump-up on the couch,
and let me lick him right down that sweet little runway with a wet little
truffle in the middle."

"Oh, bullshit," Freddy said, but truth was, his dick was hard as hell
imagining it, so he reached for the lube and stroked in earnest as Bob
settled back to fill in the "details." Freddy knew he was gonna get
Bobfucked before this story was over, and that was perfectly fine with him.

"Well, first of all," Bob said, leaning back in his chair and stroking his
own less-than-long but plenty-fat boy-porker, "you remember how Jakey
always carried around those fake tattoos in the Ziplock bag, right?"

"Oh, yeah," smiled Freddy. "He was a little troublemaker with those
fuckers. He'd try to get you to put one on your face, put one on your arm,
put one on your ass, put one on your balls, wherever the mood struck him."

"Damn right," chuckled Bob. "If Jakey the Snakey could get you to lick your
finger, wet your balls and stick a dragon where the sun don't shine, he
considered it a good day's work and a job well done."

"And you licked his crack?" Freddy asked again, disbelievingly.

"For about ten fuckin' minutes," Bob assured him. "Got him good and sloppy,
stuck a mouse tattoo on his shitter, got a big boner watching him pulse and
squeak, waited for him to beg me to fuck him, then bent him over the
downstairs couch, stuck him full of cock, and belched all my nut butter up
his shitter."

"Not in a million years,' Freddy rolled his eyes. "First of all, you were
12 years old, Bob. Your full load of nut butter consisted of a couple of
watery drops you usually ate yourself, and since you jacked off nine times
a day, there probably wasn't much left for Jakey's caboose."

"Still," Bob said, "It was a fuck to remember."

Freddy sighed and rose from the couch. He knew the price.

"And I suppose if I want to hear about it, I gotta get down on my knees in
front of your cock altar and be a good pal and pay the piper."

"Nothin' could be finer than your mouth as my vaginer," Bob smiled, taking
his hand off his pudger and offering Freddy free rein.

A friend in need is a friend indeed, so while Bob told the story of little
Jake and the mouse tattoo, Freddy dropped to his knees in front of him,
took that salty slab of cock in his mouth and began slowly hoovering his
lifelong friend like a kid late for hot lunch.

Bob was a bullshit artist and Fast Freddy knew it, but he had to admit as
he bobbed up and down, he had a hell of a fat cock that was never short on
flavor.

"Here's how it happened," Bob began, as Freddy locked lips around the shaft
of his fuckpole and began to do the exquisite slobbering dirtywork their
friendship was based on.

"It was the middle of 7th grade season. We'd just played the Decker Middle
School Penguins that day, those cheating fucks, and after we lost 7-2,
Jakey invited me over for sodas and snacks, you know, to take the sting
away."

"Mmmph-hmmph," Freddy mumbled around a mouthful of cock.

"So," Bob said, grabbing Freddy's ear handles and helping him with the
tricky stuff, "We get to his house and nobody's there. His mom's out
working, and his sister's at his grandma's. Nobody's there but me and Jakey
and that little Ziplock bag of tattoos sitting on the coffee table like an
open invitation."

"How come you like those tattoos so much?" I asked Jakey. "You're almost
obsessed."

"Nah," he said. "Not really. They're just fun. Want me to lick one and
stick it on your cock?"

"Sure," I said. "What the fuck. Whatever floats your boat."

I unbuckled my belt. You know the one I had back in seventh grade – the
one with the Bicentennial 76 buckle my grandpa gave me – and I tugged my
pants down far enough for Jakey to feast his eyes on my flopper, which
believe me, was half-hard and ready to go.

"That's a nice dick you got," he says to me. "You mind if I get down there
and take a sniff."

Now I'm not much into sniffing pubes in general, but back then, why throw
the baby out with the bath water? If a kid wants to sniff my bush, that's
ten times closer to having his mouth on my cock, so I shucked my pants and
undies the rest of the way down and told Jakey, "Hit the floor and do what
you need, kid. I'm not going to stop you."

So, Jakey pops down and he sticks his face in Bob Junior. His lips are on
my shaft and his nose is in my pubes, and he starts sniffing and moaning
and sniffing and moaning and going, "Aw man, that's hot. Aw, man you smell
fucking ripe." And sure enough I did, since the fucking Penguins beat us
7-2 and I didn't have time to shower after I tossed my jock in the gym
locker.

"Fuck that's good," Jakey started moaning, and no shit, he unbuttoned his
own pants slipped them off and started jacking his own slender beanstalk,
and then for Christ's sake he starts fingering his own asshole a little
while he nuzzled and sniffed me.

"You gonna suck it or not?" I asked him, and I grabbed his head a little
and coaxed him into the right angle. I mean, I appreciate a good
bush-nuzzling as much as the next guy, but I was harder than an algebra
final and it was time to take the bull by the horns.

Well, the minute I grabbed some hair, Jakey got the idea lickity split, and
his mouth opened up and engulfed my sperm-blower so fast you would have
thought it was feeding time in the pit bull cage and I had the juiciest,
rawest steak in town. That little fucker was downright voracious. At one
point I had to lean back and steady myself on the wall because I thought he
might suck me out the front door.

Even while he was sucking me, I saw his hands reaching for the tattoo bag.

"I gotta stick one on you," he mumbled through cock. "I got you all nice
and wet, and now I'm gonna stick a fake snake on your cock."

"Jake the Snake," I nodded respectfully. "You dirty little pervert. Well. A
man's gotta do what a man's gotta do."

He picked out a big one – a cobra no less – lined it up with the head
of my cock and ran it down the shaft, held it in place, licked the back of
the paper, squeezed for 30 seconds – (that part felt good) – then
peeled it away, leaving me branded with a nasty looking fucker right out of
the Garden of Eden.

"Sweet," he grinned, admiring his handywork. "Now how `bout you stick your
fat snake up my ass."

He didn't need to ask me that twice, that hot little fucker.

"Bend over the couch," I hissed. "I'll give you some snake, you hot little
dick slut."

He bent over and pried it open, and ooh-dee-lolly, that thing was so pretty
in pink, I had to get down on my knees and lick that pretty crack from
downtown Julie Brown all the way up to This is Spinal Tap.

Believe me, that thing tasted like salt and sugar and boy muff and bread
dough, and thank my lucky stars the Penguins beat us 7-2, because I could
taste every inning right up the slit in Jakey's snatch. It tasted like
hard-fought tears with a side order of fuck me.

I licked up and down for about five good minutes before I zeroed in on the
target zone. That pink little pucker was clean as a whistle and it almost
gave me a toot when it saw me coming. My tongue wiggled up that sweet
little shitter so far, Jakey said two last Hail Mary's and switched from
Catholic to Protestant on the spot.

I licked him and I tongued him and I even slipped a finger in. That part
made him bark like a puppy and howl like a hyena.

"You gotta fuck me, Bobby," he said. "You gotta put it in me and fuck me
good."

Now it was no secret Jakey was letting the rest of the team up that sweet
back door, so I figured I didn't need to be too overly-polite about it. I
hocked a loogey on my cock and was just about to line it up when suddenly
inspiration struck.

I left him bent over the couch-arm, twitching in heat while I grabbed that
bag of tattoos off the coffee table and rummaged through for the one I
wanted. There it was. I'd seen it before. A cute little mouse. If he wanted
my tattooed snake up his ass, well then, King Cobra was gonna eat a little
mouse pussy on his way up the rabbit hole.

I licked that asshole four more times for good measure, some really spitty
slurpy laps, and I stuck that tattoo on his pucker, sticky side down,
licked the back of the paper, held it in place and counted to thirty. I
peeled back the paper, gave it a peek, and sure enough, there was a smiling
cartoon mouse starting up at me from very pink puckered doorway of Jakey's
wet cunt, all sticky and glistening and ready to be devoured by my six-inch
snake.

(At this, the grown-up Freddy gagged a little on grown-up Bob's cock
because Bob at 50 was barely six-inches. Bob at 12 would have been a
wishful 3.5 at the most, but oh well, literary license and all, Freddy
figured as he got back to business, why ruin a good mouse fuck)...

"I lined up my snake cock with Jakey's little mouse hole, and I pushed that
fucker in with one deep slide, like a finger poking through a pound of
butter. Jakey knew how to take one and he let out his breath as my python
went in.

"Oh fuck, oh yes," he started to moan. "Fuck me, Bobby. Fuck me with it
good."

And I stood there deep-dicking him in and out, in and out, watching my fat
fuck stick with the snake tattoo plunge the mouse, plunge the mouse, plunge
the mouse...about twenty strokes into it, little tattoo paint and ink chips
started rubbing off everywhere. I had half a mouse ear on the ridge beneath
my cock crown and Jakey had a couple of python teeth where he'd never had
`em before, that's for sure.

I stood there fucking him, with the sweat dripping down my chest and the
sight of his wide-open ass getting deep dicked below me, and oh fuck, that
was a sight for sore eyes, my cock going in and out of this nasty little
fucker who'd been banged by half of the baseball team, and before I knew
it, I was already at the point of no return, so I grabbed his hips and
said, "Get ready to be pregnant for the next nine months you tattooed
little motherfucker, cause here comes your first baby."

"AAAAAAAA—OOOOOEEEEEEEE!!!" he squealed as I grabbed his hips and pulled
him hard into me, cock-locking him in place and splashing his guts with a
load of my finest.

"You fuckin' little MOUSE GOBBLER!" I bellowed as I belched into his
innards. "OH FUCK! OH YES! OH FUCK! OH MAMA!"

"And there it went," Bob bragged proudly as Freddy continued to service his
knob. "Five ounces of fresh fish sauce up Jakey's pretty shitter, tattoos
and all."

"Oh fuck, oh geez, that's hot," said Freddy, getting off his knees and
bending over the coffee table. "I don't believe a fucking word of it, but
you gotta fuck me, Bob. You gotta fuck me right now."

"Happy to oblige," Bob said, taking a quick slurp of his rum and coke and
hopping out of his chair to give Freddy the old six inch twinkie with the
creamy filling in the middle.

Bob took a look at his upturned rump, and Freddy helped out by reaching
back and spreading his cheeks apart.

"Oh yeah, that's fine, that fi-i-i-i-ne," Bob praised, popping the cap off
the lube and slowly spreading two fat fingers full of propylene glycol up
Freddy's red-hot cum-guzzler. "Look at that thing," he said as he fingered
it. "Still as sweet and bald as it was the day you were 10, Freddy, and I
first got-up in there."

"That was one for the record books," Freddy sighed, as he gyrated back
against his friends thick digits. "I farted out air for a day and a
half. My mom thought I was sick and the dog wouldn't even stay in the same
room with me."

Bob lined up his cock and slipped it neatly inside his friend's eager rump.

"Oh Jesus, oh sweetness, oh fuck, stick it in there," Freddy babbled
incoherently. After all these years, he still felt moved by the spirit when
Bob stuck his cock in.

"You like that fat old cock, don't you little buddy?" Bob grinned.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck, that's right, stir it in there."

Bob pressed against Freddy's fucknut and grabbed him by the hips and
gyrated deep against his prostate. Freddy felt seminal fluid ooze from the
tip of his cock like crystal clear corn syrup.

Down on the coffee table, on page 25, staring up at him, was the 7th grade
yearbook photo of Jakey the Snakey, fake tattoo on his neck, right there in
the yearbook picture, the crazy little shit, and Freddy looked him right in
the black-and-white eyes and Bob stood behind him breeding him deeply.

"This is just how I fucked Jakey that day," Bob sighed as he nibbled
Freddy's ear and battered his butternut. "Just how I fucked him...long and
deep with a gooey surprise at the end."

"Oh yeah," Freddy hissed. "Gimme that cum load, Bobby. Put it way up deep
inside me." Nothing cooled off Freddy's need to breed like a full load of
Bob's baby coolers up his hotbox.

Bob grabbed hips and shuddered to a crescendo. "Breed your fuckin' butt,"
he hollered as he grunted out a long, wet "NNNNNNNNGGGGGGH!!!!" and
unleased his load in Freddy's bowels.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh spray it, that's sweet!" Freddy wailed, clenching his
ass muscles together and squeezing out every drop. "Finish me off,
Bobby. Finish me off."

Bob grabbed down for a courtesy reach-around, and shanking Freddy's hot
boner, gave him one, two, three strokes you're out while he ground his cock
against his friend's almond nut, and Freddy shot off like a hair trigger
Freshman at the first spring dance.

"AYYYY-EEEEEEEE!!!!" he bellowed as his jizz blew down into the carpet
below.

There's another job for Rug Doctor, Bob thought as he watched his friend
squirt gooey ricotta on the Berber stain guard below.

Afterwards, the two best buds retired to their starting positions, Bob in
his easy chair and Freddy back on the couch.

"Hey there bud," Bob pointed out. "You're leaking jizz on my cushions
there."

"Oops, shit, sorry," Freddy said, grabbing a towel from the floor and
tucking it under his ass. "That was a good one, buddy. I'm all numb up
inside. We should talk about Jakey more often."

Bob grunted out a nod of agreement and wiped the ass glaze of his cock.

"You ever fuck him again after that one?" Freddy gestured toward the
picture of Jakey, still smiling up from the yearbook, fake tattoo on his
black and white neck...an ace, a club, a diamond and a heart.

"Nope," said Bob. "He moved on to the varsity team shortly thereafter."

Freddy nodded. Sighed. It happens.

"However," Bob began, and Freddy knew he was bullshitting already, "I did
fuck his best friend Kelly Kidman that same summer taking a kayak trip down
the Crow Wing River."

"You're full of shit!" Freddy hollered. "I was on that trip, Bobber! You
did no such thing."

"Ack, you just didn't see me," Bob insisted. "I fucked him silly. He had
the longest hair and the prettiest lips on the team. When I pulled down his
pants, I half expected to find a pussy."

"Oh, you sweet fucking liar," said Freddy. "You'll have to tell me about
that one some time, Bobber. I'm sure you won't let me down."

"Next weekend," Bob promised. "Right now, I've still got some Jakey sauce
brewing down here for you. Finish up that rum and coke and get back down on
your knees, little buddy. I'm about to tattoo your sweet little mouse hole
with another dozen babies."

Freddy sighed and slurped back his Malibu. Sure enough, Bob was hard again
and ready for round two. Damn Viagra tabs. They kept that old fucker going
until three in the morning. But hey, what are friends for.

Freddy closed the yearbook and pushed it aside. Good old middle school
memories, still fueling the fire after all these years.

He dropped to the floor next to Bob's big recliner, stretched his sore jaw
with a yawn and got down to the business at hand.

"Kelly in the Kayak," he rolled his eyes. "What a bunch of inevitable
bullshit."

But he gave Bob's cock a good preliminary shaft-licking anyway. And that,
my friends, is the definition of a very understanding and accomodating
friendship.

God bless baseball bromances that never end, Freddy thought with a smack of
his lips. He opened wide and took Bob's fat, familiar cock in his mouth.

Bobber sighed, grateful for lifelong friends and well-worn yearbooks,
turning every next blowjob and every dirty-deep butt fuck into a sweet,
perpetual Saturday night.

We should all be so lucky.

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Author's Note:

Bob and Freddy first got their dirty-talking game on in:
http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/talking-trash-about-the-team

And they fuck around next in:
https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/kelly-in-the-kayak

And here's another little boy who knows what to do with his mouse:
https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/tickle-me-too

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I love you crazy bitches,
Zach