Date: Wed, 20 Nov 2002 02:56:30 -0800 (PST)
From: Sam Johnston <sammy_johnston@yahoo.com>
Subject: Artistic Rendering

Last year, in my freshman year of college, I was given two pre-selected
partners for my Art Final. I hardly knew either Chris or John - except for
casual generalities floating around the University and sort of, kind of,
knowing them because we're in the same class. But other than a few vague
facts, I didn't know them from atom. It made our first few meetings to
discuss our project reserved, cordial, and possibly a little restrained.
Yet, about the third meeting, where we were really concentrating on
hammering out specifics of our project in John's frathouse 'suite', is
where we began to relax around one another, having gotten through the rigid
rigmarole of the 'how-do-you-do's and 'so-what-are-your-hobbies.'

I'd come to find out that John, the stocky Italian, twenty, was a
party-lover. Pretty much a given being that he was the only one of us three
who belonged to a rambunctious frathouse. When he opened up to us, I could
definitely see the rowdy maniac he was. He wasn't one of those rude, vulgar
types, just a person who was naturally loud-voiced, said what came to his
mind, and loved to party. All three of us joked about wondering why John
even bothered coming to /class/; his grades weren't faring too well.

At five feet nine inches, he was the shortest of our group, though the
breadwinner between us of muscle. John was compact, built to the ground,
but seemed very balanced and alert. He revealed that he had trained in the
Martial Arts since the age of nine. He had a great sense of humor too, even
if his immaturity did rear its head often. I guess you could say he had
typical Italian American features: slightly wavy black hair trimmed short,
but unkempt, grinning dark brown eyes, and a dash of olive tint to his
skin.

He wasn't really what society would label as 'attractive' - I don't
think. But I assumed that where he got his endless supply of girls to turn
inside out was from his build than anything else. And maybe his somewhat
naive, immature, and nonchalant attitude.

Twenty-two years old Chris, on the other hand, was vastly different from
John and I. He wasn't the studious one, like me, but he did take his art
studies seriously. Only when it came down to art. I originally pegged him
as a surfer or skater type because of his sun-highlighted hair, fluid tan,
and lanky six-foot frame. Really he was a sun-worshipping artist - or tried
his best to be since there's hardly any sun in Washington. Chris lived a
decent ways away from campus, down by one of the beaches in his van. Very
classic... I teased him about it.

Unlike John, who seemed ever to be joking and laughing at my wisecracks,
Chris didn't seem to have much of a sense of humor... Melancholic
starving-artist, I figured. 'The Artist' - my coined nickname for him -
never failed to maintain his serious set expression, hazel eyes appearing
to see right through whatever or whomever he was watching. Almost like he
were seeing into the object or person at hand and finding something that no
one else did. Unnerving when you first met the guy. However, he had an air
about him that was gentle, if not a splash pitiful. Softspoken and
self-aware.

It was late that Sunday night and we all had art class early the next
morning. We had to turn in a draft of our project idea by then, or
/else/. So we were pressed for time, obviously, and really needed to get
down to work. Chris seemed edgy and anxious, too. Probably because art was
his life and he wanted to keep his self from failing this somewhat
simplistic term. I tried not to encourage John's humor and ability to be
easily sidetracked too much since we truly needed to accomplish
/something/.

All three of us mutually agreed that we should aim for an artistic nude
stance on the project, akin to the ancient Grecian and Renaissance
sculptures/portraits. Chris and I came up with the time frames. John had it
in his mind to do something like David by Michaelangelo. Most likely
because it was the /only/ piece of art he knew of that fit into what we'd
mutually agreed upon. Poor guy.

Chris wanted to do an elaborate piece like the Aphrodite, Madonna, or the
friggen Sistine Chapel for crying out loud. I pointed out that we didn't
have enough time allotted for that. He stuck to his guns, so I backed
off. I, myself, wanted to do a simple piece like Athena Parthanos. I don't
remember how we endeavored into doing our own sketches/ideas to be
critiqued by the others in our group, but that's essentially what we
did. Each of us worked on the pieces that we found appealing, then would
put it up for the group to scrutinize. The one we favored would be fleshed
out and turned in the following morning.

A few hours passed before both John and I were both done, which surprised
me since we had goofed off on the side. So while we patiently waited
another forty-five minutes for Chris to finish, we decided to play a few
hands of poker.

"Argh!" Came the angst-filled growl from the usually quiet Artist, making
both John and I turn our heads to see what was up. His tanned hands busied
themselves with furiously tearing his artwork into tiny scraps. A definite
starving artist, I remember thinking.

"Something wrong?" John smirked, his tone improperly teasing. Good thing it
was wasted on Chris.

"Fucking project." I frowned at hearing Chris grumble this under his
breath, seeming to ignore the rest of us in the room.

"Come on, Chris. Take a look at what we got. Maybe you'll like it, or get
inspiration." It wasn't meant as a joke, really, but I think John found it
satirical. A promoted laugh bubbled out, then shut itself abruptly as I
gave him a subdued look. Thankfully he could take hints.

Nevertheless, Christopher did stand and mope on over to us two sitting on
the bed with the deck of cards and drawings. Neither John nor I had seen
each other's work, as per the pre-arrangement. So when our mournful Artist
sat on the edge of the bed, we both flipped over our works. I'll be
truthful and say mine was far from any of my 'better' work. I just couldn't
concentrate with the pressure, time, and work habits we adopted. And, I
guess goofing with Mister Italian didn't help either.

What surprised me and maybe Chris too was John's sketch. It was of David,
which wasn't something we could turn in, but looked decent in the angle and
artistic direction that he'd captured the sculpture in. It was a striking
paragon of Grecian slash Renaissance times. Granted the drawing itself
wasn't so great... lacking anatomically correct lines here, or misshapen
bulges there, etc. But at least Chris seemed interested in his usual
far-off way.

"That's pretty good." I remember saying, Chris just giving me a look that
said I was understating the entire 'masterpiece'.

"It's perfect, dude." If a mad scientist from the Valley were creating
Frankeinstein... he'd had said it to the same effect as Chris did.

"I dunno... He kinda looks like he's David's deformed twin brother." The
stocky Italian seemed to be vainly suppressing a grin.

I smirked. "Mutant David." Lame, I know, but it rolled off my lips. John
nodded.

"No, we can redraw it with another less known model, but keep the position
and angle the same." In other words, Chris would redraw the model to make
it 'perfect'. I knew what his 'we's meant.

"Okay." I enthused.

"That sounds good." John trailed after. Chris took the paper and went over
to sit at the desk, really hunching over it to begin work on transforming
Mutant David into Neo David.

John and I pissed about, shooting the breeze about the lack of girlfriends,
kinky sex experiences, and general joking with one another. An hour and
then another hour passed by. While anteing up for the current hand, I
glanced at the clock. In all its red-digital glory it blared 2:50 am. We'd
been working since 6pm that night, and I was getting overdue on boredom
with this project. There's only so much studying and concentrating one
could do.

"Rrgh! Fuck it all!" Another vocal, angry yell from Chris, ripping the
latest several tries he'd painstakingly toiled at. This wasn't looking good
for any of us...

"What's up?" I nonsensically asked, my best attempt at being ever so
casual.

"This fucking project, dude, that's what's up." He darkly snapped back,
dropping his head into the cradle of his arms atop the desk.

"Well... we'll just try again. Right?" John, his best attempt at being ever
so diplomatic...

"Tsshh." Came the chiding sound from Chris' lips, not even bothering to
lift his head. I could sense he was more upset with himself than the
project itself. Maybe he'd never run across an artist's 'bad day' or maybe
this was just another one. I'd always been pleasantly surprised at Chris'
artwork when displayed in class. He had his own style, but could adapt to
nearly any artist. Perhaps our timeframe was wrong for him... I hadn't seen
him try any Grecian/Renaissance stuff before...

"We can change from Grecian to-" I solemnly began, though suddenly found my
words cut by The Artist's explanation.

"It's not that, dude. It's these damn books. I'm used to live models." Oh,
so /that/ was part of his artistic secret. I never knew that, but I never
actually asked and he never straightforwardly offered.

"We can find a model." I matter-of-factly assured him. I could feel the
seeping delirium of sleep deprivation setting in.

"Where? At this time of night?" John chimed in, playing devil's advocate
for me - which irritated me until I realize he was right. I forgot it was
past 3:00am.

"Dude, I don't even got a dime on me to pay for dinner let alone a model."
Chris stacked another argument up on the piling list. I felt rather bleak
by then. However... feeling rather stupid and moronic, I unlocked a secret
key factor in all this.

"Uhm, duh?" I apprehensively intoned, rather pointedly too, as I waved my
hand around the room at each of us. John immediately understood the jest
and fell backwards on the mattress, laughing in his contagious way. Chris,
expectedly, didn't get it, and his chiseled face tensed up in an annoyed
expression.

"We've got guy models right here." I quickly elaborated for his benefit.
His face and body slackened in a mix of relief and understanding, I think.
Even a small smile appeared on his face!

"Unless you're not telling us something, Sam." John adopted a sickly sweet
singsong voice, batting his eyes at me. Likely indicating, in jocular
demeanor, that I somehow might /not/ be a guy.

"Oh, shut up." I chastised with a grin, shaking my head. Chris seemed to be
so relieved that he even chuckled. Or so I think. At least he was smiling
somewhat.

"So, who's it gonna be?" The dark-mopped martial artist quipped. I hadn't
thought of that part yet... I definitely would feel odd and inadequate
stepping up to be the nude model for our group. More so since the entire
class, and possibly school, would be seeing my nude frame posted wherever
the Professor chose. All three of us kind of lapsed into a silence. I
wasn't ashamed of my body, really. Yoga and tennis were great in keeping me
feeling good. I just didn't really know these guys that well... and I
wasn't the showy type to go about flashing my bits to everyone. I did have
standard morals... somewhat.

"I know. We all need a break, right?" I interjected before anyone could
nominate or pressure another into being the model. My chin nodded to the
deck of cards I was shuffling. "Play you guys poker. Loser models."

"But, dude, I'm the best artist here, no offense." Chris projected. I
wasn't sure if he was trying to weasel out of the deal, or was serving a
point.

"Yeah, but you look like you need a muse tonight." I countered in
camaraderie, a helpful reminder. He slowly nodded, wordlessly agreeing with
me.

John grinned from ear to ear, flashing his slightly crooked but peal white
teeth. I wondered how he ever got them that white without bleaching
them. Chris somewhat reluctantly or carelessly agreed. However, I could
tell that John had something else in mind, taking note of his fixated
mischievous smile.

"What?" I chuckled out, cutting the deck and eyeing him curiously.

"How 'bout strip poker?" He blurted out, no show of shame or uneasiness
anyplace on his person. I guess he was self-confident.

"What do you mean, dude?" Chris cautiously drawled out, blinking at the
developed Italian.

"You lose a hand, you lose a shirt." John took the cards from me, making
himself an accent of a round-'em-up cardshark. "The one nekkid first is our
model." Everyone understood the rules now. I felt rather intrigued
and... giddy (?) at this prospect. I think it had to deal heavily with the
early morning and lack of sleep. I was game for anything, and not thinking
things coherently.

We each had about the same amount of clothes on. Pretty fair, I guess. The
Artist had his two layered shirts (gray and white), gray shorts, socks and
shoes. John had his black sweatshirt, jeans, socks, and shoes. I had my
Levi's, socks, tennis shoes, briefs, undershirt, and v-neck pullover. Or a
t-shirt... I can't remember too clearly.

John dealt the first round to us. Simple five-card draw, nothing special
since Chris didn't know any 'fanfare' rules. As lady luck would have it our
Artist won the first hand.

"Beginner's luck." The low-built Italian scoffed, pulling his sweatshirt
over his head. He had a short-sleeved white undershirt on. I just grinned
at the comment, untying me shoes and pulling them off one by one. Shoes and
socks counted as one item, I found out.

Christopher was rewarded dealership of the next round, and after a quick
shuffle, he laid them out face down atop the bed. I threw away four cards,
hoping my lonely Ace would get a few friends... But no such luck; I only
had an Ace high. John uncovered two pair, and I thought he was going to win
this hand, but we were both beat again by Chris, with three of a kind.

"Well, shit." Mumbled the wavy-haired twenty-year old, tugging at his
combat-like boots.

"Did you shuffle?" I teased, to which Chris nodded stoically. Oh, well. I
tugged off my socks this time. John noticed.

"Pussy." He grinned impishly. I raised my hand, giving him 'the bird'. His
laugh ensued.

Thankfully the next deal let up on myself, since I beat my other two art
partners with a simple pair of Kings. Chris seemed confused on whether to
take a shirt off or his shoes. Finally he settled on the gray short-sleeved
shirt, leaving the white psychedelic one on underneath. I nodded at the
shirt. It looked like he had done it himself.

"Trippy shirt." My eyes kept coming back to study the blending, bleeding
color patches, and I could just make out something subliminal in the fray.

"Thanks, dude." The sufer-like artist appreciatively responded with,
conceding the deck of cards over to me. I dealt the next hand, and while we
were studying our cards I noticed that John had chose to take off his under
t-shirt. He certainly had the muscles I pegged him to have. Not over
abundant, of course. More like stocky/bulky muscle with faint definition
trails, nothing overtly defined.

It made me think of when you put objects underneath a thick blanket. Muscle
underneath thick skin. Hairless too, which surprised me. I though that
given his Italian descent, he'd be... well, hairy. Heck, I had more hair
than his chest or arms, and that wasn't saying too much since I'm
considered fairly hairy.

John raked a hand through his hair, sighing. "Shit." He drew out in
disappointed length. I knew he must have had a useless hand. I couldn't
read Chris' face - never could. I felt pretty proud since I was holding
three aces. Pretty cocky. Needless to say I won the hand. Chris had a pair
of sevens, John held a Jack high.

It finally was Christopher's turn to tug off his ratty shoes, while John
begrudgingly ripped off his socks. Prior to this game of cards the bawdy
Italian had been putting the hurt on me in poker. Luck has to run out
sometime. Again I got to deal for us, our conversation dying down into
competitive sport - well, at least with John and I. Chris was always
low-key.

This time, however, the lackluster Italian perked up as he triumphantly
displayed his flush.

"Yesss! I am King! Rah-hah-ah!" Or something to that degree. He flexed his
biceps in show of jungle-man Tarzan drama, then curled his arms beneath his
chest to flex off his muscles with another light growl. I could see he was
lightly sweating. Chris looked disinterested and slightly annoyed with
John's abundant display of testosterone. I thought it was funny. I shrugged
at John.

"Dude. You dealing or what?" The Artist impatiently weighed in. At least we
weren't the only ones who were feeling competitive. Good to know Chris had
it in him. With the spell broken, John grimaced at Chris and shuffled the
deck. Meanwhile, I began yanking off my overshirt and the sun-lover had
already pulled off his socks. His feet were - the only way I can term this
- like sticks. Big feet but looked bony. I had never had any qualms about
my feet. I thought they were 'cute'. Not 'veiny', nor pudgy, rounded toes,
not any too long or too short. Of course it's my opinion. My feet and my
legs. Those are probably the only assets I'm satisfied with on my six foot
one, one hundred and ninety-pound swimmer's body.

John unfortunately lost the next hand. To which he yelled out an
obscenity. "Do belts count as one item?" Another of his jokes. I grinned
with mock sympathy and shook my head.

"Oh, alright. ...Bitch." He chuckled to himself, and I had to laugh at
that. It was just the right-timed way he posed it. He stood on the bed,
undoing his belt, throwing it to the side, then unbuttoning and unzipping
his deep blue jeans. I had been victor this time, so I just nonchalantly
watched as John wretched down his jeans, kicked them over to the other side
of the room, and then flopped back down. Chris had chosen to take his
shorts off as well, leaving his distracting shirt and stripped boxers
on. John had y-front briefs like I usually wore. Joe Boxer or Fruit of the
Loom -- something of the type. I always wore my white Hanes.

I assumed that Mister Italian here shaved his chest hair because his legs
were really quite hairy. Messy hairy. Chris didn't appear to have any leg
hair as it was sun-bleached golden blonde. He really must have found
someplace lost to Washington State in order to get that much ultraviolet
light.

As I was dealing the next hand, I couldn't help take note of how compact
and full John's lopsided briefs were. I mean, it just looked like he was
going to burst at any second just sitting there. But good things come to an
end, and I wound up losing with Chris that round. John just laughed
eagerly, or with relief. One of those, since he wasn't the true loser.

I decided to take off my jeans as well, shimming out of them while standing
on the bed to show off my fairly hairy legs. Chris ultimately yanked off
his shirt. The tanned flat chest and tight abs came into view. It was an
odd marriage. No real pecs, but chiseled abs. He had a mixed hybrid of
light brown and blonde chest and arm hair. It was kind of neat.

I sat myself cross-legged down on the bed once again, pulling idly at my
briefs' pouch to get them from riding up on my balls. Silently, John began
to dish this next game. We all had our poker faces on now. And if it were
possible, not that I was going out of my way to look, John's bulge seemed
to have grown since the last card hand. I nearly laughed aloud when I had a
- deprivation induced - image of his Loom briefs ripping at the seams. The
fifty foot dick. I knew then that I was getting really out of it. The clock
glared 4:00am across its screen. We only had approximately four more hours
until class began.

I knew I lost. I actually gave into that fact since I knew if I lost this
round it wouldn't matter as either John or Chris would wind up being the
inevitable Model.

"I fold." I copped out, feeling as if my head were beginning to swim.

"Chicken bitch." John prodded half-teasingly, his dark eyes intently aware
of what his cards read. The Artist tossed his cards down. Three of a kind
again. John grinned, then puffed out a bored, monotone sigh. His face
crinkled into disdain. It was obvious he had lost the game. I didn't bother
with taking my tank top off since we'd found our model, and the game came
to an end.

"Guess I'm modeling, eh?" He questioned in defeated rhetoric, climbing
unsteadily to his feet. The springs in the mattress squeaked. Though the
downtrodden mood didn't last. Another one of his mischievously
cheshire-cat-like grins surfaced on his face. It brought a smirk to my
own. Cheesy, he turned around so that the bubble of his tightly briefed
butt stuck out at us, placing his hands on his minutely side-to-side
swaying hips. Then came the self-made 'stripper' music, broken from time to
time with chuckles. He teased by lowering his waistband a quarter of the
way down his ass, letting some of his crack flash for us. His near-white
colored cheeks were amusing when compared to his general light-olive skin
tone elsewhere.

I could feel my grin growing, finding this drawn out joke to be extremely
humorous in the wee morning hours. He then pulled the briefs back up after
flashing the whole of his ass to us, turning around with the largest grin
I'd seen on him that night. His cheeks were slightly flushed, and his sheen
of sweat had worked up over the duration of our gameplay. With three guys
locked away in one moderate-sized room for several hours? Well, it was a
given that the temperature would have raised.

This time, though, continuing his 70s porno mouth-music and hip swaying, he
hooked his thumbs into the dark blue waistband and tugged them down smidgen
by smidgen. Hidden beneath the top of the briefs was where his Italian
ancestry shown. His dense pubic forest surpassed that of mine. But it
looked somewhat tapered so as not to get too overly wild. With a slap the
waistband came back to its previous position. I whistled for effect, he
laughed and moved his hands to his even larger than before pouch, pulling
aside the right leg-hole to flash his hairless ballsack at his captured
audience.

I don't know if it was the time, or what.. but as I watched the spastic
John do his 'big number' I could feel my cock begin to lengthen down the
front of my own briefs. Not too much, just an inch amount or so in intrigue
of this 'free show'. I didn't remember Chris being there until I caught him
out of the corner of my eye. He seemed normal: disinterested and annoyed at
this prolonged episode of antics. Not that I cared, I was getting a hoot
out of it. As I turned my attention on bemused John again, I could clearly
tell that my mind hadn't imagined his basket's growth spurts. Obviously,
now, his prick had begun to stiffen during our last hands of poker. You
easily discern this fact now.

Having had his fun, I guess, John's melodramatic music reached a climax as
he steadily slipped his briefs off his waist, and down his thighs. Popping
up and then bouncing around was his incredibly thick dick. I think my eyes
widened at the sight of his bare genitals. It hadn't been his balls that
filled out his pouch - they were average you could say - it was his
thick-as-a-coke-can prick. I'm probably overtly dramatizing it now, though
I swear it looked thicker than a lead pipe in its semi-erect state. The
size, however, wasn't that big; I was longer than him when erect. He looked
like he could be about five inches total, whereas mine is some over six
inches. I guess everything about John was compact and stocky.

The room got deathly quiet, and I felt my cock surge forward another inch
or so as I kind of studied this martial artist's cock. I tried my best not
to stare, and kept a friendly smirk on my face to show no weirdness now
that he had disrobed to full Monty. I did feel insecure and odd that my
cock was inflating so much at seeing this foreign sideshow. John then sort
of scratched at his balls, making his heavy prick bounce slowly.

"This is a bit weird.." He murmured loud enough for us to hear though I
could detect the mirth in his tone. Plus he this half-smirk plastered on
his face. "Well? You gonna draw me or what?"

The comment got our Artist going, sliding off the bed to retrieve the pad
of expensive artist paper and special pencils. I noticed in the interim
that ever so slowly John's continued its journey to full, raging
erection. Going from semi to three fourths, to almost running parallel to
his flat stomach. My own dick that had lost some of its interest twitched
at this and began to rise as well. I wasn't too embarrassed. I still had on
some clothes, at least.

"Can't you get it down, dude?" Irritated, Chris sighed at the olive-toned
Italian - as if it were something you could turn on or off. By now John had
reached engorged mast. No room for argument, it was as large around as a
coke can.

"No!" He protested with careless frivolity, turning his body sidelong to
us. With this angle you could really see the subtle veins standing out on
his cock's girth. I belatedly noticed that the skin around and on his shaft
was a few shades darker than his faint overall olive tone. Briefly did I
wonder how he managed to have intercourse... or anything else for that
matter. On his face lay the slickest knowing expression I'd seen to grace
any face before. It felt practiced and calculated, actually.

"Doesn't look like you can either." A smug smirk peeled back his lips, his
brown spheres staring at something. As I turned my head to look at Chris, I
caught him shifting his position a few seconds too late. He was aroused!
And making a flagpole of a tent in his boxers. His cheeks - and especially
around his ears - took on a reddened, denser color than his brown-gold
tan. He didn't say anything.

After another few minutes of The Artist's trial and error on the paper, he
resigned with a heavy sigh. At first I thought it came from another crisis
in inspiration or lack thereof.

"Fuck it. I can't get the proportions right, dude, with that big-assed dick
in the way." John dropped his David-esque pose with a line of irritation
crossing his face. I guess Chris' attitude was finally rubbing him the
wrong way. However, he was polite about it and ignored it.

"I haven't gotten laid in two weeks; I can't help it if I'm /horny/." The
biting comment was masked in the form of an indifferent witty retort.
Shaking his head, our 'beloved' Artist left the room, tented boxers leading
the way, in favor of relieving himself in the bathroom down the hall. I
could tell by John's face that he remained a mite miffed at Chris'
continual redirection to his erect member.

"Art's the only thing he's got going for him." I offhandedly initiated,
taking the drawing pad to give the started sketch the once-over. It wasn't
half-bad: the torso definitely resembled John's rounded one. I decided to
take up the pencil in hopes of finishing the legs for Chris so that maybe
he could just fill in the arms and head - then we'd be done. Finally.

"I know. I think he's in more need of a fuck than I am." He chuckled softly
to himself, and I joined in, filling in the next leg. We returned to
silence once again, John to his pose and me to the title of head artist
now. Several minutes passed by, his popped boner not once taking a break
from its stiffened state. My own had deflated into pseudo-semi. The
post-erection and post-semi drooping. My next glance caused me to do a
double take as I saw John's squatty-thick prick begin to ooze pre-cum, the
clear-sticky fluid just rolling down the purple tip of his cut cockhead. If
I remember right he was biting his bottom lip nervously too.

I smiled to show that it was no big deal. Just a guy thing.

"Shit, I need to tug one out. I'm achin'." John sort of blabbed out, making
me understand that it wasn't nervousness that had been his expression but
desperation. I didn't really know what to say to that, so I tried joking
with him.

"Maybe Chris should too." My smile turned into a grin. He relaxed his pose,
letting his shoulders and arms drop to his sides.

Laughing, John quirked out, "What about you, Sam?"

Being forced on the spot put undeniable pressure on me... However, with my
head the way it was at 5:00am in the morning, I could care less. I
shrugged.

"Yeah. I guess I do too." Talk about admitting something to yourself before
noticing. As I glanced at John's left hand covertly rubbing/scratching the
edge of his shaft with finger, causing another push of fluid spilling
across his cockhead, I felt my own erection speedily returning. I guess the
prospect of seeing how exactly he managed to successfully pull his pud
turned me on. Which made me feel awkward.

"Well? Come on!" John rather excitedly affirmed, bouncing his rear down on
the bed and spreading his hairy legs out in a sort of open display of his
meaty cock. Now I've masturbated with some close friends before and it
never bothered me, but this situation just struck me as hysterical. So
hysterical that I found myself crawling to his left side to sit next to
him, not coming to terms with what I was actually complying with. My new
friend patted my thigh a few times.

The toilet flushed. "Come on what? What are you dudes doing now? We have
a-" Chris began speaking before even opening the bedroom door. When he did,
his words trailed off to curiously look at us.

"John's forcing me to masturbate with him." I casually explained, likening
it to the weather forecast. Our returned Artist cocked his head, trying to
see if I was putting him on again. Both John and I grinned.

"Dude. We have a proj-" Chris began with a pinched expression. The kind
adults usually adopt when they're around screaming children who never
listen at family reunions. You know the one, where they want to say
something but don't because they're related and 'above it'. Thankfully John
interjected - our Artist was losing Brownie points with me.

"Do you want to draw me without a hard-on or not?" Chris seemed to think
about this for a moment, sort of combing his sun-bleached hair.

"Pff. Whatever." Shrugging his narrow shoulders.

"Why not join us?" I smiled sweetly, trying my hand at an English accent. I
held the image of inviting him over for tea in my mind as I said it.

"Yeah. When in Rome..." John echoed, making a play on our time period
choice. I had to laugh a bit at that. It was pretty good, at the
time. Chris didn't really elect to say anything, but he did sit himself on
the other side of the stocky Italian. Brooding, I guess.

"Porn?" I wondered aloud, forming something of a recognizable question.
John, however, just shrugged it off while rubbing his hands together.

"Nope. Afraid you just gotta use your imagination, boys." This followed
with him cracking his knuckles. To say that the monster pointing between
his legs ceased drizzling would be lying.

"Oh, no." I replied with a mock horror. Halfhearted. The time for goofing
off drifted away as John began to smear the copious drainage of pre around
the cloudy-purple head and dark olive shaft of his cock. Surprising, to me,
he used one hand to begin stroking his overweight prick. Sort of holding it
like you would a bottle or a coke can, only moving it up and down its
length. And he didn't have much length to go. I averaged right - about five
inches total.

And I guess he caught me staring or acting hesitant because he pulled down
his dick with his tumb so that the tip was staring at me like an one-eyed
demon. A chuckle rolled around in his chest as he used his other hand to
squeeze his balls - dramatically in show for me. I rolled my eyes, trying
not to blush at my rudeness. The veil of silence rang nosily in the room as
I fished my own erect six-inch tool from my briefs' accessible y-hole. With
one hand flat against the material, hooking my base in the nook between my
forefinger and thumb, I grappled my organ with my free hand and slowly
began to massage the peach- white shaft.

I didn't look back at John, but I could feel his eyes watching and
investigating my movements, and my cock. But I kind of kept my face
straightforward for the next minute or so, becoming more uninhibited and
comfortable with each tug. The bed springs groaned and the bed jostled more
than it should have, so I glanced over to find that our reserved friend had
shed his striped boxers.

I couldn't say for sure but maybe it was close to eight inches? Or
seven. My vision was disturbed as it were: double vision from lack of
sleep. His pubic bush, however, was nonexistent. I guess he liked to shave
himself smooth. I hadn't seen that before in person. It made him
look... younger. His callused hand grappled the tanned stem of his member,
beginning to take slow, pressured strokes using an 'o' made with his
fingers.

"Nice of you to join us." John wisecracked, though it came out as a croak.
I didn't join in this time. I was too busy comparing how different both
John and Chris' balls and ballsacks were from mine. They were hairless,
where I had some renegade hairs on mine. Mine were pretty average-nice -
like John's. And The Artist's were a size smaller, though he had a supply
of sack-skin to spare.

"Damn. Yours is big." I complimented Christopher, not meaning anything more
by it. I guess every male wishes for a longer, thicker dick, and I was kind
of living through Chris' at the moment. This brought about the Italian
between us to really take scrutiny of the sun-worshipper's genitals.

"Woah. That is /huge/." Without even asking he reached an olive-skinned
hand over to engulf the circumference of our Artist's cock. I think I was
more shocked than Chris was. He just seemed uncomfortable, shy, but at the
same time proud of what he had. I could see John's hand gently begin
squeezing the guy's tanned manhood. That probably was what prompted
Christopher to lightly pull himself away from the dark-mopped man's
grip. By now I had began secreting my own slick fluid from the manual
stimulation.

"Wanna feel mine? Go on, feel it." Unabashedly John urged Chris to touch
his own cock in return. An eye for an eye; a grope for a grope? Whatever it
was, the offer was sort of declined in the non-verbal sense. But the
nagging voice in the back of my head persuaded me to accept the offer. I
wanted to know what it felt like to have so much girth in your hand. If it
felt more 'manly' or if it worked the same way mine did...

"Sure. Don't mind if I do." I chimed in jovially. Although I could hear the
rattled nerves in my own voice. Maybe John didn't want me touching him?
Would I be ridiculed or labeled something I wasn't? Thoughts like that
passed through my mind, but I still reached over to grab a hold of the
coke-thick girth of cock. It felt hotter than my own, and pulsed with an
undercurrent that matched with John's heartbeat. I could feel his prominent
veins throbbing, something very different than my own. He moved his hands
clear away to give me free reign, just kind of watching.

I started to squeeze around a bit, an effort to try and get my whole hand
wrapped around this creature. His warm, leaking pre-cum didn't bother me -
in fact, I didn't even notice it until my fingers had gotten pretty slimy.
It wasn't too long - maybe thirty seconds after - that John noticed my
protruding balls.

"Woah!" Such a little boy expression from him, his face lighting up.
"You've got hairy nuts." He reported it like it was news to me, like I
hadn't grown up seeing these hairs sprout. Again, in his usual
nonconsensual manner, he cupped my sack in his hand, beginning to feel
around at the hairs. Now, I have to admit that I did receive perverse
pleasure from having someone else's hand fondle and compliment my
balls. This took my mind away from the fact that I guess I absently began
to stroke off John's short shaft. My hand was lubed enough as it were; it
needed only to move an inch or so down and an inch or so back up.

"Weird." My Italian friend murmured with interest as he now started to roll
one of my testicles around in the malleable skin for a few seconds, then
traded off to do the same with the other. He repeated this, as well as
squeezing my entire cupped sack in his hand, for the next minute or
two. And I, meanwhile, still worked on his behemoth and my own cock, aided
by the tiny quivers of pleasure his massaging hand afforded. Heavy
breathing filled the silence 'problem'. And I noticed that Chris was
watching our mutual manipulation closely.

I felt insecure now, surveying the situation and what it might look like.
So I disentangled myself from John, who didn't seem effect whatsoever, and
we both resumed our own masturbation techniques. However, I found that my
dominant hand had been the hand that was drenched by John's oozed
fluids... I didn't want to make a big deal or seem like something was
wrong, so I gently eased my coated hand onto my cock, finding the added
slip to be... more enjoyable. Lube was lube, I tell myself to this day. It
all came from the same sources. I even got a small rush of having his
pre-cum on my cock. I stupidly thought that maybe it'd promote girth-growth
in my own cock. It was late, what can I say?

The wet sounds of smacking, clicking, and rubbing became prominent to my
eardrums. It was as if all three of us had kicked our speeds up a few
notches. John made soft moans to himself, rolling his head from side to
side on his shoulders. I could feel the blood rushing to my face and head,
my entire body feeling hot and damp as I concentrated on my approaching
orgasm welling up inside the depths of my stomach. Light "mms,"
occasionally escaped my lips. Yet Chris remained non-vocal in his deed,
much like his personality.

But it was none other than the Artist who didn't want to masturbate that
erupted in his orgasm first. Only a few strangled grunts worked its way
from his throat. I glanced over to spy his brilliantly white spooge purge
itself in a sort of overflowing gust. Each twitch sent another added smear
of cum to run down the front part of his shaft, pooling around its base. He
didn't amass much... At least not as much as I usually did, though I
considered my quantity average at best.

Now that Chris had his finale, I felt obligated to add my own. I closed my
eyes, feeling my brow narrow in that creasing way that tells me I'm getting
close to the edge. I heard our Artist mutter something about cleaning up,
the bed shake, and then the room-door close. A few strokes after my toes
curled, and a soft groan, I began to shoot volley after volley of
gratification across my stomach and hips. Several in total. Then sensitive,
sensual waves of superficial orgasm died down, lingering mere seconds at
best. It still felt good, no doubt about that.

I slowly opened my eyes to see John flash me a broad smile. He had watched
me spurt, I could tell since I saw his brown eyes flicker up from my cock
when my eyelids opened. Reminiscent of catching someone looking at you,
then they jerkily turn their attention away. It made me smirk. I didn't
mind. What I did sort of mind and felt alienated about was how my new
friend stared at my spent, softening prick. Just because of the fierce
intensity, his face turned downward in focused attention, both of his hands
rapidly flicking across the meager length of his ballooned pillar. I don't
know... it just seemed as if he was paying too much sole visual attention
on me. Now that I'd cum, I didn't really want anything to do with anything
sexual. So that might have been a factor too... Maybe I was just
overreacting? I mean, I was pulling on his prick for over a solid minute
there...

So I his use of me as whatever mental aid he thought I provided,
endeavoring to lay back and relax. However, it then got even more
uncomfortable... I watched as John took a cautious glance toward the door,
as if gauging whether or not Chris would come back. His eyes then turned to
me, flashing a reassuring or friendly grin. He might have even winked, but
I think it was more of a spasm from his nearing orgasm.

A hand parted from his avid masturbation to once again cup my exhausted
balls in his hand, feeling the hairs and pulling on it gently. I thought
that this was crossing the personal line a little too far... but I let him,
for lack of anything else thought to do. I didn't want to lose him as a
friend - he was pretty cool. And I thought that reprimanding him for what
he was doing might ruin any hopes of maintaining our friendship because of
how awkward it would be after...

This time, though, his massaging hand brought emptiness with it. A degree
of neutrality like being examined for a physical at the Doctor's office. My
ears picked up on his light moans becoming deeper, his tightened pectorals
clenching hard, and the vibrant, lonely sound of his mammoth being serviced
by his formed hand. I looked over to him still in deep absorb over my
shrinking genitals, feeling fingers prodding up into my sack, past my
balls, across my balls, around my balls... as if he were mapping them, or
exploring them like he'd never heard nor seen them before. Then I saw his
face contort violently, bearing down hard on his jaw, brow becoming a
multitude of squished lines.

"Yeah... yeah... Yeeaaaahhhh...!!" He drew out his last profession of
ecstasy, squeezing my nuts harder than I would have liked, while shot after
shot after shot sprayed his torso. I had preconceived opinions that his
massive prick would somehow donate more ejaculate than four men combined,
but I was wrong. His four approximate watery-clear explosions drooled
across his body, another thing I'd never seen before. I thought all cum was
somewhat thick and gooey. Seems I was wrong.

He removed his hand from my pouch and I quickly stuffed my cock and sack
back into the hole of my jockeys. An attempt to keep them from molestation,
you could say. I think John sensed something now that his orgasm had been
released because he gave me this sheepish, apologetic smile. It kind of
made up for what he did, in my mind, so I half-smiled back. A show of no
negative feelings... not too many, anyway.

"That was cool." He timidly confessed to me, laying in one spot for a few
more seconds and catching his breath. I just nodded like it wasn't a big
deal. He smiled at me.

Then Chris returned and found the leftover mess on John. "Clean up,
dude. Class starts in two hours." He threw a washrag to which the stocky
Italian used to dab and wipe at his body's cum-stains.

Not once did John's cock rise while modeling after the session us three
had, which even appeared to be beneficial for our Artist. No more
crises. We were able to finish our rough drafted project with time to
spare.

It goes without saying that we three got an 'A' on the final product.


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[Author's Note: I understand this may not be as 'good' as my first story,
but it's real.]
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Questions, commentary, complaints? Please feel free to send them to me at
sammy_johnston@yahoo.com