Date: Sun, 30 Oct 2016 17:24:48 +0000 (UTC)
From: Hugh Banton <clover2209@yahoo.com>
Subject: Marathon Rimathon

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This is a work of fiction. All persons are intended to be age 18 and above.

MARATHON RIMATHON

Have I mentioned I take a walk every morning?

Of course I have. How else could I have enjoyed that hot kitchen floor
blowjob with the married man who lived along the way ("Taking Care of
Hubby"). You may remember he moved right after our encounter. Well, I FOUND
his new home, and it's just around the corner. So expect future hookups
with hubby! Then there was that group of oversexed college boys on the disc
golf course ("Disc Golf Dicks"). My jaws are still sore. I can't wait for
spring break! And there's a new kid on the block who I met while he was
walking to his bus stop. He's the 18-year-old son of a family that moved
into the house two doors down from mine. Stay tuned for an upcoming story
("Coming in through the Back Door") because the kid is a Tyrannosaurus rex
when it comes to sex!

Forget about the health benefits of walking; the sex benefits are
unbeatable!

Which leads me to this hot encounter. It happened about two weeks ago,
again during one of my morning walks. You'll think I'm exaggerating but the
truth is, I don't have to. It was one of those experiences that burns
itself into your memory. You'll be glad I decided to share.

It was a Saturday and I had slept in to the unthinkable hour of 7:30, which
is highly unusual for me. During the workweek you can't drag me out of bed,
but on weekends I'm up at 5 in the morning. Why? Because I don't want to
waste one second of my precious time off. Some people live to work, but I'm
the opposite. I work to live. The way I see it, life is meant to be
enjoyed, not wasted on 12-hour workdays, seven days a week, making money
for some anonymous corporation or rich asshole living on a private island.

When I left for my walk the sun was already up, obviously, which seemed odd
to me. Usually I walk in the dark, before sunrise, unless it's right after
one of those goofy time changes.

The day was hot and sticky. I knew that by the time I got back to my house,
my shirt would be soaked with sweat. At the ripe old age of 39, my body
isn't as efficient as it used to be. If the temperature and humidity are in
the 80s, I'm going to perspire. Case closed.

As I rounded the corner I saw one of those portable tent-like stands set
up, with a group of people yelling and shaking noisemakers. I could hear
tinny music from a boom box. As I approached they started yelling at me to
come have a beer. I could see a keg under the shade, plus a table full of
red plastic party cups.

I looked at my watch. It was quarter to 8 in the morning. Who would be
drinking beer this time of day?

Turns out there was a marathon being run through the area, which would
explain the arrows drawn in the road with flour. Runners would use them to
navigate the course. (Can you believe some dipshit actually reported them
to the cops for spreading anthrax?) The partiers were part of the marathon
support crew, although why they'd be serving beer to runners baffled
me. What runner would drink beer during his race?

I thanked them for the offer and went on my way. My God, if I had drunk a
beer at quarter to 8 in the morning the whole day would have been wiped
out. Beer has that effect on me. I'm useless after just one.

I strolled down to the park, passing hubby's old house along the
way. Somebody else had just moved in, a 30-something guy, his wife and two
yellow Labs. The guy was a grizzly, with a giant belly and lots of dark,
curly hair all over his body. Not my type at all. (By now you've probably
figured out I like 'em young – not illegally young, but young. Eighteen
and up to around 30 is my desired demographic.)

I took the cement walking path around the park and headed back to my
house. As I approached the beer booth, the men and women there started
whooping and hollering. Off in the distance I could see a runner
approaching. There was a cop car just ahead of him, keeping pace. As it
happened, he was the front runner, and he had a comfortable lead on the
other runners. Nobody else was in sight.

He passed with a lot of noise and celebrating accompanying him (I notice he
didn't drink a beer), and then the neighborhood slowly quieted down, as
quiet as it could be with a group of intoxicated, shrieky men and woman
rattling noisemakers clustered around a tent. Instead of going home I
decided to take a slight detour around the block with the hope that more
runners would come by. The guys who run in these things can sometimes be
really, really hot. Nothing wrong with a little eye candy to get the
morning going.

No sooner had I turned left instead of right than another runner came into
view, and I silently thanked God for letting me be here when he did. His
hair was dark and closely cropped, though not as short as a member of the
armed forces. His chest was wide but narrowed to about a 32-inch waist. His
legs were a fine compromise between the chicken legs of many runners and
the freakishly overbuilt stumps of weightlifters and gym rats. He was
shirtless, and a nice patch of hair dusted his chest. He also had a
noticeable 5 o'clock shadow. If I had to guess his age I'd say 25.

He caught me staring and I quickly looked away. But when he passed I turned
back to study that fine ass, framed by those clingy nylon running shorts,
flexing and unflexing as he headed into the distance. The things I could do
to that ass.

I felt myself getting hard. I too was wearing nylon gym shorts, so getting
a boner out here would serve no purpose other than to humiliate me. I tried
to think of things that would turn me off – taxes, the presidential
race, my checking account balance.

I continued down the street. More runners began to stream by. I was
surprised that most were older guys – by "older" I mean in their late
20s up to my age and beyond. Not a lot of young hotties. They had the look
of military officers, which would not surprise me. The services have
physical fitness standards that must be met every year. Running is a great
way to stay in shape, and it has a cachet that seems to appeal to the
commissioned crowd.

I saw a gap in the runners and crossed the road to enter another park, much
smaller than the park I had walked at. It had picnic tables beneath
sheltered pavillions. I could sit at one of the tables and watch the guys
pass by.

I had been there about five minutes when, off in the distance, I saw the
blue strobes of a police car. It was the cruiser escorting the lead
runner. Apparently the course looped back on itself, which meant my
neighborhood was very close to the halfway mark. Sure enough, the car and
the runner came by me heading in the opposite direction. The other runners
glanced at him and you could see the envy in their eyes. They seemed to be
thinking, Gosh, I wish I was that good.

I then spotted another figure approaching from the opposite direction. It
was the second-place runner, Mr. Hottie himself, and even from afar I could
tell something was wrong. He was running, yes, but with a limp that seemed
to be growing worse as I watched. I could guess what it was: leg cramps. On
a warm, humid day like today, a runner could use up his electrolytes in
fairly short order. The result would be leg cramps. If he didn't get some
water and Gatorade in him, they'd only get worse.

He slowed, and you could tell by his pained expression that for him, the
marathon was about to end. You can't physically run on a cramp; it hurts
that bad. Not only that but you can damage the muscles and connective
tissues if you keep running.

Instead of rounding the corner like the first-place runner, he headed
straight into the park where I was sitting. He held up at the table
opposite me, his leg sticking straight out, and let out an anguished groan
as he squinted against the pain and gritted his teeth. I immediately got up
and went over to him.

"Put all your weight on the leg with the cramp," I told him. He didn't open
his eyes, and you wouldn't have thought he heard me. "I'm serious. Put all
your weight on the leg with the cramp. It sounds counterintuitive, but it
works. Try it."

He shifted and stood on the bad leg. I knelt and gently ran my hands up and
down his calf, not really pressing or massaging, but just smoothing. His
leg hair felt good against my palms. As I continued to rub, I could feel
his muscles starting to return to their former, relaxed positions.

He was gasping, but his respiration began to slow a little. Presumably the
pain was letting up. I continued rubbing his calf and even allowed my hand
to creep higher, to his thigh, my palms sliding against his flesh on a
layer of sweat. What I really wanted to do was get my hands on that
perfectly shaped ass because this boy was definitely a keeper.

As I rubbed I told him my name and asked him his, which was Alex. I asked
him where he was from, using his cramps as an excuse for asking – he
didn't appear to be acclimated to this area. He said he was from one of the
I states in the Midwest – I don't remember which – and he had
followed his folks here after his dad landed a new job. But he didn't plan
on staying. Now that he was 18, he said, he could go back to his former I
state and start college.

All the while we chatted, I continued rubbing, and my brain, on some back
channel, began making plans. I maneuvered him to the other side of the
picnic table and had him put his other foot up on the bench, concentrating
most of his weight – he looked about 140 tops – on the cramping
leg. As I rubbed, I said lightly, "The insidious thing about these cramps
is they're usually referential – by that I mean it may look and feel
like it's in the calf and the thigh, but the real source is much higher."
And then I began a riff about axons and dendrites, and how acetylcholine
and cholinesterase regulate muscle action, and how potassium and sodium
figured into the equation – it must have sounded impressive because Alex
accepted it without question ... and it wasn't entirely false, either. It's
just that I couldn't remember the specifics from my college Biology II
class.

Finally, I said, "The real source of leg cramps lies in the glutes. Massage
the glutes and you lose the cramps."

As I said that, I allowed my hands to creep higher until I had both of his
butt cheeks in my palms. I began to knead and squeeze, moving my hands in a
rotary fashion, allowing them to explore every square inch of his butt. I
could feel his muscles tightening beneath the whisper smooth fabric of his
shorts, and in my mind's eye I could see his hairy anal cleft squeezing
shut, then widening, his dark, hairy hole coming into view as I massaged
his ass.

He was facing the road, and a large clump of laurels shielded us from the
passing runners, who were paying no attention to us anyway. I continued my
ministrations. My hands dropped down to the backs of his thighs and then up
to his ass. I allowed my hand to slip a couple of times to the inner thigh
and I could feel his balls there. At one point I whispered, "I could do a
better job of this if these shorts weren't in my way," and I slipped them
down over the back of his ass. He started to protest but I assured him
nobody would see him naked.

His ass was everything I pictured – gloriously perfect in shape with a
healthy covering of hair. The hair grew thicker toward the crack and as I
massaged, I spread his cheeks and took in the breadth and depth of his
crevice. It was beautifully dark and covered in pubic hair that was slick
with sweat against his skin. An odor wafted out, not the nose-curdling
smell of shit but a healthy pungency of sexual potency. His asshole,
peering from a nest of hair, winked at me.

I was beyond hard. My cock was like a ticking bomb in my crotch – one
touch and it would go off.

I couldn't stand it any longer.

I plunged my face into that crack. I could see Alex turning and peering
over his shoulder with alarm, and I didn't care. I just had to get my mouth
and tongue in there. Nothing else mattered at that moment, except the
licking and sucking. I slurped at his sweaty buns and even swallowed the
random hair that got into my mouth – part of his DNA joining mine. I
went up and down his ass crack, licking and tasting and swallowing. He had
a wonderful aroma and taste – almost like a kind of meat spiced with
some exotic herb from a faraway land. It set my mouth to watering and I
slobbered all over his ass, and then licked that up too.

I maneuvered my way down and found his asshole. I pulled his cheeks apart
farther and licked greedily at his hole. Here, both the heat and odor were
more pronounced. I could feel his cheeks closing in on my face, as if they
would trap me and hold me in place for an extended period of butt
licking. I stabbed at his hole with my tongue, and then pressed firmly
against it, willing his sphincter muscles to part ever so slightly so I
could get inside him. Meanwhile my hands had found his balls and his sticky
taint and were doing strange, sexy things on their own.

I sucked at his ass, smacking loudly and lewdly, until I felt the
beginnings of an orgasm simmer at the base of my skull. I stood up suddenly
and yanked down my shorts. My cock sprang into view, red to the point of
being purple, and I pressed it against Alex's asshole. I didn't push it
in. I just held it there, feeling the sticky warmth and the muscular
tightness. And when I knew the cum was on its way, I pressed against him
and started fucking his crack, while my hands found his cock and his
balls. Giant spasms of pure bliss momentarily blinded me as I emptied my
seed into Alex's crack, and in my hand I could feel his cock thrumming as
sperm jetted from those hairy balls and out into his running shorts. Again
and again, my cock spurted white love juice into the ferocious heat of his
crack, slickening it so that my dick parted his cheeks with greater ease.

I held him in place for several moments, unwilling to break our shared heat
and pleasure. It felt too good, just standing there with my schlong parked
in his ass crack, and his cock pulsing in my hand. I pressed my body
against him, enjoying the sensations his body provided, and played with his
balls while milking his cock for every drop of cum I could wring from it. I
could feel his puckered asshole twitching against the shaft of my dick.

Finally, I broke away. I tucked my cock back into my shorts. His ass crack
was a sloppy mess of spit and cum, but instead of cleaning it up for him, I
pulled his shorts back up. He'd have something to remember me by when he
got back home.

"How's your leg?" I asked, giving him what I hoped was a sly grin.

He laughed and answered, "I think it's good to go."

"And your ass?" I added.

"Never been better," he said. And with that, he headed back out into the
stream of runners now heading in the opposite direction.

I watched those ass cheeks recede in the distance. I felt myself getting
hard again. Dammit, how was that possible?

Just then, another limping runner headed my way.

It was going to be a good day.

---

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Email clover2209@yahoo.com

The author wishes to make it known he does not want to receive
communication in any form regarding issues of underage individuals.