Date: Thu, 29 Aug 2013 07:51:06 +0100 (BST)
From: Robert Furlong <robert.furlong@rocketmail.com>
Subject: Pleasant Thoughts

PLEASANT THOUGHTS
Part of the 'Butt Monkey' series of stories by Robert Furlong
robert.furlong@rocketmail.com
Find my older stories at screeve.org

===

Debbie turned out to be very nice.  A bit giggly, perhaps, but that could
be put down to the nervousness of being on a first date.  She probably
thought me too quiet for the same reason.

We'd got on well – better than I'd dared to hope – and I'd suggested
that we could meet up again at the weekend.  However, Debbie was not one to
rush things, perhaps on account of bad experiences in the past, and so
she'd asked if we could leave it a week or so.  I'd taken that as an
indication that things hadn't gone so well for her and had smiled and said
I'd just wait for her to e-mail me, bracing myself to never hear from her
again.

However, she'd assured me that she definitely did want to see me again but
that things were, as she'd put it, 'complex' for her right now.  So we'd
agreed to meet up again whenever she was ready.

We didn't kiss – given what my lips had been nuzzling into just hours
earlier, it didn't seem appropriate to make a move on her – but there
was a tangible chemistry between us which had provoked several reactions
beneath my side of the table.  It was a good thing I was wearing the new
pair of trousers I'd bought: the extra couple of inches around the crotch
had come in very handy.

On the way home, I couldn't stop myself from imagining the two of us as a
couple: going out together, holding hands, making love and arranging
holidays.  All the normal things which I so missed about having a woman in
my life.  I tried not to let our brief faltering date blossom into a
lifelong relationship in my mind, but the night had gone well and I
couldn't help but speculate on what might develop between us.

I wondered if Jake would like her – that could be a major stumbling
block – and whether he would accept her as my girlfriend, especially now
that he had discovered my fascination for rimming other men.  If I started
meeting men for sex, would it be possible to have a relationship with
Debbie at the same time?  Should I be honest with her about my fetish, and
if I was would she accept it as part of my sexuality?  Could I even explain
it to her in a way that she would understand since I could hardly figure it
out myself?

Such questions were impossible to answer, of course, but that didn't stop
them tangling themselves up in knots in my mind as I drove back into town.

As I turned left onto Farndon Road to pick Jake up from his friend's house,
it occurred to me that if I were now to suggest another trip to see a
football game with Simon and his dad, Jake would immediately recognise that
my primary motivation for doing so was sexual.  He was a bright lad and
he'd probably already figured out that more had happened in the hotel
between Guy and me than I'd admitted to.

Having said that, he had other friends who he might want to go and watch a
match with and whose dads might be up for an overnight stopover.  His
friend Jayden had quite a nice-looking dad – he was called Leon and he
was tall and quite academic-looking, mainly on account of his small,
wire-framed round glasses.  He had short, fair-coloured curly hair which
was starting to thin a bit on top.

He seemed a quiet guy – I seemed to remember he worked in a bank or a
building society – and looked like he'd be a bit shy about sharing a
hotel room with a stranger.  But quiet guys had hidden depths (hadn't Guy
said something like that?) and if I got him drunk enough, I reckoned I
could steer things in the direction of some arse-on-face action.  He'd be
reluctant at first – I guess most guys would be – but his intrigue
about having someone's tongue probing such an unlikely place would get the
better of him.  I'd soon have him squirming with pleasure and masturbating
himself to the feel of me licking the blond wiry hairs around his tight
little hole.  I might even persuade him to have a try of rimming me or, if
he found he liked the sensation of having my tongue penetrating him, to let
me go the whole way and butt-fuck him as he bent over the bed.  Or maybe we
could –

Jesus – what was I thinking of!?

I hardly knew this guy and I was fantasizing about setting things up so I
could have sex with him.  I suddenly felt like some kind of sexual monster
for allowing myself to casually consider getting a stranger drunk so I
could proposition him.

Was I planning to work my way through all of Jake's friends' fathers?  Did
I really want to get a reputation for myself as someone who preyed on other
men – a weirdo with a literal taste for men's arses – on the pretence
of an innocent-sounding stopover en route to a football match?

I pulled into the road in front of Dan's parents' house and sounded my horn
a couple of time.  After a few minutes, Jake appeared at the front door,
said his thanks and goodbyes and then came down the drive to get in the
passenger side.

"So how was it?" he asked.

I smiled.  "It was good.  She was nice.  I think there might be hope..."

He smiled back.  "Nice one.  So when do I get to meet her?"

I reversed into Dan's parents' drive so that I could turn the car around.
"Probably not for a while.  We don't want to rush things – or rather,
she doesn't – so she's asked if we can take it slow to start off with."

"Are you sure that's not a 'thanks, but no thanks'?"

I chuckled.  "Yeah, I'm sure.  I'm guessing she's had some bad experiences
with other guys and she doesn't want a repeat."

As we set off, Jake asked, "And is she heading for a repeat with you, dad?"

I glanced over at him, surprised by his frankness, but his face was
impassive in the orange glow of the passing sodium lights.  I asked,
knowing full well, "What do you mean?"

"The stuff we talked about last week.  What happens when she finds out that
you also have a boyfriend?"

Trying to hide the irritation from my voice, I said, "I'm not going to have
a boyfriend, Jake.  I told you: I'm not gay."

"You said you wanted to try doing the things in those pictures with another
man.  Won't that be like having a boyfriend?  Kind of?"

Slowing the car down as we approached the traffic lights on the way out of
the estate, I shook my head.  "It'd just be a man who enjoys doing the same
stuff as I do.  We'd simply share a common interest.  Like tennis buddies,
or something."

Jake snorted; I couldn't decide whether to express derision or amusement.
"There's a bit more to it than that, dad.  I mean, you must have a type of
guy you're attracted to..."

"Actually, that's a good point.  I don't think I do."

At that moment it occurred to me that I didn't really care what my male
sexual partner looked like or what his personality might be like.  With
women, there are particular traits and characteristics which I find more
attractive than others, although I've rarely been lucky enough to hook up
with anyone who conforms at all closely to my ideal type.

Jake looked over at me, perhaps a little intrigued.  "So it wouldn't matter
who it was, as long as he liked doing the same stuff that you like?"

I nodded, watching the lights flick through amber to green and releasing
the handbrake to set off again.  "I haven't really thought about it, but I
guess it could be pretty much anyone, as long as they weren't too old or
too young.  I wouldn't really care, to be honest, Jake."

"But you obviously liked the look of Mr Purves...?"

My face flushed a little at the memory of Jake's sneaky trick.  I wondered
if he'd heard me beating off in bed in the belief that I might be about to
spend some time with my face in his Physics teacher's butt-crack.

"I'd have been just as interested in any bloke you'd chosen, Jake.  Or
anyone who happened to be into... you know... the stuff I like."

"Someone like Simon's dad?"

I looked across at him.  He was staring straight ahead but his face said it
all.  As I'd suspected, he knew the score about what had happened with Guy.

"Exactly," I said softly.  "Someone like Simon's dad."

"That's what you guys were doing that night, wasn't it?  All that 'give it
to me' stuff he was shouting... it was your tongue making him do that...?"

I nodded, feeling intensely uncomfortable to be questioned in this way, but
aware that it was time for some honesty between us.  Whatever metaphorical
journey I was on, Jake was determined to accompany me whether I liked it or
not.

"I'm sorry you heard it, Jake.  We just... well... we sort of lost
control."

"But didn't it stink?  Didn't it taste... you know... shitty?"

"Actually, no.  If it had I'd have been disgusted – that has no appeal
for me.  The taste and smell was more... kind of earthy and musky.  Just
having my face there felt... well –"

"Pretty good?"

I pulled into our street, grateful that this conversation would be over
shortly.

I said, "Good doesn't really cover it.  That night... with Guy... was when
I realised how incredible it felt."

He let out a short laugh which seemed somewhat inappropriate.  "Yeah... the
way you guys were shaking the bed!  It was hammering against the wall!"

I smiled though I didn't feel at all amused.

As I pulled into our drive, he asked, "So why don't the two of you hook up
again?  We could go to another match or you could invite him over or
something?"

"I dunno, Jake.  It kind of happened by accident that night."

He gave another short laugh and was about to say something but I went on,
"Don't ask how, but it just did.  No doubt the bottle of whisky helped.  I
know what you're saying and I appreciate the way you're handling this, but
Guy might think it was weird if I... you know... made moves on him."

I switched off the engine.

He said, "There'd be no harm in trying.  He can only say no."

I turned to him and smiled.  "Why are you so keen to set me up with Simon's
dad?"

"I just think you could end up getting yourself into trouble trying to find
men who like the stuff you do."

I must have flinched at how close Jake had come to reading my thoughts from
earlier that day.

He looked over at my reaction and, seeming to think that I hadn't caught
his drift, expounded, "What I mean is, how are you going to go about
finding someone?"

"I don't really know," I shrugged, feeling stupid.

"At least with Simon's dad, it's someone you know and it's someone who
definitely isn't going to want to get into a relationship with another man.
I mean," he said, laughing, "of everyone you know, Guy would be the least
likely to end up being some bloke's boyfriend."

I nodded.

He opened the car door.  "So I figure he'd be your safest choice."

I got out of the car after him, marvelling at his maturity and feeling
rather touched by his protectiveness towards me.  If only he knew how
reckless I'd been that afternoon, he'd probably be shocked to discover how
justified his concerns were.

He opened the front door with his key and threw me a rather sweet smile as
we went into the house.

===

That night, as I gently masturbated in bed before sleeping, I was drawn to
stretch my face downwards and reach my tongue out to lick the head of my
penis while my foreskin was sliding back and forth across it.  It wasn't
something I did often – I wasn't too keen on the warm, wet sensation of
my tongue – but after meeting Debbie and faced with the prospect of a
second date, I wanted something a bit out of the ordinary from my regular
evening wank.

So as my right hand developed a rhythm along the shaft of my cock and my
left slowly probed the sticky hole between my legs, I stooped down and
lapped at my precum, enjoying its sharp, salty taste.  As it oozed from my
slit, I licked it up like a melting ice-cream, sniffing as I did so at the
strong sexual odour from my cock and balls and the harsher, powerfully
distinct, scent from my finger teasing my hot, moist arsehole.

I wasn't sure why, but it felt good tonight to lick myself as the stroking
of my hand steadily increased.  It was a pity I didn't enjoy the feel of
having a mouth on my cock: on a night like this, I would no doubt otherwise
hungrily suck at the head of my erection as a special treat.

As my outstretched middle finger slid into my tight ring and the biting
tang from it made my cock grow harder, I became aware of a second rhythm
and paused momentarily to listen.  It was Jake in the next room to me,
enjoying his own late night ministrations.  His rhythm was faster than mine
– as with all things, his youth made him far less patient – and the
thudding of his bed against the adjoining wall made it clear he was being
much rougher with himself.

I smiled as I resumed my more sedate pumping.  We both knew what the other
was doing and would, perhaps, enjoy our own exertions a little more because
of it.  It amused me how surprised Jake would probably be if he could see
how much more elaborate my own technique was: he would have no idea that
his dad was busy stroking himself in time to a finger sliding in and out of
his butt-crack and a tongue licking the dribble from his cock-head.

I've occasionally found myself curious as to whether Jake has inherited my
rather specialised ability and is himself able to hunch forwards and
self-fellate.  From what I know of my son's erection – having seen it
tenting his boxer shorts far more times than I would have liked over the
years – I'm quite sure it's long enough for him to reach with his mouth,
and he's certainly athletic enough to be able to flex his back that far.

One morning, a year or two earlier, I'd walked into his bedroom to find him
stooped beneath his duvet in a very odd position: his bare bum sticking out
from the covers with him underneath bent double – a gentle pulsing of
rhythm and movement in time with a curious wet panting sound.  I'd started
making some quip about not really wanting to see my son's brown eye winking
up at me first thing in the morning but had stopped mid-sentence when it
had dawned on me, from his blushes and fluster as he struggled to sit up,
that I might have just walked in on my son in the middle of him sucking
himself off.  He'd stayed put in the bed while I opened his curtains,
flushing scarlet and catching his breath as he stooped beneath his duvet
with his knees up in front of him and strings of spit and drool spattered
around his lips.

As I write this I find myself wondering if my son had been about to climax
when I'd walked into his bedroom and was in the habit of using his mouth to
catch his outpouring of semen to avoid having to clean up his own mess.  It
would be typical of Jake to be so lazy that he couldn't be bothered to wipe
himself off after masturbating, but would instead choose to hunch down and
gulp down his own seed as it squirted from his slit just to avoid going to
the effort of pulling a few tissues from a box.

I've always felt, though, that to ask him directly about his sexual
capabilities, or even to allude to such a shared gift, would be
over-stepping a fundamental father-son boundary.  Perhaps if the issue had
arisen naturally in conversation (I'm not sure how it would) I might have
ventured a joking query in that direction; perhaps it's fortunate that it
never has.

As a teenager in my bedroom at home, I had discovered that I could lick my
own cock-head – and even suck it if I so desired – very soon after
puberty had kicked in and had such a profound effect on my, until then,
blissfully unremarkable genitals.

I'd started off, like most boys probably do, by tentatively touching the
erections which were beginning to plague me as I tried to get off to sleep
at night.  Like scratching a persistent itch, fondling my stiffened organ
through my pyjamas felt pleasantly satisfying, and I was compelled to rub
it more quickly and more firmly each night until my exertions made me
sleepy.  Every night seemed to feel better than the last and soon I was
panting and sweating as I squeezed and caressed my throbbing hard-on
through my pyjamas, wondering why it felt so good to touch it like I was
and hoping desperately that this wasn't the thing my mother said nasty boys
do and which you could be sent to Hell for.

Within a few nights, I had my cock out of my pyjama fly and was stroking
the back of it with my outstretched fingers, marvelling at how good it felt
and how sexy it made the air under my bedclothes smell.  It felt longer and
thicker every night I played with it: I'm sure that it couldn't really have
grown in twenty-four hour spurts, but perhaps my increasing excitement was
making it swell a bit bigger each night.

As the evenings wore on, I rubbed myself faster and faster, all the time
growing more and more tired from my exertions, and then would gradually nod
off, still with my hand on its softening length and no doubt with a smile
firmly etched on my face.

In the morning I'd tell myself that I'd simply been tending to a soreness,
the way one rubs a bruised knee.  My penis was somehow inflamed, that was
all.  Rubbing it felt good because it was soothing, not because I was doing
anything wrong to myself.  Whatever my mother was referring to when she
talked darkly about 'self-abuse' and whatever my brother was scornful about
when he accused me of 'wanking', neither could possibly mean this.

And then one night, perhaps a week or so later, I tried something new.
Without any kind of premeditation and purely on a whim, I wrapped my
fingers and thumb around the hot shaft of my excitement and started sliding
my foreskin up and down the length of it, slowly at first to see how it
would feel and then faster and with more confidence as my pleasure
intensified.  I gasped at the exquisite sensations which now flooded over
me from my sensitive cock-head: the tight ring of my foreskin opening and
closing like a fish's mouth as I slid it back and forth across it, and my
thumb rubbing in a quickening rhythm against the thickened ridge at its
swollen base.

I gripped myself more firmly and, throwing my head back against my pillow
in pleasure, started jerking my foreskin far more roughly and vigorously
than I had when I'd been content simply to stroke the shaft of it with my
fingers.

My whole bed was probably shaking – the frantic creaking of its springs
probably telling the whole house that its youngest son was now taking the
first of his many steps towards manhood – but I was too immersed in my
own self-gratification to care.  I beat myself faster and faster, no longer
able to tell myself that I was simply massaging an inflammation.

I remember being fully aware, from the shape of my hand as it gripped my
cock and the movement my wrist was making up and down it, what it was I was
doing.  I'd seen my brother make similar movements against the front of his
trousers when he was ridiculing me for being a 'wanker'.  He'd make a
gripping gesture with his hand like mine was now and beat his wrist up and
down against his crotch.  I'd never fully understood the movement – why
was he beating a rod of air between his fingers and thumb? – but, lying
there that night making the same rapid motion up and down my cock, his
intended meaning was unequivocally clear.

Such thoughts didn't serve to slow my rhythm – not one iota – but
rather, if anything, spurred me on.

"Robert's a wanker!" my brother would taunt me.  And here I was, lying hot
and breathless in my bed, greatly enjoying proving him right!  I really was
a wanker – and Lord, did it feel good!

I don't remember how long it took me to climax that first night I
discovered how thrilling it felt to jerk my foreskin up and down my cock,
but I'm sure it couldn't have been more than a couple of minutes.  I
remember lifting the bed sheets with my free hand and marvelling at the
sharp, sweaty scent of my cock as I tugged it.  The air was thick with what
seemed like an electrifyingly smell – oozing with my own sex and
pheromones – and I inhaled it as deeply as I could, relishing every
molecule of it.

My cock seemed to grow to an impossible size, becoming thicker and harder
than it ever had with the excitement of what I was doing to it.  I felt
amazingly manly, as I lay there sniffing my own tantalising sexual odour
and listening to the rhythm I was making as I rapidly pumped at my organ
with which felt implausibly enlarged in my fist.

I thought, "Wow!  I'm actually masturbating!  This is it!  This is
masturbation!"  I had a smile on my lips from the knowledge that my mother
would disdainfully use the 'm-word' to describe the unholy act I was so
enjoying.  It amused me that such a word was deemed so shocking when it was
spoken in full that it had to be cloaked a hushed whisper, and yet here I
was lying in my bed, legs wide open and cock out through my pyjama fly at
full mast, enjoying the sensation with such glorious abandon.

Doing to myself the thing that bad boys do.

Doing the very same thing my snide, self-righteous brother claimed he never
would.

I think I was chuckling as I lay there: relishing the feeling that I
shouldn't be rubbing my cock back and forth like this but enjoying so
intensely the fact that I was.

And then, completely out of the blue, my orgasm hit me.  I had no idea that
simply stroking myself under my bed sheets could bring about something so
dramatic.  I was suddenly overcome by waves of pleasure just as the slit at
the tip of my cock started erupting squirt after squirt of a hot and
strong-smelling liquid all over me.  My hips were bucking and my lungs were
choking for air.  I was stunned and disorientated and yet my hand kept
sweeping up and down the shaft of my cock, as if mechanically pumping
squirt after squirt of the thick gobs of liquid which were spewing out of
it.

It seemed to go on and on – my very first climax – although I'm sure
it was just the unfamiliarity of the sensations I was feeling that made it
seem so ever-lasting.  I was transfixed – gasping for breath and with a
hand that had a life of its own, pounding so relentlessly at my endlessly
shooting organ no matter how hard I tried to will myself to stop it.  I
needed to control it – I had to stop it – and yet it kept milking my
shaft over and over, soaking my duvet, drenching my pyjamas and making the
whole room stink of whatever this hot, sticky goo was that was being
expelled in ropey spasms from my twitching cock-head.

Was it pee?  Even in my confusion, I didn't think so; it was way too thick.
Was it blood?  It didn't smell like it; it had its own, rank odour.  It
must be 'spunk'; yes, that's what it was.  I realised I was, to use my
brother's term, slap bang in the middle of very violently 'spunking up'.

In time, of course, my orgasm subsided and the rush of semen, full of my
sperms so excited to be released out into the world for the very first
time, gradually abated.  I managed to slow my hand and then stop its
movement altogether and I lay there panting, overwhelmed by the sheer
intensity of what I'd just experienced.

Almost as soon as it was over, and I was staring wide-eyed up at my
ceiling, feeling cold and wet and with my cock growing soft in my hand, my
mother called into my room from the corridor: "Robert!  What are you doing
in there?"

Through force of habit I shouted, "Nothing!" realising too late that my
voice was a choking squeak, a good octave higher than its usual pitch.  I
lay there as still as I could, gradually recovering my breath and willing
her not to open my bedroom door to find me lying there, flushed bright red
and copiously soaked with the sharp, cloying wetness of my own
freshly-discharged seed.

"Well get to sleep then!" came her terse reply and, after a few moments, I
heard her stomp downstairs.

In spite of my predicament I suddenly found myself inexplicably tired, and
dutifully complied, as sodden as I was, with her instruction.

The following night, wearing a fresh pair of pyjamas and with a wad of
tissues at the ready, my hand was back on my cock and I was enjoying a
second, equally beguiling taste of the thing that good boys don't do.  And
so it continued over the following weeks.

Every night I discovered new techniques and different ways of stimulating
myself.  Sometimes I would focus on my cock-head, which seemed to grow
plumper every time I caressed it, while at others I would concentrate on
rubbing and squeezing my shaft.  I'd play with my balls while I stroked
myself, and then sniff my fingers which smelt deliciously sweaty and musky
from the folds of my lightly hairy scrotum.  Every night brought new
pleasures and unforeseen exhilarations.

Those good boys didn't know what they were missing.

After a few weeks, finding I was awaking with hard-ons each morning, I
started masturbating before I got up or otherwise would hurry to the shower
holding my dressing down over my crotch so that I could enjoy stroking
myself under its steamy spray.  And just a few weeks after that, becoming
plagued by erections which grew out of nowhere during the day, I slotted in
a third regular session when I got in from school.

I had only my mother's whispered portents of doom and occasional sarcastic
quips from my brother on which to formulate an opinion of what I was doing.
Such remarks made it obvious that masturbation of any kind, never mind on a
regular basis, was unhealthy and shockingly wrong and yet I enjoyed it
enormously and couldn't envisage not doing it for any significant stretch
of time.  I knew full well that I shouldn't be 'defiling' my body in such a
crude, depraved way but in spite of that – or perhaps, because of that –
I continued.

When my mother talked of sinfulness and squalor, or my brother made some
sanctimonious comment which was blatantly directed at me, I'd go to my
bedroom, close my door and stand directly behind it.  It would amuse me to
hitch my trousers and underpants down around my ankles and then, still
facing them through the closed door, squat down and do the act which they
found so outrageous right back at them.  I'd grin and grab my balls before
spraying spurt after spurt of thick white liquid up the yellowed glossed
panelling of the door which was between us.

I suppose it was my way of saying, "Fuck you!"

It was when I was in that position one evening, squatting down behind my
bedroom door, that I realised I could duck my head down towards my cock and
take the tip of it into my mouth.  After I'd licked the head of it a couple
of times and enjoyed its sharp, salty taste, I waddled over to my bed,
still with my trousers and pants around my ankles, and investigated my
new-found talent further.

I found very quickly that, although I quite liked the taste of my cock, I
didn't like the sensation of having my mouth around it.  It felt wet and
slimy and made me lose my hard-on.  That night, after bed time, I tried
sucking myself in different ways but no matter how I tried to do it, the
weird sensation of having a warm, wet mouth slobbering over my cock-head
was really uncomfortable and I soon gave up.

From then on, apart from occasional tastes of myself when the smell of
masturbation has got me in the mood, I've stuck to purely hands-on
techniques.

I've only once ever climaxed with my cock in my mouth and that was
relatively recently.  Soon after Linda had left me, I'd gone out with a
woman from the marketing department where I work and, after a couple of
dates, she'd asked me back to her place 'for coffee'.  Even though it was
obvious that we weren't getting on terribly well – the two of us were
like chalk and cheese if I'm honest – she asked me if I wanted to stay
over and I, of course, agreed.

As we'd undressed and I saw her glancing mistrustfully at the hefty mound I
was making in the front of my blue underpants, I found myself hoping that
she wouldn't have presumed – just like several women before her –
that just because I happened to be modest and restrained in character, it
must by necessity follow that my genitals would be similarly composed.
Sure enough, when I pulled off my briefs and she saw how large and thick my
penis looked – even though it was still only semi-erect – she
announced categorically that she didn't want me to penetrate her.

I'd been very embarrassed – this woman knew me as a quiet, gentle man at
work and I felt as if I was showing her that I'd had been hiding some
bloated, thuggish phallus away in my trousers all these years.  I had a
humiliating vision of her telling the other women she worked with how
sweet, shy Rob from project development was one to be avoided: how his
monstrous drainpipe cock had emerged dribbling expectantly from his
straining underwear and how stretched his hairy ball-sack had looked from
the sheer girth of his obscene bollocks.

I'd tried to convince her that in spite of my intimidating size, I would do
my best not to hurt her.  Yet, in spite of me assuring her over and over
that I'd take it as slowly as she wanted me to, she made it bluntly clear
that there was to be no cookie for me that evening.  She offered to kneel
in front of me and suck at the top few inches of my organ but I told her I
didn't like the sensation of it.  In the end, we settled on mutual fondling
and had knelt together on her bed, kissing and stroking between each
other's legs until she was feeling moist and I had hardened fully.

She'd gradually grown to appreciate the generous size of my cock – could
enjoy its aesthetic appeal while not wanting to sample its more intimate
charms – and had caressed it with great aplomb while she kissed the
bilobed underside of my bulbous helmet.  She laughed that it was always the
quiet ones who were "hung like Hoovers", and made me squat in front of her
so she could rub my thick pole up and down with both hands using the ooze
from my weeping slit to lubricate them.

To see her reaction, I reached down and gently licked the head of my cock
with the tip of my tongue.  She really enjoyed watching me do that and
pushed my hand away from between her legs, taking up her own rhythm on
herself with her fingers.  She kept stroking my shaft, getting faster and
faster, and grinned at me as I kept licking around my own puckered slit.

She reached forwards and joined me in licking the broad helmet of my cock.
As she didn't put her mouth right around me, I quite enjoyed the sensation,
and we stayed like that: me hunched over tasting my own juices while she
rapidly masturbated me and tongued my fat cock-head making the same
circular patterns as I was.

It felt remarkably good for us both to be feeding on my erection; for us to
be lapping at the plump, shininess of my swollen helmet and tasting the
dribbles of precum which would ooze from its slit.  My shaft was still
thickening and we smiled at each other across its fattened head, both
hungrily licking it like a shared lollipop.

I pushed her hand away and began wanking myself in earnest; the swift
gentleness of her fingers being replaced by the more confident grip of my
larger fist.  I beat my long shaft quickly and roughly and precum started
flowing more copiously from my slit.  We drank it between us, nuzzling our
lips against one another as my foreskin slid rapidly back and forth over
the taut, shiny skin of my throbbing cock-head.

Then she reached down between my legs and massaged my large, pendulous
balls.  I don't know when I'd previously enjoyed a release, but I felt a
twinge of self-consciousness about how engorged they with my collected
semen: ripe and bloated and stretching my scrotum painfully.

She kneaded them through the tight, hairy skin like she didn't mind how
full I'd let them grow, and then smiled at me, the two of us still lapping
at the ooze from my slit.

"I want you to cum," she whispered, taking first one of my plump bollocks
into her whole hand and then the other.  "I want you to release all this
and then drink it."

As she spoke, I saw her hand speed up between her own legs and I felt my
own excitement steadily mounting.

"Squeeze my balls," I commanded her.

She worked them in her hand, struggling to contain their large, round
girths between her fingers, and I smiled back at her, my tongue flicking at
my cock-head as I gently coaxed another bead of salty precum from its
puckered slit.

My fist was pounding at my shaft like a piston at full speed; sustaining a
blur of rhythm that women's hands don't seem to be able to manage.

When I started shooting, I don't know which of us was more surprised.

She gasped as the first white gush of liquid shot from my cock, catching my
upper lip and coating my tongue.  I instinctively pulled my face away from
my organ, mildly repulsed by the acrid taste of my own semen, but she
gently pushed my head back down.

"Eat it," she whispered, her own hand now working at herself with a
quickening pace.  "Feed on your own seed..."

Sensing her own approaching orgasm and hoping to hasten it, I did as she
wanted.  I opened my mouth wide and let my cock squirt shot after shot of
its hot, white load into me.

Part of me couldn't believe what I was allowing her see.  I knew we were
unlikely to meet up for another date and that I'd have to see her regularly
at work, and yet here I was – that boringly reserved guy from two floors
down – squatting in front of her, gulping down my own jizm as it pumped
out of me in thick, sticky gushes from my swollen nuts.

And yet part of me was loving the sheer wantonness of letting her see me
doing this to myself; letting her see how over-sized my male organs were
and how I could nourish myself with their copious juices.

She squeezed at my plump balls, as though urging them to empty themselves
into their owner's waiting mouth, and started gasping as she watched me
consuming my own spray, swallowing spurt after spurt of my own
strong-smelling liquid as it spouted in rapid jets from my bulbous
cock-head.

"Eat it!" she repeated, this time with more urgency.  "Drink your own
spunk, Rob!"

She tensed and I could tell she was climaxing, watching me guzzling on my
own sperm which, as I kept masturbating myself, showed no signs of abating
in its hot, gooey pulses.  As her orgasm kicked in, she grabbed my scrotum
hard, gripping it tightly as she cried out in pleasure.

I looked up at her, smiling, still gulping down the more physical evidence
of my own climax as it spurted from my slit, excited by her pleasure and
surprised at how wonderfully debauched it felt to be doing something so
animal in front of a woman I worked with and didn't actually know that
well.

Its taste was starkly unpleasant – I have to admit – but the
excitement of feeding on my own cock, of consuming my own ejaculum as it
erupted from my balls right in front of this woman, more than outweighed
any revulsion I felt.

Afterwards, whenever I'd seen her again at work – which I had to for a
couple of years until she'd mercifully moved on – I would blush at the
memory of what I'd let her see me doing to myself and she would throw me a
small smirk to let me know that she too remembered it well.  I often
wondered if she'd told anyone else who knew me what I'd done: that
unassuming Rob, with his quiet manner and his store-bought suits, likes to
feed on the distended head of his own elephantine manhood and to drink down
his own thick, white cream when it starts spouting from his over-filled
knackers.

Tonight, lying in my own bed, I settled for just licking at my cock,
teasing myself with my tongue rather than sucking at it.  Instead, I
focussed on using both hands to pleasure myself: one between my legs with
my finger pumping like a turbine in and out of my hole; the other on my
cock, with my wrist now slamming up and down.  I'd worked up a good, solid
rhythm and was hugely enjoying myself, occasionally pulling my finger out
from my hole to eagerly sniff it.

Jake had long since finished his own indulgences and was, I hoped, already
asleep.  I didn't like to think of him lying in bed having to listen to the
sounds of his dad's masturbation and willing me to climax quickly so he
could sleep.

As I lay back in my bed and pushed myself towards my final, rapid rhythm, I
thought about Debbie and what might develop between us: of what it would be
like to be in bed with her, for us to be naked together and for me to make
love to her.

I fantasized about us being together like that: how her breasts would feel
and how she would taste between her legs.  What it would be like to be
intimate together; to kiss her deeply while I drove my cock faster and
faster in and out of her.  Then to mount her from behind, with her bending
over in front of me.

I remembered the lad from Asda in the toilet and thought about how he would
have looked if I'd had enough money to fuck him.  She'd look exactly like
him bending over with his arse wide open, my cock sliding rapidly in and
out of it.  His balls hanging down and his cock being jerked in his
excitement at the feel of a big, thick cock buggering him.

Just like him with his squat, hairy arse, still wet from my mouth, except
it would be her.  Just like him as I was grabbing onto his hips and driving
in and out of him, with the taste of his arsehole, strong and intense, on
my tongue.  Just like him spraying his spunk over the toilet bowl as I
filled his hot, stinking bowels with my own pumping seed.

I climaxed thinking of Debbie like that.  And afterwards, as I mopped up my
semen and wiped my finger, it felt promising that I'd had her in my mind as
I'd pleasured myself after our first meeting.  It seemed like it might be
an omen that there was a sexual connection between us, albeit an embryonic
one: an indication that we might have potential together and perhaps it
wasn't completely absurd for me to imagine I might soon have a girlfriend.

===

Next story: A Holistic Approach

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