Happy Valentine's Day #2

“I’ve only got until six,” he says the moment I’m in the door. He whirls in place and pads across the living room on bare feet. I guess he trusts me to close the front door behind myself. Around the thickly-upholstered sectional he walks and down the hallway. “Then I’ve got to. . . .” He’s still talking, but already he’s out of earshot.

“What was that?” I say, as I follow the scent of him down the hallway of the ranch-style house. At last I find him in one of the bedrooms. He’s on all fours, ass in the air, the hole squarely pointed at the doorway.

Did I forget to mention he’d answered the door completely naked?

His voice is slightly muffled from the pillow into which he’s buried his face. “I said, at six I have to jet down the Avenue and meet the wife and kids for dinner. Valentine’s day, you know.”

I know. I’d already spent a half-hour in the van with the Landscaper at lunchtime. Since then, the thought of him sucking the head of my dick for the first time has kept my meat three-quarters hard, even during the unerotic tasks of cleaning the cat litter boxes and salting the front walk. It’s been raging for a place to unload ever since, actually. I kick off my boots and start unbuttoning my shirt.

“You don’t have to worry about foreplay with me,” he says in a conversational tone as I undress. “Just drop your pants and fuck it hard if you want. I don’t need to be eaten out or anything. Just been a while since I had a good cock, and you’ve got a hell of a nice one.”

“Thanks,” I say. I’m not enjoying the prattle, exactly. And to be honest, guys who tell me to skip the foreplay aren’t usually going to get the best of my attention. I’m all about the foreplay.

Plus, my dick’s not a broomstick handle. It’s not rigid when I push down my jeans and shorts and let it flop out. Sure, it’s halfway there, but it likes a little attention before I just ram it home. I stagger over to the bedside and pull his head toward my crotch. He opens his mouth again. This time it’s to suck.

The guy’s got a good mouth on him. His hair is long enough to be styled in a kind of retro-seventies feathered way—eccentric for the area, but obviously expensively-done. He’s got the body of a daddy who manages to get in a few workouts here and there, between picking up the kiddies from gymnastics and ferrying them in the family SUV to dance class. He’s young. No more than thirty. But he sucks like he’s been doing it all his life, gobbling down to the root of me and breathing heavily enough to stir my pubes through his nostrils. I’m hard and glistening to spit within moments.

He buries his head in the pillows again. “I was hoping you wouldn’t see much of my face,” he says as I stride around to the foot of the mattress. Too late for that. I saw it in the photo he’d texted me, minutes before I showed up. I’d seen it when he’d answered the door, even though he’d walked off too quickly for me to get a good look. If total anonymity was what he needed, he should’ve backed up that ass to a gloryhole at the Bridgeport adult bookstore.

When I finger his hole, I find he’s greased-up already. I wipe a little of that lube on my cock head, letting it mix with the spit he’s left there.

“Fuck it,” he says. This time he sounds like he’s begging.

I pull him a little closer to the edge, aim at his pucker, and slide in.

He’s not tight. Fucking him feels like fucking pussy; his insides are soft and moist and warm. He offers little resistance to my stiffness as I push inside. From the time my head disappears until the moment my nuts bounce against his for the first time, he begins groaning. “Yes,” he says. “Oh god yes. Yes. This is what I needed.” I start fucking with long, deep strokes, mesmerized by how the flare of my cock head pulls out his ass lips. They roll over the edge, cling to the tip, and on the return trip glide back inside him along with my shaft. “Oh fuck yes. I knew you’d know how to fuck, with that dick.”

I don’t really care that he’s talking too much, or denying me my foreplay. After the charged lunchtime with the Landscaper, I really just need a hole to load. I close my eyes and shut out the domestic artifacts littering the bedroom around me—the eyeglasses, the basket of laundry, the novels on the bedside table—and just enjoy the sensations.

“Give it to me,” he whispers. He’s got his back arched and his forehead resting on his arms, which are clutching the pillow. “Give it all to me. Knock me up. Make me pregnant.”

My eyes open again. He’s looking back over his shoulder at me, showing that face again. Our eyes connect as I fuck him in silence. For a crystal clear moment, we measure each other and render judgment. He and I both know what we’re there for.

Maybe he can sense how his words excite me. He buries his head again and starts repeating them. “Fuck that cunt. Knock it up with your seed, man. Make me pregnant. Knock me up with your babies and make me carry ‘em for you.” My breathing intensifies. I fuck harder. The bedstead rattles from the force of it. “Plant that fucking seed, man. Make that hole yours. Spray that juice so far up me I can taste it in my fucking throat. Damn!” Now he’s beating his head against the mattress. “Do it. Seed it. Fuck me!”

I grunt. I’d already come all over the Landscaper earlier. This load is bigger, juicier, the orgasm even more intense. When I shoot, I’m holding him at the crook of his neck and shoulder, yanking him down onto me to get it in as deep as possible. Once, twice, three times my cock spurts. Then, a moment later, a fourth.

I try to pull out slowly, but he’s already hopping up and dabbing himself off with a hand towel. “Woof,” he says, passing me to get to the bathroom. “Now that was a great fuck. I bet I’m the happiest married man in town, this Valentine’s Day.”

I think of the Landscaper as I tug up my jeans. Second happiest, maybe.

Daddy

He’s got a tribal tattoo that covers his right bicep. It’s a splash of dark ink against what’s otherwise milky-white skin—skin nearly as white as his facial hair, which has been trimmed into a severe, snow-colored spike that projects from his chin like a lethal icicle. It’s deceptively soft as it brushes against my thighs. His head is completely shaved. My hands both rest on it as his mouth glides up and down on my pole. They don’t let him up. I don’t want him to stop.

But I recognize the man needs air, so I release my grip on his skull. He stares up at me with eyes of a startling blue. “You like that, son?” he asks.

The word sets me off like a lit fuse. Without thinking, I jut out my jaw and growl. “Fuck yeah I do, dad.”

“I love my son’s cock,” he whispers. He holds it against his face so that I’m forced to look at it at him both. My engorged, red meat, glistening from his spit and hot out of his throat, and that handsome face. “I love sucking on my boy.”

“Then suck it, dad,” I tell him. “Suck your kid’s dick.”

And I settle back into the pillows as he goes down on me.

The man’s only a handful of years older than myself. He’d picked me up online when I was spending an afternoon in the city at the museum where I’m a member. I go often enough that I don’t feel obligated to stay for more than a couple of hours in a single visit. If an opportunity like this pops up, I take it. The fact that his place was only a three-block walk was a plus, in this metropolis.

The apartment’s a fucking mess. There’s clothing all over the floor, books and clutter strewn everywhere. He’d told me that he was cleaning out his closet, when I walked in, but if that’s the case, his closet is bigger than my old house. I’m not here for the tour, though. Just for his mouth, and his throat, and soon, his hole—that hairy little pucker that keeps pulsing in and out whenever I crane my body around to catch a glimpse.

He’s off my cock again, and pushing me down into the depths of his pillows. His mouth is on mine. His saliva is hot as we open our mouths and crush against each other. He’s on fire; his skin seems fevered to the touch. “Bite it,” he tells me, as he pushes my head down to his nipple. “Bite your daddy. Make him feel good.”

What can I do but obey? My incisors clamp down on that erase-shaped protrusion. My lips suck it out, my tongue swirls against it, and the edges of my teeth rake against the soft flesh. He sighs, and growls, and holds me down on his pec. He’s a muscular man, a man of very little body fat; there are photos of him at leather competitions across the room, on his dresser. It’s not difficult to imagine him winning.

“Jesus,” he whimpers at last, when I’ve turned that tit from pink to red with my nibbling. “I got me the best boy in the world.”

“You got a boy that loves his daddy,” I whisper. Then my face is in his armpit. It stinks. It smells of sharp, metallic body odor and tastes of salt. No deodorant there, that’s for sure. “You got a boy that wants his daddy’s ass,” I say.

He looks at me, then licks out with a broad, flat tongue like a happy dog of an oversized breed. His tongue swipes up my face from chin to eyebrow, licking the stink off me. “Fuck it then, son,” he says, pulling himself off the bed. “Fuck your daddy’s ass.”

He takes a moment to grab something from his top drawer. It’s a round-tipped syringe of sorts made from colorful plastic, in a shade of lime green one might find in a kid’s safety scissors. He submerges it into a bottle of lube, pulls back the plunger, and then hands it to me. The tip is dripping slightly, same as my dick. “Lube shooter,” he explains.

I don’t need a tutorial to use the thing. Once he’s on his hairy knees at the bed’s edge, I slide the finger-sized barrel into his hole, working the stick in a circle to open it up a little. I’m squeezing out a little lube all the way in, but it’s once I reach bottom that I let loose. I hear him sigh as it fills him up.
He sighs more loudly, gasps, and then lets out a long groan when I start to stretch his hole with my cock. The shaft slides in. He’s no novice at this, that’s for sure. I can even feel the lube once I’m all the way in; though his hole is warm and grips me slickly, my cock’s head feels like it’s dipped in Jello, or something remarkably cooler. Then I take a stroke, and another, and the coolness starts to fade and spread. The head of our bodies equalizes within a dozen strokes. I can’t tell where I end and he begins. I just know that he feels good, and that his hips keep rising to meet me with every thrust.

“That’s right, dad,” I whisper into the half-darkness. “Make your boy feel good.”

“Oh god,” he cries into the bed. And I do mean cries. I can hear the sob in his throat.

“You like this dick?” I ask him. “You like this dick? I got it from you.”

“I love that dick,” he moans.

“You are making this dick feel so . . . damned . . . good.”

He tries to rise onto his hands. He looks over his shoulder, that handsome fucker with the tough man appearance and the blue eyes of a little boy. “I love you, son.”

“I love you daddy,” I whisper back. A grin crosses my face when I say the words, and my dick swells.
When I shoot in him, minutes later, after a long fuck that leaves us both sweating and swearing, he’s holding me close and repeating the words. “I love you, son. I love you, boy.” Over and over again he says them, with his elbow locking the back of my neck against his chest. I unload in him as his legs seem both to repel me and to clamp me from leaving.

Then, after he holds me in there for a minute, the fog clears. He chuckles. His beard tickles me as he sucks me clean. I collect my things from among the junk on the floor, then find myself stumbling out of the apartment and out onto East 83rd. My face still stinks of the man—my grateful daddy, whom I left half-asleep in the tumble of sheets seven stories above.

I wonder if he’s dreaming of us.

The Woods and the Rain

The woods I occasionally cruise are in a light industrial section of town, where warehouses and tiny manufactories occupy streets down which most residents never venture. There’s a large retail center on one side of the little forest, so that occasionally cars travel down the street in its direction. Only rarely will one stop. When it does, the lone occupant will scurry from his vehicle and into the canopy of trees, where he’ll quickly vanish from sight. The woods are a quiet, overlooked corner of my hometown where the only people likely to be walking the trails are men looking for sex. If there are cars parked on its outskirts, there’s pretty much a guarantee to be action among the trees.

I’d been to the woods earlier last week, the same day I’d visited Cunt in the morning—that afternoon I found myself in the neighborhood and had dropped by, parked, and unzipped my pants to feed my dick to an older cocksucker I’d encountered near the rearmost trail. His mouth hadn’t proved that great, however, so when I spotted a dog walker in the distance, I used the intruder as an excuse to zip up and get away.

Friday, though, I had a date. SexInPublic, the guy I met last month for my ‘Restroom Lunch’ entry, had written asking me to fuck and load his hole. He offered me a choice of places to play: the woods, which were close to both of us, an office building with a public restroom in a downtown building, or the dressing room of Macy’s at a local mall. I picked the woods, and named a time to meet.

When I pulled down the street where the trails begin, I recognized the guy’s BMW immediately, from the last time. I pulled next to it, parked, locked my domestic car, and began walking through the trees. Friday happened to be one of those wild autumn Michigan days in which the weather was so changeable and abrupt that it was impossible to dress for. When I’d left the house ten minutes before, it had been warmish and sunny; when I walked into the woods, it was chilly, dark, overcast, and a light rain was starting to fall.

Precipitation didn’t drive away the cruisers, however. I could spy the silhouettes of two of them among the trees as I passed beneath the gate. One looked like the short, lightly athletic figure of my married dad buddy. Another was a taller man, broad-shouldered, bearish. He had ginger-colored hair and a goatee, wore dark, round Harry Potter wire glasses, and had a face that seemed flat, as if someone had arranged its features on the single plane of wall and breathed life into it. He wasn’t a bad-looking guy by any means—quite the contrary. But I had no measure of him yet.

I walked along the trails casually, hands stuck deep in my pockets. My dick was hard and hanging down the right leg of my pants. The goateed guy paused by a bench, and tapped away at the screen of his cell phone. “How’s it going?” I said in a low voice, as I passed. We exchanged nods. When I turned my head to look back at him, he had let his hand drop to his crotch. His fingertips lightly toyed with the bulge there.

Oh yeah. He was cruising, all right.

Deeper into the trees I plunged. The light drizzle had turned into a heavier rain by now. The trees blocked much of it, but my face and hair were definitely getting moist. I followed the trails to the point where they split, at the back of the woods where few people ventured. My cocksucking friend had taken the trail to the right, then stepped down into a hollow protected by several broad-trunked oaks. I followed.

Once down in the little cavity, I spied two other men among the trees. One was an older guy in his sixties, expensively-dressed and fit for his age; the other was a kid one-third his age and a little more, who wore dark, oversized jeans and a black hoodie like mine. The kid was getting up from his knees when I nodded at them. He immediately ambled over, his eyes locked with mine. The red-headed bear ducked beneath the low-hanging branches to join the four of us.

I was confident enough about all these guys that I didn’t hesitate for any preliminaries. Even in the quietest of public spots, opportunity is sometimes fleeting. I wasn’t there to linger. I unzipped my pants and pulled out my hard dick. I hadn’t bothered to wear underwear or a belt—easy access is best in these situations. My public sex friend immediately dropped to his knees and began to suck me, while the other three men watched, mesmerized. The older man was still unzipped. He pulled out his soft penis and started trying to stroke it to hardness. My bear buddy rubbed his groin with the heel of his hand, as he kept an eye on the trail in both directions. The young guy, however, couldn’t take his eyes off my dick. His hands were plunged deep in the pockets of his hoodie as his eyes bulged.

SexInPublic made a show of slobbering over my meat and groaning as he deep-throated it. I let my eyes close to slits as my head tilted back with pleasure. Raindrops splatted on my forehead and stung my eyes, but I didn’t really care. I let myself get wetted, above and below.

The bear pulled out his dick. It was average-sized, but glistening at the tip. I maneuvered SexInPublic’s head off my meat and onto the bear’s. My buddy accepted the change without question, but rose to his feet and dropped his pants at the switch. Like me, he wore no underwear. From his jacked he pulled a tube of lube that he squeezed onto his fingertips. Both his hands parted his cheeks as his fingers dug at his hole. When he’d finished lubing himself, he pointed his ass at me.

I didn’t need a second invitation. I rubbed some spit on my dick to help with the lubrication, and pushed inside. My cocksucking buddy grunted hard as I went in. I didn’t meet with much resistance, though, so I assumed his gargled cries of agony were mostly for show. The bear pulled his dick out of SexInPublic’s mouth and yanked down his pants, exposing his pale, hairy butt cheeks for me. He bent over to give me full access.

I could have pulled out and fucked him right there, and it was obvious he wanted me to. I’d promised my load to my married dad buddy, though. I had to content myself with fingering the hole and wetting it with spit while both men bent over before me. The older guy was hard now—but not large, I could tell.

The young guy seemed amazed at the two bottoms lining up in front of me. He took a tentative step forward, then drew nearer still, until he was so close that I could smell the scent of some cheap aftershave rising from his neck. His left hand reached out and gripped the base of my cock. His right reached under and rubbed my balls.

It was that gesture that pushed me over. Without warning I began unloading in my married friend’s hole. My breath sounded ragged and harsh as it erupted from my lungs. I wasn’t buried very deeply in my buddy’s ass; almost immediately half the sperm gushed out of his hole and dropped onto the leaves between his legs. The young man squeezing my dick pulled it out and used his thumb on the underside of the shaft to milk out the last remaining string of sticky stuff.

Then I was done. I wanted more, but the group was too large to risk lingering. I stuffed my still-slick dick into my jeans, buttoned up, nodded at the crew, and bounced up to the trail and continued walking the long route around. The wind had picked up, making my wet face sting a little. From time to time I felt like I was being pelted by minuscule pellets of sleet. I pulled up my hood, plunged my hands into my pockets, and continued tramping through the mud and leaves.

When I circled around and reached the entrance where I’d come in, SexInPublic had managed to rearrange himself and and return by the shorter route we’d taken in. Our eyes locked as he crossed my path. He grinned. I grinned back. I thought he might say something, but no. We exited the woods without a word, walked to our cars, and waved at each other as we drove back to our respective homes and families.

It wasn’t until I started the car’s ignition and let the heat run that I realized how wet and cold I really was. My hair and face were soaked; my hoodie could’ve been wrung for a cup of water. I hadn’t noticed, during the fuck, exactly how drenched I’d gotten.

A little rain was worth it.

The site where SexInPublic and I originally met allows cruisers to leave remarks on ‘report cards’ on each other’s profiles after they’ve hooked up. When I got home, my married buddy had remarked on mine:

You r so fucking hot Mr Steed--anytime you want to fuck--feed and breed me again--just say the word. Nice big cock and a big load--I can still feel you pumping it deep inside me--well actually its slowing leaking out--damn hot. Loved our audience. Another time I hope--and soon….

There’ll be another time. I can guarantee that.

What Daddies Do

I was eating lunch in a deli Sunday afternoon that seemed to be attracting quite the flow of hot guys through its doors. When I entered with what remains of my little household in tow, there were three frat boy types lounging in front of the chalkboard menu, wearing sloppy sweatshirts and baseball caps tugged low over their foreheads to conceal their sleepy faces, but all also sporting no underwear and flowing basketball shorts that barely concealed the outlines of their dicks flopping around between their uniformly hairy legs.

There was a handsome fellow in scrubs from the nearby hospital, his steel-gray hair trimmed to perfection with precision shears and a level. He chatted with another blue-clad buddy, a dark-eyed, bearded, scruffy whelp who made me want to spank and fuck his round little butt. Fit jock married men sat at the various tables, using their bulging biceps to stuff their faces with sandwiches on fresh-baked rolls.

It certainly gave me inspiration of where to spend my Sundays from now on.

We’d ordered and had chosen a table and settled in to eat our meal when from the bathroom emerged a sexy daddy. His head was shaved, so it was difficult to tell if his hair was fair or gray; a red baseball cap covered most of his dome. The legs sticking out of his shorts were stocky and solid; his build was beefy. Despite his sharp nose and bright blue eyes, he reminded me of a pug dog, all masculinity and assertion and stout presence. I knew he was a daddy because he had two kids in tow, neither any older than five or six; he’d obviously been in the restroom helping them wash their hands before the meal.

“Come on, girls,” he said, as he walked toward my table, beyond which the line to order started. “We’re going to get our food and go.”

He was halfway through that sentence when he saw me. Our eyes locked. Mine remained on his; his didn’t move from mine. We held glances for much longer than is common between two men, especially when one of them is motion. He kept talking as our glances remained frozen. Though I felt the jolt of electricity and recognition immediately, it took my brain what felt like an eternity to process the information, and to realize that the daddy in the baseball cap was, despite the domesticity of his situation, aware of the other men in the restaurant as well. Very much aware, in fact.

Then, like a soap bubble, the moment dissipated and vanished. He cast a quick look at me over his shoulder as he stepped into line, but his attention was captured by another comely face. There was a young guy lounging against the rail wearing a pair of loose-fitting sweatpants and a floppy T-shirt. The waistband of his pants hung low enough to expose the boxers he sported underneath. The daddy stared at the young man intently. When their eyes didn’t meet, his own traveled down the boy’s frame, taking in the lanky arms, the impossibly long torso, the little spur of fuzz projecting over the elastic of the sweatpants. Finally they stopped at the little bobble of cloth where the dick head lay, before returning to the boy’s face. “Pick out what you want, girls,” he said from a distance. “Do you want PB&J? PB&J sounds good, huh?”

I just shook my head and returned to my sandwich. There was one daddy who hadn’t been laid in a while. I knew the symptoms.

A handsome goateed guy in a tight-fitting sweat dropped his tray at the table behind my booth right as Daddy picked up his bag of PB&Js and started to exit the building. “I’ve got to wash my hands,” the goateed guy said to his seated girlfriend, as he breezed by to the restroom.

“Honey, just sit at this table. I’ll be right back,” announced Daddy, depositing his girls at the both opposite ours, along with his bag of sandwiches. “Daddy’s gotta go.” Immediately he veered after the good-looking man into the restroom. The little girls obediently sat down, little legs swinging from the bench, as Daddy stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and disappeared into the men’s room.

None of this surprised me, of course. It’s what horny dads do. Even when they’re out with their girls on a weekend lunchtime jaunt, their eyes are dancing over the prospective males in the room, in the parking lot, out at the mall, among the other daddies on the playground. Sizing them up. Judging the bulges in their pants. When a man is horny, it doesn’t take much to turn him from responsible parent into the bad dad who leaves his charges unsupervised at a table by themselves in the middle of a crowded restaurant. Sad, but true.

I’ve known guys who’ve had sex in their basements and garages after dark while the family’s asleep upstairs. I’ve known dads who’ve left their kids sleeping in the back seats of locked cars while they quickly sucked a dick in a rest stop, late at night. I’ve been to men’s houses and discovered only after I’d rolled around with them that they had an infant sleeping in another part of the house.

The restroom door had scarcely swung behind this particular daddy when the goateed guy emerged, shaking his hands to free them of the last lingering moisture.

I immediately figured that Daddy hadn’t seen what he’d hoped to see in there. I was right, because he emerged just a scant moment later, hands still stuffed in his pockets. “Okay, girls, we're ready to go.” He sounded bluff and cheerful, but I detected an undertone of disappointment.

When I looked out the window after him, he had his eyes fixed on yet another good-looking guy talking to a friend by his hybrid. There are a lot of horny daddies out there.

Most of them, however, don’t cruise as gracelessly as the one in the red baseball cap.

Spongebob Spoogepants

It seems that my encounters, clustered together, seem sometimes to have little themes that I didn’t anticipate. A few weeks back, every fuck I had in a two-week period came to me pre-lubed, whether I liked it or not. Lately, it’s all been about the underwear. Not too long ago I posted some shots of me wearing and shooting sperm on a pair of underwear that wasn’t mine. Mikey stole my underwear last week, and gave me a pair of his own. When I went out with friends to a bar over the weekend, the bartender flirted with me so outrageously that I gave into his demands, went to the men’s room, took off my boxer briefs, and let him walk around with them stuffed in his back pocket as a trophy until I left for the night.

And then there’s my buddy Darryl. Darryl’s a married man and a father. He’s the kind of guy you see in a quiet, leafy neighborhood like mine, dressed in a state university sweatshirt and a pair of shorts, mowing the lawn on the weekends. He’s the sort of masculine, lean fellow who was in a fraternity during his youth, and still meets some of the old college buddies for a beer on the odd Saturday night. An adoring dad of an eleven-year-old son and a seven-year-old daughter, barely scraping past thirty-five. A narrow-faced regular guy carrying a slightly receding hairline, the very slightest of furry beer bellies, and a mortgage.

Darryl’s a lot like me. Once the clothes are off, we enjoy the same things. Our dicks respond to the same ideas, images, and memories. And a while back, Darryl and I swapped underwear. It was a simple handoff when we got together for a quick session of jacking off and dirty talk. I handed over to him a plain pair of blue briefs; in return he gave me some narrow-waisted underwear with a cartoon print, wadded up in a ball in his jacket pocket. Neither pair was clean when we swapped them. That is, they weren’t covered with skid marks by any means, but they’d come out of the hamper, not the clean laundry drawer.

Over the course of the days since, we’d proceeded to dirty them up for each other.

Just about ever time I masturbated by myself and came, I grabbed the underwear and sopped up the sperm. I kept them under my bed upstairs so that I could grab them easily, and also that I could mop up more semen when I had guys over. When Scruffy shot, the last time he was here, most of it went in my mouth, but the rest I cleaned up with those briefs. When Jim came on the floor last week, the briefs were what I used to wipe up the spooge. By this morning, the image of Spongebob was barely visible beneath the accumulation.

When Darryl arrived, we went into the other bedroom and immediately began making out. The guy’s an expert kisser and enjoys nothing better than mashing his face against mine. He tugged off his T-shirt and shorts with such violence that I was certain a seam would burst or a button pop, and then pulled back the covers on the bed and ran his hands over the sheets before he patted the mattress for me to join him. “Oh fuck, I forgot,” he said, when I sat down. Almost immediately he leaned forward to grab his cargo shorts. From the pocket he pulled out a ball of cotton.

The only thing I recognized immediately was the Hanes waistband. The blue briefs, however, were now not only mostly a mottled white, but had taken on an entirely different shape from the small-sized wad I’d originally handed over. They were stiff, and spherical, and crackled and burst with particles of dried cum when I tried to peel it open. Darryl is a major masturbator. He’s bragged to me in the past that he can’t keep his hands off his six-inch dick and that he manages to beat off a good three or four times a day even when the wife and kids are in the house. He must have managed to pump a gallon of his cum on those briefs I’d given him. Seriously.

“Fuck,” I said, listening to them practically crackle in my hand. “Holy fuck.”

“I couldn’t help it, dude,” he said. He was kneeling on the bed and thrusting his dick against my shoulder. “Every time I thought about who they belonged to, I’d bone up again and have to crank another one out.” His lips pressed against my neck as he nuzzled his face there. He lay his head upon my shoulder, waiting for my approval of his offering.

“Fuck,” I repeated. My dick was rigid, swollen, and as thick and long as it was possible to get—and yet it seemed to be growing even bigger at the sight of all that dried sperm. “Look under the pillow,” I told him.

At my instructions he checked under first one, then the other pillow. His hand emerged with the Spongebob briefs I’d stashed before he’d arrived. He turned them over and over, admiring the crazy quilt of dried fluid decorating it. “Jesus Christ,” he swore. “You did this. With that dick.”

“I’d do more if you let me.”

His lips searched for mine, hungry for more attention. As we kissed, his tongue probed far back enough into my mouth to excavate my tonsils, it seemed; he tipped back my head so that he could dive even more deeply. His other hand grabbed my right wrist and forced it down, lower, lower, until the underwear it held grazed the side of my cock.

I felt his dick against mine, stabbing and thrusting into thin air so that we occasionally collided. He rubbed the spunked-up pair of Spongebob shorts against his parts, enjoying the scratchy sensation on his shaved nuts. For several long minutes we continued making out and thrusting through the dirty shorts, eventually bringing our hands and dicks together so that the confusion of dick and underwear and fingers was complete. Both of us were leaking pre-cum heavily and adding to the stickiness on the already-dirty briefs.

“Damn. Fuck,” he said, shuddering. I could tell he was close to shooting. Too close—because when Darryl shoots, that’s it. It’s over for the day. I yanked his hand away and watched without remorse as his shaking body twitched, came close to climax, and then subsided. He nodded to acknowledge the rightness of what I’d done. “Sorry.”

“Suck me,” was my only reply. I lay back onto the double bed and propped myself up on the slightly gamey-smelling pillows. He dove between my legs and swallowed my dick whole, almost to the root. I held both of the pairs of shorts, then, and placed them on either side of my dick. Whenever he’d bob his head up and down, he’d have to crush his face against those stiff and crusty balls of cotton, to smell them, to know where they’d come from and what they’d been used for.

At last he came up for air. “I love your dick,” he panted. “I love knowing where your dick has been, man.”

“I know you do,” I said. “So suck it.”

“Tell me.” He didn’t care if he had to beg. “Tell me about where it’s been.”

So while he sucked, I told him about the last time I’d fucked something good and tight. I’m not the best at talking coherently while I’m being serviced, but I managed to gasp out the tale in short bursts, while he punctuated it with his own grunts and animal-like noises.

I’d reached the climax of my story when he rose to his knees suddenly and grabbed his dick. “Can’t take anymore,” he breathed. “Gotta shoot.”

I’d anticipated and expected his response, and wrapped my fingers around my own tool. I was close myself. So close that I was the first to shoot, gushing out a monster load on my stomach that trickled around the hairs there and puddled in my navel. His load followed, spraying so far and wide that I turned my head out of self-protection. He splattered on me from my earlobe to my belly. A few drops of his semen mixed with my own.

For a moment we stared at each other until at last the feral wildness faded from our eyes. He nodded slowly, then reached out and took the briefs I was still clutching from my hands. Then slowly, deliberately, he used both pairs to mop us up. First he swiped at the head of his own cock, from which a pendulum of cum swung low. Then he applied them to my stomach, using both hands to swipe off the fluid there. Over my chest and up my neck he dragged the scratchy cotton, trying to absorb what was left, and then finally, he turned the blue shorts inside out and got the remaining driblets from the sheets.

After a couple of minutes’ recovery, we got up and put back on our clothes. I let him pull the sheets back into neatness and arrange them. “We gonna swap back?” he asked, pointing to the sticky underwear lying crumpled on the bed.

“Up to you,” I told him.

He thought about it a minute. “Let’s keep ‘em,” he said at last. “Add some more loads. Then swap next time. Sound cool?”

“Cool.”

“I better get going. Got the family coming home from Sunday school in a little bit.”

“Yeah, me too,” I said, as I led him downstairs, where we said our goodbyes and I let him go back to his traditional storybook life.

I couldn’t imagine what those blue shorts would look like with even more dried loads on them. I certainly wanted to find out.