Hamper Digging

Ten minutes before, the room had been spotless. I’ve been keeping the house tidy, ready for a realtor showing with virtually no notice at all. The bedroom floors had been swept clean, the rugs there rolled up and stowed away to show off the hardwood planks. The bed had been made. All personal effects had been put away.

And here was Darryl, my married dad buddy, crouching on the floor in the bedroom closet, digging through the laundry hamper inside like a determined pig rooting for truffles. He was totally naked. His hairy haunches were spread as he squatted down on the floor, shorn balls dangling low between his legs, his dick solid and wet at the tip. He’s a lean and rangy man, and on his spare frame it jutted out so rigidly—so hard and implacable—that his prick seemed permanent, like architecture fashioned of crude, thick stone, than anything of mere flesh.

His thin lips were set in an expression of concentration as he searched through the basket. Pants and socks and board shorts from the days it was warm, not so long ago, lay in random piles around him. They weren’t what he wanted. Every now and again he’d lift one of the articles of clothing to his nose and give it a sniff, and then reach down with his left hand to squeeze his dick. Then he’d toss it aside and move on. I watched from my position on the narrow bed. I was sitting on my rear, legs spread, arms resting on my bent knees, watching.

For a moment Darryl seemed frustrated; he ran his fingers through his thinning hair and sighed. I realized then however, that his upset came not from not finding what he wanted, but having too much of an abundance of choice. He picked up some of the briefs he’d set into a pile and examined them again, then gave them the sniff test. “This pair,” he said at last, grunting, as if the week-old funk of dirty laundry had been a potent hit of poppers.

“You sure?” I asked. I recognized the briefs. I’d bought them myself at the Gap. They were plain white cotton. The inside front of the waistband was slightly dirty from handling. I could see a few faint pee stains on them.

“Yeah,” he told me. This time he used both hands to lift them to his face. He inhaled deeply. His eyelids flickered, then settled to half-mast. Finally, in a hormone-induced haze, he straightened up and strode to join me on the bed. “These are the ones.”

Darryl and I don’t fuck. We talk, and we stroke, and sometimes we suck. If we make that far, that is. For months we’ve been swapping two pairs of underwear back and forth, slopping them up with our spilled loads and then trading off whenever we meet. This time he wanted something new. “These are real nice,” he said, taking another hit.

The sheets we knelt on already smelled somewhat; they hadn’t been washed in a week. It wasn’t an unpleasant odor, but it was definitely noticeable. I couldn’t imagine how much stronger the briefs must have been. I reached down and took his steel-hard dick in my hand, running the palms beneath the rigid rod, collecting a glob of his pre-cum, and then using it to slick up the stiff shaft. “You want ‘em?” I asked.

His lids flew open. Beneath them, his eyes were hard and cold and full of focused lust. “Yes,” he growled. It was the kind of feral snarl some men make as they fuck, only neither my nor Darryl’s dicks were shoved into a hole. “I want these.”

“They're yours. You bring me anything?”

He seemed reluctant to end the trance the shorts had induced, but he reluctantly got to his feet and pulled his jeans from the floor. From the back pocket Darryl unfolded a flimsy pair of cotton panties. They weren’t male underwear. He held them out to me.

I raised my eyebrows at the married man, the husband, the good provider. “These are hers?”

He nodded. “Put your dick through them. I want to see your dick in there.”

“Hold them for me,” I instructed.

He did as I told, stretching out the flower-printed panties in his hands. I pulled down on the crotch and let my dick slide between the layers of cotton, penetrating the spot where pussy would have been. Back and forth I moved, stimulated by nothing but the wispy edges, thrusting into the hole in his imagination. His mouth twitched again. I was arousing him even more, if that was possible. “You want to see me fuck her?” I asked. He didn’t say anything. “You’ve thought about it. You think about me in her.” He nodded slowly, acknowledging that it was so. “You’re going to be thinking about it when you go home to her after this. When you see her across the dining table. When she gets into bed, while you watch, you’re going to be thinking about me mounting her. Shoving my tongue down her throat. Forcing my rock-hard dick inside her. Aren’t you?”

When he let out the little “Yes!”, it arrived as a sob. He thrust the Gap briefs into his mouth and grabbed his dick. That’s all it took—one grasp with his fist around that engorged meat and suddenly he was shooting, pumping out squirt after squirt of juice over the backs of my hands and the flowery panties they held. His moans and cries were muffled by the shorts in his mouth as he came.

His orgasm put me over the edge. My own dick unloaded everywhere—on him, on the panties, on the bed, on my own hands. We were both covered with semen. I recovered more quickly than he. Darryl gripped the headboard as if he might topple over, so strong had his climax been. I took the briefs from his mouth and used them to mop up what sperm I could see or feel on my skin. “There,” I said. “A new starter pair.”

His only thanks was a curt nod. “I kinda need those back,” he said, gesturing to the other pair. “The wife'll notice they’re missing.”

“Gonna wash ‘em?” I wanted to know, since they were wet with my cum stains.

He shrugged, then stood up, his head finally clear. At last he grinned at me. “Haven’t thought that far ahead yet.”

Ten minutes later, the room was spic and span again, the windows open to clear the strong smell of spunk. A prospective buyer would never have been able to tell two daddies had been going at it in there.

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.