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.