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.