by David Heulfryn
Part Three: Sunday
All I ask for on a Sunday morning is to sleep in, I don’t think it is much to ask for. After playing rugby on Saturday and working hard at school during the week, it is the only chance I get to catch up on sleep. So when I heard my mother yelling up the stairs, I was not best pleased.
“Matthew! Get up Matthew; me and your Dad are going out into the garden. Keep an ear out for the phone!”
The shrill sound caused me to wake with a jolt. I was disoriented and still tired; I wanted to go back to sleep, and my eyes remained steadfastly closed.
“Don’t make me go up there!” She was not happy at being ignored.
Clearing my throat of sleepiness, I called back down. “Alright, I’m up.”
Then she left me alone. I was sorely tempted to go back to sleep, but the sound of my father in the garden shed; the clanging together of spade and rake, and the ominous growl of the lawnmower meant that any hope of further sleep was dashed.
Getting out of bed, I pulled back the curtains and stood by my window, watching my father struggle to start the petrol lawnmower. I saw my mother emerge from the shadow created by the house. Seeing me at my window, she beckoned to me.
As I twisted the aluminium handle, a steady stream of cool air flowed into my room, the tiny fair hairs on my naked chest stood erect, and my nipples stood proud. Thankfully Mum couldn’t see my morning hard-on as it stayed hidden in my pyjama bottoms and well under the window sill. It soon wilted as I heard her shrill voice shout up to me, battling to be heard in between the growls of the lawnmower.
“Don’t go back to bed, will you? I’m expecting your Gran to phone sometime today.”
“Right,” I mumbled back even though she had no hope of hearing me. I made to close the window.
“Leave your window open a notch, get some fresh air into that stinking pit of yours.”
Ignoring her, I left my window ajar and flopped back onto my bed.
Whatever did she mean, stinking pit? It’s not like I go around smelling the place out. But the festering staleness and uninvited odours of farts, damp feet and sweaty crotch were beginning to overpower even me.
Breathing in the clean air, I plunged my hands inside my cotton pyjama bottoms. The sky blue material gave way for my hands as they found the warm and moist crevice between my legs.
I clenched my buttocks, lifting them slightly from my mattress and pushed my limp dick into my palm. My hand was resting over my dick, the other cupping my loose balls. I pushed a finger down between my legs and pushed against my hard cheeks, relaxing them and dropping back down onto my mattress, my finger slid in between them and pushed against my sweaty hole. It twitched as I teased it, each time my nail got caught and scratching me, I would wince and wish that I kept them well-trimmed.
The anal teasing had woken my dick. The lengthening and hardening shaft caused the end to press against my fingers, I let it slide passed as, with my finger trapped at my hole, I clenched hard and thrust upwards. My wet bell-end slid out from my foreskin, which was trapped by my fingers and stroked the sky blue fabric of my pyjama bottoms. Glancing down, I could see the moistness seep through to leave a stain.
I didn’t want to leave any evidence for my mother to find when she washed my clothes, so I reluctantly left my dick and hole alone and pushed my pyjamas down to my ankles. Staring past my perpendicular dick, I shuffled my feet to free them and let the screwed up fabric fall from the bed.
I glanced over at my window when I heard the lawnmower splutter and then start. It was autumn, and the leaves on the trees that littered the houses’ gardens were turning vibrant shades of red and brown. I supposed that this would be the last weekend that my father mowed the lawn. The grass barely grew now that the cold weather was here, but he took pride in his garden and would always be the last person on the estate to put their mower away for winter. As he paced up and down the garden, my mother would tickle round the plants, picking up the tiny weed shoots which withstood the cold. It was a familiar scene which played out most Sundays; I didn’t need to see it to imagine the intricate detail my parents would subject the garden to.
The weight of my softening dick pulled it down onto my thigh. The sensation of my tiny hairs being stroked by my falling dick centred me back to what lay between my legs. My right hand picked up my dick, squeezed it, and quickly stroked it until it felt hard again. My other hand warmed up my ballsac, which had tightened in the cool air and pressed my balls into my body. The warmth from my hand helped loosen them so that I could feel the sensation of them rolling around in my palm.
A last look at my dick saw the leaking head poking free from my foreskin, the surfaced reddening from the blood which surged through. I gripped my dick tight and could feel the pulsing of my heartbeat as the blood rushed in but was trapped by the constricted veins which bulged to distort the shape of my dick.
I closed my eyes and settled into the familiar position of my head twisted ever so slightly back as I enjoyed the feeling which rose from my crotch as my hand slowly wanked my dick, the other keeping my balls warm and rolling them in their hairless sac.
With my parents safely away in the garden, I could take my time and not hurry for the quick relief I would choose whenever there was a danger of being disturbed. I enjoyed the slow wank sessions better, the feelings in my groin and stomach would gradually grow, and my balls would start to pleasantly ache. But the best part was always the end, the orgasm. It would last longer, and the feeling would be more intense, and I would always wet myself with twice the amount of cum I would get from a quickie.
The familiar image of Scott, naked, was blazoned in my mind. His smooth, soft skin glowed, and his huge dick protruded from his thicket of pubes which tapered upwards to meet his navel.
Every so often, my dick would throb, and a thick stream of pre-cum would ooze from my slit. I loved this feeling, it was like a mini orgasm, and the more I felt it, the more cum I knew would be getting stored up, and the better final release. Each time I felt this, I released my dick and let it pulse so that it would sway freely, the pre-cum would quickly cool in the cold air, and the sharp temperature change made the sensation even better.
It was during one of these episodes that I felt a hand on my dick.
I had no idea how long Scott had been watching me; I had not even heard him open my bedroom door. I was surprised when he touched me and snatched my head up, opening my eyes. What I saw was his beaming face, his eyes soft which sparkled with a watery sheen. He sat on my bed and carried on stroking my dick, my own hand now lay lifeless by my side, my other stayed attached to my balls and played with them as the strange hand, and unfamiliar stroking, rubbed my dick.
Neither of us spoke.
I closed my eyes again and enjoyed him stroking me. Occasionally he would see the precum ooze from my slit and stop and use a finger to smear it over my knob. My hips would buck upwards at his gentle touch, wanting to fuck his hand and to squeeze more fluid from my dick.
I imagined Scott looking over my body, the white, flawless skin, and my face screwed up, displaying an expression of sheer joy. His hand kept the same pace as mine had done, easing and teasing me to an explosive release, I felt his free hand press against my belly, sliding up my body to feel the hard nubs of my nipples. He passed his finger across, and I felt my dick lurch as I gasped at his touch.
Scott became more comfortable playing with my body and got more adventurous. The teasing of the nipples was just a start. His finger touched my lips and gently traced the route around my mouth. As he finished a full circuit around my lips, I opened them and sucked in his fingertip. It was dry and tasted salty. I wet it with my tongue and sucked off all the salt until all I could taste was my own spit. He played with my tongue, our two tips dancing around each other. I let him catch me, and his finger rested in the depression at the centre of my tongue. Slowly his finger pulled out, and my lips smacked together.
The slow wanking and twisting of his hand down my shaft caused my dick to pulse again. As before, he stopped, and I felt him smear my clear pre-cum over my knob. As my breathing slowed again, he started up again. Pulling and twisting his hand up and down my dick, his hand catching the ridge of my bell-end, bringing me ever closer.
His finger returned to my lips, it tasted salty again but was still wet. I sucked on the salty fluid realising that it must have come from my own dick. The thought turned my stomach for an instant until I realised how good and nourishing it tasted. The salty fluid was mixed with my spit, and I spread it over my tongue. It made me thirsty, I wanted more and sucked hard on Scott’s finger in the hope that more would be secreted, but no more came. I knew nothing would. His finger didn’t make it, I did. My dick did.
I groaned as his finger left me, and my dick stiffened even more. I knew I was close, I hoped Scott did. My breathing quickened and became shallow, but his hand relentlessly stroked my shaft. His fingers played with my nipples again, but this time as his finger touched the hyper-sensitive nub, my dick lurched and pulsated uncontrollably, and I struggled to stifle a loud groan. I felt my cum land on my chest, and Scott’s hand slowed down, almost to a stop. His gentle stroking now eased my cum out to dribble down and onto his hand.
I lay panting, trying to regain my breath. Scott kept his hand on my dick, but now he was still. As I recovered, I opened my eyes and saw the pearls of cum laying a trail on my chest down to my pubes where a pool of creamy white cum lay suspended high in my pubes. Scott’s hand showed a moist trail where my cum had once flowed to gather at the pool beneath. My dick was now softening, and Scott let it slip from his grasp.
My eyes looked up at Scott, and my face beamed a wide smile; it was the best wank I’d ever had, and I hoped my expression said as much to him. I wanted to speak, but for once had no idea what to say.
Scott broke the silence. “I said I’d come round today.”
“That was the best, Scott.”
“I suppose now we’re even after you made me spunk my trousers yesterday.”
“Like hell, we are.” I lifted myself up onto my elbows. “I just felt you up. It’s not my fault you shot. To be even, we will need to trade places.” I grinned at him and raised my eyebrows.
I sat up and looked at him, the thought of me wanking him seemed to unnerve him slightly, but I was not about to insist. Not at that moment anyway, he had sapped my strength, and I needed to rest. I leant forward and softly kissed him on his lips. He responded, and I parted my lips to press my tongue against his closed mouth. He didn’t open up, so I pressed harder until it slipped through. My arms wrapped themselves around him, and I brought his body closer to mine. I pressed my naked chest against his clothed chest and pulled him down so that he lay on top of me. We passionately kissed as our hands swept across each others body.
Scott broke free, breathing heavily and rolled off me. It was cramped, the both of us lying next to each other on my single bed and I wriggled until I lay on my side, looking at Scott, and then I laughed.
Looking at me, he frowned, wanting to know what I found funny.
In our little clinch, most of the cum I’d shot onto my chest and belly was now smeared over his sweatshirt.
“It’ll dry,” I said. “And you can always just wipe it off with a flannel in the bathroom.”
He smiled and kissed my lips again. We lay embracing one another, Scott rested his head on my shoulder, and I lay with my nose buried in his hair. It smelled of lavender.
“Does this mean we are no longer friends?” I whispered into his ear.
“No longer friends, but now boyfriends.”
“I guess it does.”
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