15th April 2003: A fun story about a fit young carpenter coming to repair a gay guy’s wardrobe. I wonder where this storyline could possibly be heading…

Wood Worker
by Maverick

 

He’d been due to come around at eleven but he turned up at half-past twelve.

As I opened the door, I was ready for an argument.

But the guy standing in the doorway threw me. I’d been expecting an old man with faded overalls and a battered toolbox. Whenever things had bust, collapsed or died on me in the past, the landlord had always sent round one of his geriatric mates of his from the building trade.

This guy was in his twenties. Six foot four with short light brown hair. Wearing a loose-fitting checked shirt and jeans so tight that they almost strained with the bulge inside them.

I gawped like a fish. Managed to mutter, “Yeah?”

He smiled. It was warm and friendly.

He said, in a deep but gentle voice, “I’ve come to fix a wardrobe or something… did I get the right apartment?”

I thought, “Jesus,” but stuttered, “Oh yeah… come in…”

He stepped into the hallway and looked down the corridor, sizing the place up. He had his tools on a canvas belt, a row of them tucked into pouches around his right hip.

I said, closing the door, “I was expecting an older guy…”

He laughed. “Well, yeah, actually my dad was intending on doing this. But something turned up, so you got me instead.”

“You don’t normally put together collapsed wardrobes, then?”

“Well, sometimes. I mean, I used to. I’m more into designing furniture now… fake Mexican chairs and stuff. That’s where the money is!”

He had a beautiful smell. He must have done some work elsewhere before he’d come to my apartment because I was aware of a faint odour of his sweat: not strong or unpleasant; just gentle traces of the musky smell of his body mixing with the subtle perfume of his after-shave or deodorant.

He said, “Oh, sorry I got held up, by the way. I hope I didn’t put you out…?”

I laughed and shook my head like I hadn’t even noticed.

He grinned broadly again. Who needs to apologise with a smile like that?

I took him into the bedroom, checking out how round and firm his buttocks were as he walked ahead of me. His jeans were literally clinging to him, showing off his thick muscular legs, leading downward to his dirty brown hiking boots.

He surveyed the twisted wreckage of the wardrobe, one of the side panels that was protruding from the remains at an angle.

He smiled. “Looks like someone beat their way out of this.”

“Well you know how it is. You’ve got to lock your victims up somewhere…”

He laughed again. A warm laugh with a broad, unaffected smile.

He pulled off one of the wooden struts which came easily away. “This is so badly made… it looks like it was put together by a four-year-old.” He considered it for a few seconds and then added, “Actually, it could easily be one of my dad’s creations…”

I chuckled.

He went on, “Everything’s held together with glue and dowels. No joints. I’m going to have to rebuild it from scratch.”

The wardrobe had creaked and groaned every time I’d hung something up or taken something out, but last Thursday it had collapsed during the night. The noise of it had woken me up at about three in the morning. It had totally freaked me; I thought someone was breaking in through my bedroom window.

He took off his tool-belt and bent over to lay it out on the floor. I checked out his beautiful arse again, this time with the added bonus of seeing the curving ridges made by the hem of his briefs against the seat of his jeans.

He found a claw-grip hammer and a chisel and stood back up to prise some of the panels apart. His hands were large and strong, his wrists thick with short light brown hairs on them.

I realised I was just standing there, mesmerised by him, and so I said, “Do you want a cup of tea or coffee or something?”

He looked up at me and then his eyes focused behind me, on the wall above the head of my bed.

He smiled and said, “Interesting…”

I turned to see what he was looking at it. It was a picture that was hanging there; a print I’d bought. It was a confusing painting: a night-time scene in a cornfield full of dark blues and greens, with scattered patches of moonlight and dark shadows deliberately misleading and confusing the eye.

I said, “Yeah. It’s a good painting. I like it a lot.”

“So do the guys in it, by the look of things.”

That caught my attention. “What do you mean?”

He kept smiling. “Well, you must have seen the two men making out together in the middle of the cornfield…?”

I smiled back, my eyebrows betraying my surprise. “Oh right. Most people don’t see them until they’ve looked at it a while.”

They were there alright, but you had to look carefully to discern their bodies from the busy lines and the twisting foliage. One guy was kissing the other’s neck. Their trousers were down around the tops of their thighs. One guys’ cock was visible, the other’s was disappearing between his friend’s legs.

He stared at me, still grinning. “I’ve always been good at illusions and stuff…”

I said, “It took me about five minutes to make them out. And I’d read about it beforehand so I knew what I was looking for…”

He nodded. “It’s pretty cool. Not really my kind of thing, but I like it.” He glanced around my bedroom at some of my other stuff. At my David Hockney print of a naked guy in a swimming pool; at odd ornaments I’d picked up with similar themes.

He kept nodding. “Yeah… I like your style… not mine, as I say, but it’s interesting…”

I repeated my offer of tea.

“Oh yeah. I’d love one. Can I use your bathroom first, though…?”

I gestured to the doorway and walked along the corridor to make the tea.

As I put the kettle on, I heard him pissing into the toilet. The sound was loud and sharp: he hadn’t closed the door.

I thought, “That’s kind of strange… it’s pretty clear that I’m gay and first he says that’s ‘interesting’ and then he leaves the bathroom door open…”

I wouldn’t have intruded on a guy using my bathroom normally, but the open door seemed too good to miss. Maybe not an invitation, but definitely an opportunity.

I walked back along the corridor and stood in the bathroom door. He was standing side-on to me, pissing into the bowl, staring at another of my pictures on the wall in front of him.

I said, “Sorry… d’you take milk and sugar…?”

He didn’t respond for a few seconds. He was staring at the picture intently.

I glanced down at his cock, soft and limp in his fingers but longer and thicker than any flaccid cock I’d seen before. It was like a pale-coloured snake: as thick as a cucumber with five or six inches of it sticking out from his jeans. The foreskin was slightly retracted to expose half of inch of the pale red head. A stream of yellow piss connected the tip of it with the toilet bowl in an almost straight line.

Eventually he said, “This one’s pretty interesting too. Are you an art student or something?”

I laughed. “No. I’m a journalist… I just like pretty pictures, I guess.”

He kept looking at it, his piss stream faltering and his fingers working at his cock to pump the last few spurts out of it.

He said, “I guess this one could be religious or sexual. Depends on what the viewer wants to see.”

The picture was a painting of two men, one kneeling in front of the other with his head level with the other man’s crotch. Since you could only see the back of the head of the guy kneeling, it was ambiguous as to whether his posture was an act of deference or if something more intimate was going on between them.

I said, “How would you prefer to interpret it?”

He smiled and looked at me, shaking the last few drops of piss from his cock.

He seemed totally comfortable with me being there watching him at the toilet. His lack of self-consciousness in front of me was surprising and slightly arousing.

He said, “Well I’m not a religious guy…”

“But if you interpret it sexually, the expression on the face of the guy standing up isn’t really one of pleasure…”

He nodded. “No. He’s serious. But it’s just that he isn’t play-acting. I keep telling my girlfriends the same thing. Just because a guy doesn’t put on a show, doesn’t mean he’s not enjoying it…”

He turned to look at me again and I smiled.

I said, “Maybe he’s straight…”

He started tucking his cock back into the front of his jeans. I watched him doing it and he watched me watching him, grinning at me.

“Straight guys enjoy getting head, too.”

“Not from other guys, though.”

He laughed. He got his cock into his white briefs inside his fly and started buttoning himself up. His cock was so big it made a mound in the front of his briefs and he had to pull the sides of his fly together to be able to fasten it.

He said, “All guys like blowjobs, and it doesn’t matter who the mouth belongs to. I work with a lot of men… it’s a running joke…”

I smiled and he grinned broadly at me. The way this conversation was heading was turning me on.

He started rolling up the sleeves of his checked shirt. Maybe he was getting as hot as I was.

I said, “I guess straight guys prefer girls sucking them off, though?”

He shrugged. “I guess. To be honest, not very many girls are into it, so I wouldn’t know. None I’ve dated have been, anyhow!”

He laughed again. He seemed relaxed but was clearly leading me on. I was feeling really horny by now and wondered if he was. There was a large round bulge at the front of his jeans, straining at his button fly, but he was a well-built guy and it didn’t necessarily mean he was getting hard.

He finished rolling his sleeves up and glanced down at the toilet bowl beneath him.

He said, still smiling, “Should I flush this, or d’you wanna go?”

It struck me as an odd thing to say and I was about to tell him to flush it. But then I caught his drift.

I said, “Yeah, I’ll go.”

We changed places in the bathroom: I stood in front of the toilet and he stood in the doorway watching me.

My cock was totally hard and I guess he knew it. He just wanted to see it; wanted to confirm that I was aroused by the implicit suggestions he’d been making.

And I wanted him to see it. To know that I was up for doing whatever he wanted.

I unzipped myself and reached in through my fly to try and pull my stiff cock out of my boxer briefs.

He said, “I’m Adam, by the way.”

I smiled. “Oh yeah. I’m Rick.”

I pulled my cock out, seven or so inches of it curving upwards with the foreskin fully retracted. My cock was a similar size in its erect state to his when it was limp.

I looked over at him. He was staring at my cock with a serious expression on his face.

I gently masturbated my foreskin a few times in front of him. Just in case he hadn’t got the message.

He looked up to my face maintaining the same serious, perhaps even slightly fearful, expression.

Then he laughed and said, “Anyway – I’ll have mine with milk and two sugars, please, mate,” and walked back towards the bedroom.

I waited for a minute to see what he was going to do; hoping that he might be taking off his clothes or something.

But then I heard the sounds of him tearing pieces of wood from the wardrobe and sawing apart the dowels that had been holding it together.

I thought, “You fucking tease,” and tucked my cock, which was by now half-limp with the realisation that it had been cheated, back into my underwear.

I flushed the toilet and walked back towards the kitchen. I glanced back along the corridor as I waited for the kettle to boil again and saw him in the bedroom. He was kneeling down with his back to me, measuring some of the pieces of wood with a metal tape-measure.

I felt really pissed off. He’d led me on to find out if I was gay. Maybe he was a queer-basher and would return later with his mates to beat me up. Or maybe he just liked the fact he was attractive and enjoyed proving to himself that he could turn guys on as well as girls.

I made a couple of cups of tea and took one through for him.

He looked up at me and smiled. I just put his tea down and said, “I’m gonna do a bit of work. If you want me I’m just down the hall, okay?”

He looked a bit surprised and said, “Oh, right. Okay.”

Then I left him to it. I was feeling angry and slightly humiliated but I didn’t want to show it. I didn’t want him to see that he’d had any effect on me.

I walked through to the computer in my sitting room and got back on replying to the e-mails I’d been working on before he came.

He left me a minute or so and then appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame and drinking his tea.

I looked up. “Yeah?”

He said, “Nice flat.”

“Thanks.”

He grinned at my monosyllabic response. Then his eyes wandered around the room, looking at the ornaments and the artwork.

He walked over to my bookcase and picked up a statue someone had brought me back from Greece. It showed two Athenian men apparently fighting but in a position which strongly suggested that they might be having anal sex.

He said, “I don’t think I could get into that.”

I was going to say something sarcastic like, “How fascinating,” but thought I’d end up looking like a drama queen. That he’d either think I was being petty and ignore me, or would get pissed off and leave me with a broken wardrobe.

So I was civil with him and asked, “Get into what… fighting?”

He shook his head. “Naah. Bum stuff.”

I said, “I don’t think they’re doing that. The Ancient Greeks weren’t into it, apparently…”

He nodded. “Yeah, but the statue’s meant to imply they might be.”

We didn’t say anything for half a minute or so; he just wandered around the room looking at anything with homosexual connotations, apparently intrigued.

Eventually, I said, “I thought you said that straight guys tend to be flexible about their sleeping partners…”

He nodded. “Well, like I said, I think most guys would enjoy a blow job no matter who’s giving it. Blow jobs are a limited currency; you take them where you find them. But I don’t think it would work for other stuff. And bum sex would be way too far…”

I was interested as to where this might be heading but still dubious as to his intentions.

I said, “So you think most straight guys wouldn’t refuse if I offered them a blow job?”

He laughed and came around to where I was sitting. He said, “Well I can’t speak for every single one, but I think the majority would be up for it… I mean, who in their right mind is going to say no to getting a mouth around his dick?”

He stood near me, his crotch level with my face, looking along the book shelf that was on the wall above my computer. Like before, I was aware of his faintly sweaty, masculine odour and had to admire the shape his cock and balls made in the front of his jeans; the large bulge they made as they pressed against the fly.

I looked back at the screen in front of me and muttered, “I guess.”

He pulled a book from the shelf. I glanced up and saw that it was a collection of photos of men being intimate together: not having sex, necessarily; mainly massaging and caressing each other; licking, kissing and biting parts of each other’s bodies.

It was a good choice. I couldn’t have recommended better viewing material for him if he’d have asked me.

He leafed through the pages, pausing occasionally when he saw something he found interesting. He didn’t say anything for a minute or so and I wasn’t sure how to break the silence. I still wasn’t sure of his motives. He seemed interested in something happening between us,

as he had earlier, but he might just be playing with me.

Eventually I said, “Well, maybe I should start making a few offers to straight guys. Sounds like it could develop into a pretty cool hobby…”

He laughed but out of the corner of eye I saw his crotch move slightly as if his cock had reacted to my suggestion.

He asked, his tone becoming more serious, “What would be in it for you, though?”

Again I wasn’t sure how far to take this. I just stared at the screen. If I offered myself up a second time and he backed off, I would feel utterly ridiculous. And he was easily the kind of guy who would do just that.

Eventually I looked up at him distractedly, like I’d been immersed in the e-mail. I said, “Uh… sorry?”

He laughed again. “No – ignore me. I was being nosy. I just had this idea – probably from stuff girls have said – that sucking dicks is really disgusting… that you’d have to have some kind of payback if you did it for a guy…”

I smiled. “To be honest, I’ve never found it even remotely disgusting… quite the opposite… so I wouldn’t be expecting any payback.”

He said, “Really?”

I nodded, noticing that the bulge at the front of jeans was becoming less symmetrical. The left of it was protruding more than the right side. His cock was developing in size beneath the blue material.

He put the book back on the shelf and walked a few paces away towards the door, taking a look at some of my other books.

He went on, “I hope you don’t mind me asking this kind of stuff…”

I said, “No. I don’t mind. It’s one of my favourite hobbies, so I know a lot about it.”

He chuckled and then asked, “So what do you actually like about it? I mean, is it the fact you’re giving another guy pleasure… or is it the taste or feel or whatever of the guy’s cock in your mouth?”

I looked up at him. He’d turned to face me again and was grinning, his face now looking a little red. He added, “If you don’t mind me asking…?”

I smiled and shook my head. “No, I don’t mind.”

I wondered how to answer. Whether to be coy and vague, or whether to give him full details.

I settled for the latter: “Erm… I guess the fact he’s enjoying it turns me on a bit… but I mostly like the feel of his cock getting harder in my mouth when I move my lips up and down it. The taste’s pretty good too: especially when I move my tongue over his bell-end, licking it and sucking on it.”

He stared at me, agog, and I noticed the lump to the left of his fly press outwards like it had swelled suddenly in its confinement.

I went on, “And I love the feel of his balls banging into my chin as he holds my head steady and fucks my mouth…”

I looked back at my e-mail and said, as if it was a totally casual question, “Do you think you’d ever want a gay guy to do that to you?”

He didn’t say anything and I looked over at him.

His face was a lot redder and his expression had become more serious, just as it had in the bathroom.

Then he sort of half-smiled and backed away from me.

He said, his eyes intense, “Well… I dunno…”

He walked backwards all the way to the doorway like he thought I was going to jump on him.

I shrugged. “If you don’t mind me asking…?”

He looked serious again and then said, “Actually… I’d better get on… I’ve another job after this…”

And he turned and disappeared up the corridor.

I stared after him at the empty doorway. This was a strange situation to be in and I wasn’t sure how to proceed.

His behaviour had convinced me that, contrary to my earlier presumption, he wasn’t trying to tease me. Nor was he a queer-basher.

He was straight guy who wanted to experiment but kept finding himself out of his depth. He clearly enjoyed talking about men having sex and was obviously fascinated by the fact that he had a reasonably attractive gay guy of a similar age to him in such close proximity. The anticipation of something happening between us was obviously exciting him.

It was when he was confronted by the reality of something happening between us that things became too much for him. He must have liked the prospect – his jeans had betrayed that fairly unequivocally – but his own fears were holding him back.

I returned my gaze to the screen, staring at it like it might hold some clues as to what I ought to do.

I didn’t want to do anything that would frighten him off, but at the same time I didn’t want to do nothing and to have him feel that I wasn’t interested in him.

I pondered various possibilities, considered several different approaches, hearing him sawing again and putting the wardrobe back together.

Then, after a couple of minutes. I got up and went through to the bedroom. He was kneeling on the floor, chiseling a square hole into the base of the wardrobe for one of the side panels to fit into.

I said, “Look…”

He looked up at me.

I went on. “Erm… if you want more tea – or anything else – just let me know. I won’t, like, force anything on you. But if you want something, just say and you can have it.”

He stared at me with an expression that verged on shock. I smiled to try and reassure him and, after a few seconds he said, clearing his throat, “Okay… yeah… thanks…”

I went back to the computer, wondering what he would do.

There was silence for about thirty seconds while he thought about what I’d said.

I thought, “Oh Jesus. He’s totally traumatised now. If that’s your best chat-up line, Thompson, then God help you.”

Then he started chiselling again and I returned to my e-mails. I felt disappointed but hadn’t seriously expected him to respond. This was too much for him. What had been an interesting diversion for him and his mates – jokes about how it would feel to have a gay guy suck you off – had proved to be a step too far when he’d been confronted with the reality of it.

So I got on with my e-mails, trying to ignore the sounds from the bedroom.

After about half an hour, he came back down the corridor and stood in the doorway.

He said, brightly, “One reconstructed wardrobe ready for use, sir.”

I was surprised. “Already?”

He held his wood chisel to his lips and blew sawdust from it. “Just doin’ my job, guv.”

I smiled and stood up. “Didn’t you need to get more wood or something?”

“No, it was all there. I just put it back together. It’s got a dovetailed frame now, though, so it’ll be a lot more solid.”

We walked down the corridor to my bedroom. The wardrobe looked exactly the same as it had before the collapse, but as soon as I opened a door I felt how much more sturdy it was.

He said, “You could lock about five of your victims up in that now. It wouldn’t budge…”

I smiled at him again. I liked his sense of humour.

He asked me for a dustpan and brush to clean up the mess but I told him I’d sort it out later.

Then he bent down to gather his tools back into his tool-belt and I checked out his broad back, sweeping down to his thin waste and solid, round arse. He had a beautiful body and I couldn’t help but feel slightly envious of his girlfriend.

He stood back up and hesitated before putting his tool-belt back on. He looked uncertain about something and I thought maybe he’d lost one of his tools.

But then he said, “Actually, I couldn’t quickly use your bathroom again.”

I nodded. “Yeah. Of course.”

He threw his tools down onto the end of my bed and walked down the corridor to the bathroom. I felt a bit embarrassed about his hesitation. He was obviously afraid I’d misconstrue his request and follow him in.

I expected him to close the door this time but he didn’t. And I was even more surprised when he started making conversation from the bathroom, drawing me into a dialogue.

He was saying, “You should be careful how you go with the wardrobe for a day or two. Until the wood glue dries.”

That made me smile. He was obviously over-compensating for being nervous, trying to prove that he wasn’t freaked out by the idea of being around a gay guy who’d come onto him.

I called out to him, “I thought you weren’t a fan of glue…”

He replied, “Well I’m not. But it helps make the joints solid.”

No sound of pissing. A few seconds of silence.

Then he called out, “Actually, you know that stuff you were saying…?”

“What stuff?”

“You know… about enjoying giving a guy a blow job and stuff…”

I walked to the bedroom door, unsure as to where this was leading. “Yeah.”

“Were you being serious?”

Still no sound of pissing. Just silence and him calling out over it. I said, “Yeah. I love sucking dicks… I think most gay guys do…”

More silence. He himself wasn’t sure where he was going with this.

After a few seconds he called out. “Would you think it was weird if I told you that the idea really turns me on…”

His voice was a little shaky. He was venturing into unknown waters here. I had to be careful with him.

I said, “No. Like you said, most straight guys would jump at the chance…”

“Yeah… that’s right… well I guess I’m one of them…” He chuckled nervously.

I walked to the bathroom door.

He was standing at the toilet with his cock out. This time it was enormous. He just held it out, pointing it at the toilet cistern, not much thicker than it had been earlier but lengthened and stiffened to seven or eight inches. His foreskin had completely retracted, exposing his red-coloured head, shiny and bulbous like a ruby.

He didn’t masturbate himself: he just stood there, his cock poking out from his fly, staring at my face.

I smiled and said, “Would you think it was weird if I told you I really want to suck your cock, Adam?”

He grinned and I approached him. He turned to face me and I gently put my fingers around his cock. He was breathing quickly.

I said, “Are you sure you’re ready for this…?”

His face became serious, his eyes staring intently into mine as if searching them for advice on what he should do. “I dunno… I wanted to try it for ages… but… I dunno…”

I smiled gently. “You can come around another time, when you feel more ready. It doesn’t have to be now.”

He kept staring at me and then shook his head. His eyes became resolute and he smiled again.

He said, “No, mate. It has to be now. If I go, I’ll lose my nerve. I’ll feel bad for going this far. It has to be now …”

I squeezed the thick stem of his cock firmly, feeling my own stiffen inside my jeans at the prospect of getting this monster into my mouth. He gasped and his cock pulsated in my hand, warm and hard as it lengthened even further.

I moved closer to him, smelling the masculine scent from his shirt, now mingling with the sharp sexual musk of his erection.

I unbuttoned his shirt, exposing his smooth well-defined chest with a small patch of short brown hair nestling in the ridge between his pecs.

Then I undid his belt and fly, pushing his jeans down a little and releasing his large balls from the front of his white briefs.

His cock looked even bigger now that it was exposed fully. It was probably the biggest I’ve seen on a white guy: maybe nine inches long at full size and so thick that my fingers only just touched my thumb when I held it in my palm. Despite its size it was beautifully proportioned: the dark red head and his tight round ball sac were correspondingly large and perfectly in keeping with the length and thickness of his stem. It was like most guys cocks would look if they’d been magnified fifty percent; it put my own seven inches completely to shame.

I moved my face close to his chest, inhaling the rich scent of his skin. I kissed at the little patch of hair between his pecs and then moved my lips over to his left nipple. I kissed it and played with it with my tongue, tasting the saltiness of his sweat and feeling how firm and smooth his skin was against my lips.

He pulled back a little but I kept going, carried away by how beautiful his chest was. I moved across to his armpit, pushing his shirt open, and nuzzled into the curly black hair at the top of his hard biceps. The air under there was moist and hot, thick with his sweat and testosterone. I inhaled it and licked it, tasting the smell of his body.

He didn’t seem to like it: he pushed me back from him.

I looked up at his face, fearing that he’d changed mind, but he said, “Just suck my cock, mate…”

I was breathing heavily, totally turned on by the smell and taste of his body, and I panted, “Don’t you wanna… you know… do this properly… get undressed… get into bed…?”

His response was quick and decisive. “No. I just want you to suck me. I don’t want anything else.”

I looked into his eyes, locked firmly onto mine. His expression was adamant; his eyes unyielding. I had either to suck his cock or to do nothing. There were no other alternatives.

I felt disappointed but I knew I couldn’t argue with him. He’d pull his trousers up and go.

I’d really hoped to get him into bed, to caress his body, to kiss parts of him his girlfriends wouldn’t touch and to massage him in ways he wouldn’t have experienced.

But the idea of doing anything beyond getting his dick out and having it sucked was too much for him. My suggestion of doing things ‘properly’ had been the worst thing to say: he definitely didn’t want to have proper gay sex.

I moved down to his cock, getting on my knees in front of him. His cock had softened and was drooping down a little: still enormous but hanging downward in the air, pointing towards my chest. He really hadn’t enjoyed me kissing his chest; I had gone way too far for him.

I nuzzled my face into his brown pubic hair, smelling the sharp sexy odour of his cock sweat. I kissed it and tasted it, feeling his cock brushing against my cheek and his large balls against my chin, but again he pulled back.

He repeated, “Please… just suck my cock…”

I looked up at him. His face was, like before, adamant. He said, “Just put it in your mouth and suck it, mate… that’s all I want…”

There was to be no tenderness; no preliminaries. Nothing which suggested that this was an act of anything other than passionless sex.

I adjusted my position so that his cock was right in front of me. Then I lifted the heavy drooping stem of it and held the dark red head to my lips. I licked it gently, tasting the thick salty ooze of precum around his slit.

I felt it respond immediately, swelling and hardening in my mouth, and he sighed in appreciation.

“Yeah… that’s it… just suck it…”

I moved my lips over the fat ripe head of his cock a few times, squeezing the stem with my fingers. It continued stiffening, standing upright again, and I had to stretch my neck upwards to keep up with it.

I gently masturbated it, kissing and licking the head of it as I worked his foreskin up and down its length, and he sighed again. I rubbed the tip of my tongue around on the underside of the head, teasing its most sensitive area and felt a gush of precum ooze out from his piss slit as his cock swelled to full size.

He moaned again. “Take it in your mouth, mate… as much as you can…”

I worked my lips down his stem, stretching my jaws as far apart as I could to accommodate his large girth. I managed to get four or five inches of him into my mouth before I felt like I was going to gag and had to withdraw it. Then I did it again and again and began to develop a rhythm.

I reached up and played with his balls, rubbing his lightly haired scrotum with my fingertips and gently toying with his egg-like balls inside it.

He groaned again and started moving his hips back and forth to gently drive his cock in and out of me.

I kept feeling and tasting his precum leaking into my mouth in intermittent surges. It was almost pouring out of him: I’d never known a guy to produce so much. I guess bigger cocks need to make more lube, but it hadn’t been something I’d been expecting. It was thick on my tongue and tasted sharp and salty. It made me salivate and I kept having to swallow.

I moved both hands around to his arse and pushed his briefs down to fully expose his firm round cheeks. He pulled back from me, pulling his cock out of my mouth.

I looked up at him, closing my mouth and licking the dribbles of his precum from around my lips.

He said, “You can play with my bollocks and hold my arse. But don’t go near my arsehole, okay?”

I nodded, again feeling disappointed. “Okay.”

“It would totally freak me out.”

“That’s okay. It’s your cock that I want, anyway. It’s fucking amazing. It has to be the biggest cock I’ve sucked…”

He grinned. “You like it?”

I smiled back. “I love it. It tastes fantastic.”

His grin became broader.

I thought I’d try something. I said, “Do you want to fuck me with it?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

I thought, “Wow!”

I stood up and he looked surprised. I explained, “I’ll get a condom from my bedroom…”

He looked a little confused and then, when he realised what I meant, shook his head quickly. “No… no… I don’t want to do that. Sorry. I thought you meant fuck your face.”

I smiled to allay his obvious shock. “No. I was kind of hoping –“

He interrupted me, shaking his head. “No. Sorry, mate. I can’t do that, there’s no way…”

I laughed, “Well I had to ask. Couldn’t miss the chance of having a cock like yours fucking me…”

His face softened. “You enjoy that? Getting fucked?”

I giggled. “Too right I do!”

I reached out and held his cock again, slowly masturbating it using the wetness of my saliva and his precum.

He said, “Maybe some day… but right now it’d be way too far… I’m surprised I’m even doing this, actually…”

I smiled at him. I loved the way he kept saying ‘actually’.

I got back down on my knees and reached around to his arse and held his cheeks.

He said, “No further, okay…”

I looked up at him. His face was tense again. “You can trust me, Adam. I’m not going to do anything you don’t like…”

He nodded, and the first time his expression changed to become affectionate.

He reached out and put his broad hands on either side of my head, stroking them through my hair. He said, “Go for it…” and guided my face back to his erection.

I started sucking him again, again straining my jaws open to get his cock inside me. This time I managed to relax my throat enough to get six or seven inches of him into me. He kept groaning in encouragement, sighing and gasping in appreciation.

What he’d said about his girlfriends complaining of his unresponsiveness during sex didn’t seem to figure. He was totally animated – grunting and panting; calling out to tell me to suck him faster or harder or whatever. Perhaps he felt more comfortable to do that kind of thing with another guy; perhaps he was enjoying what we were doing more than he usually enjoyed sex.

He started pulling my head onto his cock, trying to drive more of his length into me. I took what I could, opening my throat as wide as it would go to accommodate him. The swollen red head was banging against my tonsils; the gaping slit oozing and dribbling precum down my throat each time he thrust it into me.

I felt his hips bucking and the muscles of his buttocks flexing and relaxing as he face-fucked me.

He kept saying, “Yeah… yeah… take it…”

I was loving it. I pulled one hand off his arse and released my aching cock from its confinement. Then I started wanking it, my rhythm fast and frenzied as his much larger version slammed in and out of my mouth at the same speed.

I wondered what he was thinking of. Whether he was imagining that I was his girlfriend or another female; or whether he was thinking of me as a guy.

What he did next answered my question.

He must have seen that I was masturbating and he pulled himself out of me.

He looked down at me and said, “Stand up and pull your trousers down.”

I did so, pulling my trousers and boxer briefs down around the tops of my thighs.

He said, “Completely down.”

I yanked them down to my ankles and stood in front of him, panting, aware of how much smaller my erect cock and balls were compared to his.

I wondered what he was going to do. I thought he might want to try sucking me, but he paid no attention to my cock. He was looking in the mirror behind me, a large mirror above the bath, at my arse.

He said, himself breathing heavily, “Bend over and keep sucking me, mate…”

I bent down and went back to his cock but he said, “No… put your arse in the air… bend right over…”

Then I understood.

I stuck my arse out like I would if I was being fucked in a standing up position.

He said, “Yeah… that’s it… let me see it…”

And he grabbed my head again and started fucking my mouth as fast as he had before. He bucked his hips and slammed his cock in and out of me. I was almost choking but he kept pushing it further and further into my throat with each stroke. My jaws ached and my mouth was filling up with his precum and my spit but I took it.

He grunted, “Open your arse cheeks… let’s see your arse, mate…”

I reached behind myself and pulled my arse cheeks apart, showing him my cleft through the mirror.

His fucking motions speeded up and he started grunting. With difficulty I managed to swallow a couple of times, emptying my mouth of his copious juices.

He panted, “Let’s see your hole, mate…”

I pulled them wider, directing my arse upward so he could see it better through the mirror.

He was gasping and grunting like an animal, slamming his cock into my mouth while he held my head firm between his hands.

“Show me it… come on, mate… show me your fucking hole… lets see where you get fucked…”

I pushed my fingers into my cleft where my arsehole was, and pulled them open so that he could see my tight pink ring.

He literally pounded his cock into my face, calling out, “Lets see your fuck hole… lets see your arse…”

There was no doubt that he was thinking of me as a male at that point.

He cried out and started gasping as jets of hot liquid spewed out from his cock head and into my mouth.

He held my head firm and kept pumping it into me, filling my mouth with so much of his cum that I had to swallow five or six times in succession. It was shooting out from him in thick spurts, squirting against the back of my throat and escaping from my lips.

When his orgasm had subsided he withdrew.

I stood up and moved away from him.

I pulled off a few sheets of toilet roll and wiped my mouth. “I’m a messy eater,” I joked but he didn’t even look at me. His face was solemn and he concentrated on pulling up his briefs and jeans and fastening up his shirt.

I thought, “Oh shit.”

I said, “Do you want another cup of tea or something.”

He ignored my question and said, formally, “Who do I send the bill for the wardrobe to. You or your landlord?”

That threw me a little. I thought about it for a few seconds and then said, “My landlord, I guess. It wasn’t my fault it collapsed.”

He nodded and pushed past me to leave the bathroom as I was pulling up my jeans.

As he was putting his tool-belt on I asked him if he wanted to take my number.

He stared at me, his eyes cold and distant, and asked, “Why?”

“I dunno… in case you feel screwed up and want to talk to someone…”

He said, “You mean so you can have a repeat performance and fuck me up even more.”

I stared at him, slightly dumbfounded.

“No. I mean, so we can talk. If you want to.”

He sneered and walked towards the bedroom door. He asked, “Can I get past? I’ve got another job to get to.”

I let him past, unable to think of anything to say.

He walked down the corridor and called out. “I’ll send your landlord the bill, then. It’s between you guys who pays.”

Then he let himself out and slammed the door.

And that was the last I saw of him.

 

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