Long Load
by Oliver Jennings

 

Lads from Long Load have long loads.

Or at least, that’s what I’ve always found.

Long Load is what the sign by the roadside calls a row of a few grey houses strewn out along one of the windy, muddy lanes between Somerton and Martock. It’s so small you could hardly even call it a village; in fact, you’d probably never notice it unless you had some kind of business there.

But the three guys I’ve known who came from Long Load all had one thing in common: the loads between their legs were almost longer than the row of grey houses they came from. I’ve sometimes wondered if it might be a genetic thing or maybe something in the water, but no-one else seems to have spotted the same anatomical connection. I once joked about it with a girlfriend but she just looked at me strangely and said, “What are you on about now, Ol?”

So I guess it’s just sheer chance that the three most exceptionally lucky guys in the trousers department I’ve met all happened to have come from the same tiny neighbourhood. Bizarre.

The first guy wouldn’t have been memorable if it hadn’t have been for the others. My few encounters with his cock were restricted to the forgettable clowning around that eighteen and nineteen year old guys get up to after a sixth form rugby game. The sort of stuff the twelve of us would, individually, know better than to get ourselves into, but which seems so funny in the adrenaline-rush in the changing rooms after a game.

Throwing each other into the bath; groping each other beneath the water. Whose balls are those? Must be Johnson’s because they’re like a couple of peanuts. (Fuck off, you wanker) Whose arse is that? Must be Conway’s because it’s like a fuckin’ monkey’s. (Yeah, and you’ll know for sure when I make you kiss it…)

The usual kind of stuff.

And amidst all that, this guy Greg would show off his prize cock. He’d swirl it around, like a helicopter blade, or play at being a grandfather clock, swinging it slowly like a great pendulum.

We’d all look on at him, laughing, all knowing how envious we were of the monster between his legs. It was larger in its flaccid state than most of us could hope to be erect. It must have been seven or eight inches.

And once, with it making an obscene bulge in the front of his briefs, one of the guys said, “Hey, Greg. You should nick the sign from the village where you live and stick it on the arse of your briefs…. warn people who are trying to overtake you…”

Someone didn’t get it and grunted, “Uh?”

And Greg beamed and replied, “Yeah… Long Load. Too fuckin’ right…”

The long load in the tight white confines of his underwear bulged outwards further, swelling slightly as it usually did when it was enjoying the attention.

Another time, when Greg was showing us that he was able to fuck himself (although he repeatedly emphasized that he would never, ever want to) by stretching his cock beneath his legs so that its tip touched his arsehole, someone said, “Thank God you don’t get a hard-on in here, Greg. You’d have someone’s eye out…”

Greg muttered, “Men’s changing rooms have never been my thing, funnily enough…”

The other guy went on, “Yeah, but the amount you play with it in here. If I touched mine a tenth of what you touched yours, it’d be stiff as a board…”

Greg smirked. “I’m doing you guys a favour by keeping it soft, believe me. If you saw this thing at full mast, you’d weep…”

For an eighteen year old rugby player, the guy had an almost unheard of amount of sexual control.

But onto my second Long Load cock.

This one belonged to my Uncle Paul who lives with his wife and baby daughter in one of the first houses on the left as you enter the village from Martock.

Paul and his wife drive over to stay with my parents every New Year’s Eve. He and my dad like to get pissed together and nine times out of ten end up repeating oft-heard stories from when they were boys while everyone around them look bored and depressed.

It must have been when I was twenty or twenty-one that I stayed home for New Year’s Eve. Since my early teens, I’d always gone out with my mates from school or, later, from Uni, but that year, for some reason, I decided to stay at home. Maybe I was broke or something. So I got to listen to Paul and my Dad’s stories and was surprised at how seven years abstinence had made them a lot more amusing than I’d remembered.

The part that I want to tell you about, though, happened the morning after – on New Year’s Day.

Everyone in our house gets up late on New Year’s Day, sleeping off the previous night’s excesses, but I woke early and went to take a shower.

While I was in there, Uncle Paul walked into the room.

That in itself was nothing unusual. I’m one of three brothers, with no sisters, and the four men in the house have, through necessity, become used to being around each other in the bathroom. Privacy is a luxury our small house can’t provide, at least among the males living in it. So there’s an unwritten rule that the bathroom door isn’t locked by any of my brothers or my dad and that while we’re in there, any of the other men in the house are free to come and go as they please. Our mother has her own rules, of course, and one of them is that when she’s in the bathroom, the door is securely locked and bolted.

I suppose I was a little surprised that Uncle Paul, being a guest in the house, would just wander in, but he muttered something like, “Don’t mind if I take a piss, do you, Oliver?” And I grunted my assent.

Then he pulled out this mammoth cock from his white boxer shorts. It was even longer than Greg’s had been: maybe nine inches or so. It was soft, but looked firm and solid like he’d been at full-mast in his sleep and was rapidly losing it.

He held it using his full hand: all four fingers and his thumb, like it was a hose. He withdrew his foreskin a little, exposing the pink bulbous tip of its head, and directed down towards the toilet.

Before the first squirts of yellow piss shot from it, he turned to me and grinned. I realised how obvious it was that I was staring at his cock.

I muttered, “Sorry… I just…”

He started pissing, the first few splashes becoming a steady stream, and smiled more broadly. “I know… it often has that effect…”

I laughed, relieved that my checking him out wasn’t a big deal to him. “It’s kind of… impressive…”

He laughed back. “You can tell I’m from Long Load…”

Then I remembered Greg and momentarily wondered if there was more to the connection than just the repeat of the pun.

I continued washing myself, aware that he was looking down at my cock as he continued pissing into the toilet bowl.

I said, “I wish I took after you…”

He smiled. “Yeah… I bet you do… but it looks like you definitely take after your dad on that score…”

I pretended to be offended. “Hey! Just ’cause it’s not hung like a donkey, it’s still got a few good tricks up its sleeve…”

He looked down and finished off his business, shaking the last few drops from his huge cock. “Yeah, I’m sure it has… but I don’t suppose you can… er…”

He left the sentence hanging, apparently having second thoughts about completing it.

I said, “What?”

He tucked his cock away and the wet tip made a small damp patch on his shorts, just above his left thigh.

He grinned sheepishly. “Your dad knows about this, but no-one else. This is between you and me, Oliver…”

I nodded, repeating, “What?”

He smiled. His cock moved downward inside his shorts as it continued to soften, threatening to flop out from the left leg.

He said, “When I was your age, in fact up until my late twenties, I could get it in my mouth… it’s that long!”

I laughed, simultaneously amazed and amused. Uncle Paul sucking his own dick! “Jesus!”

He laughed at my expression. Then he went on, “I probably still could. I’m only thirty-three… some guys can still do it in their fifties…”

I laughed again. “How do you know? Are you, like, in a club or something?”

He smiled and shook his head. “You’d be surprised how much you can learn from magazines like ‘Cosmopolitan’ which your auntie leaves lying around…”

I’d finished rinsing myself and so turned the shower off. He passed me a towel and I stood drying myself.

I said, “It must be so cool doing that… I mean, you’d never need a girlfriend…”

He grinned. “Yeah… it’s pretty good…”

“How d’you do it?” I was eager to learn as much as I could; I was instantly hooked on the idea. I’d heard about it before, of course, but had always thought self-fellatio must be something very rare and unusual.

He smiled at me. “One of these summers, if you’re up for going camping like we used to a few years ago, I’ll show you. If I can still manage it…”

And the next summer, we did just that. I learned a lot more about Uncle Paul than how he managed to suck his own cock; I learned that, just as I was beginning to appreciate in myself, his natural tendency was to form relationships with women but he would also enjoy having occasional sex with men. And, as far as the latter was concerned, I learned how good he was at it!

But I’ll leave that story for another time.

I’d better tell you about my third encounter with a long-loaded guy from Long Load because that’s what this story is supposed to be about. This one happened just a couple of years ago, making me twenty-five.

The guy’s name was Richard and he came to the house I was sharing with my girlfriend to install satellite television. Nicola was out at work and I’d arranged with my boss to stay at home for the morning, writing up a few reports while I waited for the Sky TV van to pull up outside.

Richard was about my age, maybe a little younger, and, while he was polite and pleasant, he seemed unwilling to indulge in anything more than vague, general small-talk. I offered him a cup of tea which he gratefully drank down in almost a single gulp, but his main priority was obviously to get on with the matter of fixing up the dish and wiring the cables through the wall into the house. He had a lot of jobs on that day, he said, and it was clear that he was eager to get through them as quickly as he could.

I felt a little disappointed: not just because his body, like mine, was nicely built and his manner was rough and natural (always enormously attractive to me), but because I detected the slight possibility that he might be gay, or more likely bi, and I was interested to see if he fancied postponing his next house call by an hour or so.

Things didn’t go too well at first, though. He just wasn’t interested in conversation and my offer of more tea “or maybe something more” was flatly rejected. He went to use the bathroom but he shut and locked the door, and my question, when he emerged, about whether he wore jeans beneath his overalls or whether he found them too inconvenient was answered with a curt, “I wear jeans, mate.”

The morning brightened up, though, when he was testing that the receiver was working properly, with me sitting next to him.

It seemed to be doing everything it should and he flicked through a few of the myriad of channels to show me, briefly, how it worked.

“…Channels starting three hundred – those are your movies. Then from four hundred: that’s sport and music. Five hundred is news and documentaries. Sciencey kind of stuff… Then six hundred…”

I rapidly lost interest as his voice droned on.

But my attention was recaptured when he reached the nine hundreds.He said, “That’s adult stuff… Playboy Channel. That kind of stuff…”

He flicked through a few, giving a brief flash of naked flesh – invariably attached to female bodies – before switching up to the next channel.

I was surprised. “I can watch adult stuff?”

He smiled. “With your subscription, no. But I put my viewing card in to test the system and everything’s unblocked on it. If you wanna see channels like this with your card, you’ll have to subscribe to them…”

He continued flicking up through the broad array of girlie channels, the extent of which I hadn’t suspected existed.

I asked, “How much is a subscription?”

He laughed. “I’ve got you interested now, haven’t I? I should be on commission!”

He kept his thumb pressing the button, grinning at me, giving me a little longer to glimpse at each of the channels on offer.

He went on, “I dunno… it varies… some are a tenner for a night’s viewing…”

“What… for a single channel?”

He nodded.

“For a single night?! I’d want a month for that…”

He laughed again. “It don’t come cheap! At least not the quality stuff…”

Suddenly he flicked onto a channel which had two naked men on it. Almost instantly he changed it to the next, once again heterosexual, channel.

I called out, “Whoa… go back… was that a gay channel?”

He flicked back. “I dunno… yeah… it looks like it…”

He kept it on that channel. I mentally noted the number. 967. The men were fondling each other’s cocks which were semi-erect. One was kissing the other’s neck.

I said, “Wow! I had no idea that kind of stuff was on here…”

He turned to me, “You interested in gay stuff then?”

I shrugged. I wasn’t sure how to answer. His eyes were warm and friendly but he might be intimidated by the idea of a guy finding sex with other men attractive. He might even turn violent. He looked like he could get the better of me in a physical fight, although I’m fit enough to look after myself, but he could hardly do that to a customer, could he? One phonecall from me to Sky TV and he’d be suspended immediately. We both knew that.

He stared at me, waiting for a response.

I shrugged again. “Yeah. Kind of…”

He said, “But what about the woman you live with… your wife or girlfriend?”

Even though I hadn’t mentioned Nicola, it was obvious I lived with a woman because her stuff was all over. Her shoes stacked on the rack in the hall; her clothes were out drying on the line in the garden.

I smiled. “Yeah… she’s important. But… well… I guess, variety’s the spice of life…”

He smiled back, nodding. “Yeah… I can go with that…”

We both turned back to the television, watching as one man worked his way down the other’s body, clearly heading for giving him a blow job.

Then Richard said, “You ever go to Cartgate?”

“Where?”

“Cartgate. It’s a picnic area on the A303 near Yeovil. There’s a gents toilet there that’s pretty notorious…”

I shook my head. “No. Can’t say I have.”

I didn’t know why he was asking. Was he trying to lure me into a police trap or something?

But then he said, “I do. Not often. But odd times. When I fancy a change. Know what I mean?”

I turned to him and grinned. “Yeah. I know exactly what you mean.”

I looked down at his crotch and saw that he was developing a very impressive bulge from watching the two men on the television.

I said, “You fancy a change now?”

He looked hesitant. “I dunno… my next job’s in twenty minutes…”

“You could say you were held up…”

He still looked uncertain. “I can come back at five… maybe a bit earlier.”

I shook my head. “Nicola gets in around then. She knows I like to play around with other guys a bit, but I don’t think she’d be too happy walking in on us…”

He nodded, clearly disappointed, and then looked at his watch.

After a few seconds thought, clearly being mentally pulled one way and then the other, he said, “Just a quickie, then. Half an hour. If that’s okay, mate…”

I nodded and smiled. “Yeah.”

Then I stood up and he did the same.

“Better go upstairs,” I suggested. “Don’t want the neighbours talking…”

And so he followed me up to the spare room.

As he took his overalls off he asked, “Do you like fucking?”

I nodded. “Yeah. It’s kind of the best part for me.” I unbuttoned my shirt. “What about you?”

“I’m not a big fan of getting fucked, I must admit. I can’t get into it. But I love to be the one doing the fucking. If you wanna fuck me, I have to fuck you, okay?”

I was straining in my briefs just listening to him. I nodded again. “Yeah. Whatever you want…”

As he pulled off his shirt, I asked, “Where are you from?”

He unbuckled his belt. “A little village over near Martock. You might not have heard of it. Long Load…?”

I turned to face him, my trousers down to my knees and my cock making a church spire in the front of my pale blue briefs. “Yeah I’ve heard of it.”

I walked over to him and unzipped his jeans. He was wearing a pair of red checked Joe Boxer shorts beneath them. His cock made a fat, thick rod inside them, pointing diagonally upwards towards his left hip.

As I pulled it out through the fly, admittedly with some difficulty, I muttered, “If I’d have seen this, I wouldn’t have needed to ask you…”

It wasn’t as large as Uncle Paul’s had been – Richard’s cock was about the same size erect as Uncle Paul’s had been at half-mast – but it was still far larger than average.

After pulling his almost hairless balls out through the fly – I love to feel them whacking against my chin when I blow guys off – I fed hungrily on Richard’s cock. He moaned his approval and pleasure and held my head to encourage a rapid, forceful rhythm.

In the event, in spite of his earlier insistence that he was staying for a ‘quickie’, Richard stayed for a couple of hours. I reminded about his next appointment after an hour or so but he said, “Fuck it,” and kept doing exactly that to my arse.

After we’d sucked each other’s cocks a few times, we undressed entirely and lay naked on the bed together. As we hugged and caressed one another, feeling our cocks intertwining together just as our bodies were, I muttered how good it felt to be with a guy for a change.

Richard nodded and said, “Girls are great, but it’s good to be like this too, sometimes. It’s so different…”

He was right. It felt wonderful, at least occasionally, to press my chest against another muscular chest; to feel strong arms around my back; to have another cock nuzzle insistently against mine; to cup firm, hard buttocks in my palms. And to smell the familiar but subtly unique smells from another man’s body: thick, raw and masculine – totally unlike anything I would experience while having sex with a girl.

I rimmed him deeply and aggressively, masturbating myself as I did so even more furiously than he was. When I’d finished, and was lying back on the bed gulping for air, he said he didn’t enjoy doing that to other guys, so he sucked me for a good five minutes while I lay back savouring the strong, pungeant flavours from his arse on my tongue.

Then we broke the mood a little by getting down to the mechanics of condoms and lube. I staggered off to the bathroom to see if I had any left from my last encounter while he fished through his wallet trying to find a couple which he said he knew were in there.

Eventually we found we had five in total and so we put them to good use over the following hour and a half in one of the longest fuck sessions I’ve ever had with another guy. Richard spent most of his time on top, the preference he’d indicated at the beginning, but offered himself as a willing – albeit uncomfortable – mount for a couple of ten minute sessions in the middle.

We tried each other in every position and every variation that afternoon. Richard found that he preferred it when I was on all fours on the edge of the bed with him standing on the floor behind me; I preferred the two of us standing up, him bending forwards with one foot on the ottoman, me upright behind him gripping his hips as I banged away at him.

But in the end we both came while I was riding his cock, with him lying on his back on the bed. I played with his hairless chest, drawing circles around his nipples, and stroked his tight belly, feeling the grooves of the muscles lying just beneath the surface. He gasped, “I’m gonna cum…” and I increased my rhythm, bouncing up and down on his cock so quickly it would look farcical to anyone watching us.

His balls bobbed around, hitting the cleft of my arse with each slam I made, and his cock swelled to an even larger size inside me. Then he started whimpering as his balls emptied themselves into the condom.

I started masturbating my own cock which had been swaying stiffly around above his chest, expecting his orgasm to subside and for him to want to withdraw. But it didn’t and so I kept going, sliding my arse up and down along his length and realising that my own climax was far closer than I had expected.

Even as I started cumming, I could feel his cock still twitching inside me as the last few dribbles of cum oozed from the head. He’d been going for about a minute!

As we cleaned up it became clear that, while we were both comfortable about what we’d just done, neither of us wanted to suggest exchanging phone numbers. I offered him another cup of tea, half-heartedly, and he declined it, unnecessarily reminding me that he had a lot of other jobs to get to.

I happened to notice that the condom he’d been wearing as he’d climaxed was almost brimming with his semen as he went to discard it. I made a joke of it: something like, “Looks like you haven’t had sex in a while, mate.”

But he just shrugged like he didn’t know what I was talking about and muttered, “Last night with my girlfriend… why?”

I said, “Sorry… nothing…” and then I began thinking if maybe I’d spotted another Long Loadian trait.

As we walked back downstairs and I showed him out, I wondered whether lads from Long Load, as well as having long loads, also produce long loads. Unfortunately, I haven’t had enough experience of them to know, yet, but when I do, I’ll let you know.

 

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