Butt Monkey
by Robert Furlong

 

Part 2: What Lurks Beneath

As I was getting into bed, Guy returned to the room chuckling that the lads had still been on their DS, which he’d confiscated.  “I know they’re getting a bit old to have their toys taken off them, but they’re gonna need to get some sleep if they want to enjoy the match tomorrow.”

Knowing Jake, I was quite sure he was already finding other things to keep him and his friend occupied.  My son always went to bed very much on his own terms.

Guy put the games console down onto the drawers and started hitching his jeans back down.  His cock, I noticed, was now mainly flaccid inside his briefs but the wet patch it had made when it had been stiff and leaking was still dark and sodden.

He looked over at me checking out his bulge and hitched the waistband up a little to show it off more prominently.

“Reached a verdict?” he asked casually, as if he was asking if I’d decided what time to set the alarm.  Considering we’d been discussing trading sexual favours, his tone seemed remarkably inappropriate.

I pulled the duvet over me and smiled at him.  “Yeah.  I’m gonna back out, actually.  Let’s just put what we talked about down to the strength of the whisky…”

He pulled his jeans off and tossed them to one side.  He smiled over at me without a trace of rejection or disappointment.  “Fair enough, mate.  No worries.”

He walked into the bathroom and stood, side-on to me, in front of the toilet bowl.  He pulled his cock out from his underwear and directed down towards the water.  It was still quite large and the purple head was protruding from his foreskin as a result of his earlier erection.  He started pissing – a thick yellow jet of liquid – and called over to me, “I might have to beat off before I can sleep.  Would that be okay with you?”

The question only surprised me in its directness.  He was so sexually tense I had assumed he would need some kind of release.  I’d just hoped he would be able to wait until he’d returned home so that I wouldn’t have to listen to him.

“Yes, of course.  Just close the bathroom door so I can get some sleep.”

He laughed, still directing the powerful stream from his organ into the water of the toilet bowl.  “I mean in bed.  Who’s ever heard of wanking standing up?”

“Don’t you ever do it in the shower?”

He looked over at me.  “No.  I have to be lying down.  Do you mind if I do it in bed?”

“I need to sleep.  How long will it take?”

His jet of piss subsided into a trickle and he squirted the last few spurts into the toilet.  He shook his cock and I noticed that it had begun to lengthen and thicken again at the prospect of being masturbated by its owner.  The head was looking redder as it swelled and fattened.

“I dunno,” he muttered.  “I’m not a big fan of it, like I said, so it can take a while.  And without any porn…”

He tucked himself back into his underwear and walked over to the sink.  Then he went on, as he squirted toothpaste onto his brush, “I managed to do it on the rig a few times without disturbing three sleeping men, so I can be pretty quiet about it.”

“Okay,” I agreed.  I couldn’t see that I had much choice in the matter.  Did men often have these kinds of conversations when they had to share a bedroom?  I’d shared with a friend of mine, Adam, the night before my wedding.  I didn’t remember having to discuss his masturbatory requirements after we’d drunkenly staggered back from the bar.

He brushed his teeth hurriedly and I clicked my bedside lamp off to show that I was hoping to be able to go to sleep quite imminently.

Having finished in the bathroom, he switched off the light and walked over to his bed.  He directed his own bedside light away from my side of the room making it gloomy enough for me to close my eyes and at least hope to be able to sleep while he attended to himself.

He said, “Sorry I need to do this, but I got so horny earlier talking about stuff which really shouldn’t made me that horny.  I think I must need to empty my nuts.”

I turned away from him to give him what little privacy I could, and said, flatly, “Goodnight, Guy.”

He said, “Goodnight, Rob,” and his mattress squeaked as he climbed into his own bed.

I must admit that his sounds of self-stimulation were very discreet and well-concealed.  Indeed, if he had not announced what he was about to do, I might have been blissfully unaware of the activity going on underneath his duvet and managed to nod off.  As it was, though, the knowledge that another man was lying in the same room as me pleasuring himself made me listen out for any sounds he might make; it was that, more than any actual sounds, which ended up keeping me awake.

At first, I was waiting impatiently for the tell-tale gasp of his orgasm, which would let me know that he’d finished so I could finally go to sleep.  I reflected that this must have been how my ex-wife had felt while she’d waited for me to ‘expel my seed’, as she’d so affectionately put it, as I’d lain in bed next to her tending to the erection I almost invariably developed at bedtime.

Early on in our marriage Linda had seemed to accept that regular sex was necessary for me and had allowed me to have intercourse every night before we slept on the proviso that I would attend to my morning erections while I was showering.  But after a while she’d said that such ‘nightly rutting’ was making her too sore, so she’d agreed to beat me off instead.  The first few times she had seemed quite keen on the new arrangement and had worked on me with gusto, using different techniques on my cock to bring me to my much-needed climax.  But soon her enthusiasm had waned and she began complaining that she needed to sleep and that she couldn’t see why my balls needed to be ’emptied so regularly’.  So she’d ended up lying there each night with her back to me, making her displeasure clear, while I’d tried to masturbate as quickly and quietly as I could, feeling embarrassed that my male physiology had given me such an apparently unreasonable sexual appetite.  Pretty soon I’d been relegated to the bathroom, and had ended up spending most nights squatting on the tiled floor with my pyjama bottoms around my ankles discharging the day’s pent-up semen over a couple of girlie magazines I kept behind the bath panel.

Now, as I lay there in the semi-gloom of my side of the room, I felt a modicum of sympathy towards Linda when she’d been a similar position but I also recognised that Guy had needs like my own and that I had to show more patience towards what his biology was forcing him to do than my ex-wife had towards me.

And so I didn’t make sighs and grunts of exasperation to hurry him along, as Linda had in my position, but rather lay there listening to him, focussing with mild interest on the sounds he was making as he tugged his foreskin back and forth underneath his duvet.  There was a steady rhythm – gentle and almost indiscernible from the beating of my own pulse in my ears – but easily recognisable to me, having made similarly discreet sounds in my own bed on many an occasion so as not to disturb Jake, sleeping in his room.  Then there was his breathing, growing steadily faster and shallower as his rhythm quickened and his pleasure intensified.  His mattress, too, would occasionally betray him with a few expressive creaks, perhaps when his elbow inadvertently rubbed against it or his hips give a few involuntary thrusts.

As I listened to him rubbing himself, his rhythm gradually intensifying and his breathing gradually quickening into short pants, I felt my own cock starting to lengthen and became aware that these private, sexual sounds from another man were beginning to excite me.

I rolled over onto my back and glanced over at Guy.

Aware that I wasn’t asleep and that he had no need to be quiet about what he was doing, he began beating his cock more powerfully, allowing his fist to make a recurring thumping sound against the duvet every time it reached the top of his cock.  In time with this was a wet clicking sound like somebody chewing gum.  I realised it must be his foreskin making moist smacking noises every time it swept across the head of his cock, wettened by the ooze of liquid weeping from the slit.

My cock continued to stiffen through the fly of my boxer shorts as I heard a second rhythm to Guy’s exertions: a rapid slapping sound which could have been his wrist beating against his hip or – and the idea of this made me reach down and wrap my fingers around my own stiffening member – his large pair of nuts thumping against his thighs.

Guy must have noticed the mound of my hand, touching myself beneath the duvet, because he called out, breathlessly, “Yeah!  Come on, mate – wank with me!”

My inhibitions lowered by the whisky, I acceded to Guy’s command and started to beat myself under the duvet, my wrist making a gentle beating noise against it in time with Guy’s more powerful rhythm.

He called out again, “Yeah!  Go for it!” and then I saw him push his duvet away right off his bed so that he could stroke himself in the open air.

With his bedside light directed onto the wall next to him, I saw Guy’s outline mostly in silhouette.  His body was tense and his chest was heaving.  His wrist swept up and down the length of his large, curving cock in a fast, rhythmic motion.  The head of it was fat and engorged and the wet clicking noises made by his foreskin against its sticky surface sounded louder and clearer.  His balls protruded upwards in a slightly odd way: I then realised he’d tucked the waistband of his briefs underneath them when he’d started masturbating.

I could smell it quite distinctly: the sharp, musky tang wafting from his oozing cock-head as his foreskin swept back and forth across it and the thicker, more acrid, odour from his balls.  It was an unmistakably sexual scent, heavy with sweat and testosterone: the unrefined smell of male masturbation.

I found it surprisingly arousing and inhaled it deeply as I lay stroking myself.  It was a powerfully masculine odour and yet it was strangely exciting to me.  I increased my rhythm on my cock, pumping myself more quickly and more firmly as I sniffed at the sharp bite of Guy’s cock in the air.

He turned to look at me and called out, between gasping breaths, “Push your bedding off!  Show me it!”

At first I was reluctant to do so, but my excitement overcame me and after a minute or so I revealed myself to him.  Pushing my duvet away, I let him see me jerking my cock through the fly of my boxers in the half-light on my side of the room.

He peered over at me in obvious surprise.  He must have assumed my reluctance to flash myself at him at every occasion, as he had with me, arose from my shortcomings in the trouser department.

The fact is, though, that I am very well-endowed, both in terms of the length and girth of my penis and the distended size of my testicles; so much so that I’ve always been self-conscious about exposing myself.  My mother had told me when I was growing up that large genitals were something to be ashamed of and so for many years I had tried to hide my size and had felt awkward when I was circumstances dictated that I had to be naked among other people.  It was bad enough to have been an early developer and to put up with my classmates’ staring between my legs in the school showers in fascination each week watching my testicles grow steadily to the size of plums and my scrotum sprout a forest of dark, wiry hair while their pea-sized equivalents remained practically hairless.  For a while my nickname became ‘Furballs’ – a crude corruption of my surname ‘Furlong’ – much to my discomfort.  But once my development had really taken off a year or so later, it was mortifying to have them point and giggle at my lengthening penis which looked more and more like an elephant’s trunk hanging between my legs during each weekly shower while theirs barely made a bump in their underwear. Within a short time my name had been further corrupted into ‘Footlong’, a jibe which had me blushing and hiding my face whether it be hurled at me on the sports pitch or across the maths classroom.

These days, while I wasn’t so embarrassed of being well-built and knew that many people appreciated a large manhood, the hangover of shame from my youth still made me very reticent about revealing my genitals to anyone, both male and female.

Guy laughed and called out, still beating himself, “You’re a dark horse, aren’t you, Rob?  You hid that pretty well!”

His reaction gave me confidence and I smiled back at him.

He went on, “It’s always the quiet ones who have pythons stuffed down their trousers!”

I’d never had it called a python and I liked the analogy.  I changed position slightly so that he could better see it, and more fully admire its length and thickness. I hoped, too, that he might enjoy the distinctive odour of my cock as I masturbated it just as I was appreciating the strongly male scent that his was exuding.

He sniffed a couple of times, though whether it was to savour the waft of pheromones from my cock as I stroked it or whether he was becoming breathless from his own exertions, I don’t know.

I, for one, was relishing the intensifying stink that was gathering in the room.  I’d always enjoyed the strongly sexual smell of my own masturbation and now, with two of us in the room exposing our erections and rubbing them vigorously together, our collective odour was twice as intoxicating.  I could feel the thickened shaft of mine hardening to full stiffness, lengthening to its full enormity, in the building excitement I was experiencing.

My only concern – and it was a very distant one – was that one of our sons might, for whatever reason, come tapping at our door.  The sharp reek of our cocks would make it unmistakable to another male what the two of us had been doing: I would hate for Jake or Simon to wince at their dads’ masturbatory stink; to grimace, knowing that the cloying odour in our room came from two men who had been pleasuring themselves together.

Nevertheless, we lay like that for a minute or so, enjoying our communal masturbation with an almost fraternal intimacy: watching each other’s hands stroking up and down, and enjoying the sensation of being watched.

I was intrigued by the way that Guy’s technique differed from my own.  He was stroking himself using two fingers and a thumb on his organ; I had my whole hand wrapped around my organ.  He kept his legs closed pushing his scrotum upwards between his thighs; I kept my legs widely apart and let my much larger balls settle between them, gently slapping against my thighs with the rhythm of my hand.  His cock sounded wet and sticky as he wanked it and the ooze from its head lubricated the sweepings of foreskin; mine was much drier and I needed to lick my fingers occasionally to moisten the head.

Aside from those few differences, however, our techniques were largely similar and our rhythms well-matched.  Guy stared at my cock and I stared at his as we did exactly the thing Guy had told our sons not to do a couple of hours earlier.

Abruptly, Guy leapt up from his bed and came over to mine.  He stood next to my bed while I, still stroking myself, stared up at his manhood standing upright next to me.  A string of clear sticky liquid dribbled from the end of it onto my pillow.  The smell from his cock, his balls and perhaps his underpants too was mouth-wateringly strong.

“Suck it,” he commanded.

“I dunno, Guy.”  I was enjoying masturbating with him and finding it surprisingly arousing, but –

“Suck it.  Please,” he implored.

He reached down for my cock and pushed my hand away from it.  He grabbed it quite roughly in his fist and started hurriedly jerking my foreskin back and forth.  In spite of his uncouth technique, it felt good to have another person’s hand on my cock after so much time.  I gasped my appreciation.

“I’ll wank you off as long as you like…” he pleaded.  “I’ll do anything with it… just suck me.  Please.  I need it.”

I looked at his cock, still pounding with anticipation and dribbling clear fluid onto my pillow and, pained by his desperation, I nodded.

He grabbed it with his free hand and directed it downwards towards my face.  In spite of its hardness he forced it down at such an angle that I was sure it must hurt him, but he was so eager to get it into my mouth that he must have been oblivious to the discomfort.

I leaned up from my pillow and tentatively licked the sticky, swollen head of it.  The taste was unremarkable – salty, a little bitter – but I was almost overwhelmed by his powerful odour.  It was so much stronger than the scent which had wafted over to me when he had been masturbating – it made that almost pale into insignificance.

His smell up close was somewhere between the rank odour of sweat and the sharp stench of piss, but with more to it than that: a stronger, sexual aroma from his pores, reeking of musk and testosterone.  In spite of how cloyingly intense it was – and how potently masculine – I found it captivating and what I had thought would be a few reticent licks of his cock-head quickly intensified into a full-on fury of slurping and gagging as I took as much of his engorged organ into my eager, gasping mouth.

He pulled away from me, his cock springing upright again.  “Steady on, mate.  You’ll bring me off!”

I looked up at him, for the first time feeling lust towards another man.

“Let’s do this properly,” I said. “Take your underpants off.”

He yanked his briefs down his legs urgently, and kicked them off onto the floor.  His cock arched upwards and his balls dangled downwards, the left one hanging rather lower than the right.

“Get on me,” I ordered him.  “Straddle my face.  I want to lick your shaft, your balls…”

“Yeah?” he said, looking at me stupidly.

“Yeah,” I stated. “I’ll lie here.  You get on me.  Cock in my face.”

He looked like he was out of his depth and muttered, “What about me wanking you?”

“That doesn’t matter.  Just straddle my face.”

He climbed onto my bed and hunched over my chest, moving his throbbing cock and now free-hanging balls towards my face.  As he did so, I got another whiff of that intoxicating odour from them and my own cock throbbed so hard it rose upwards from my stomach; I was more aroused that I had been in a very long time.

Again he directed his cock downwards into my mouth, and I gave him a minute or so of what seemed to be an enjoyable blowjob – one male administering oral stimulation to another.  I took as much of his length down into my throat as I could and lapped strenuously at his fattened cock-head with my tongue.  The more I licked at the head, the harder it throbbed and the more copious the ooze of salty juices from its puckered slit as he thrust back and forth.  He grunted contentedly and held my head, using my mouth as a substitute for the pussy he so desperately wanted.

But my interest was focussed on other things: I wanted to sniff his balls, his pubic hair, the wiry hair between his legs and… what else?  My longings, I recognised, weren’t those of a heterosexual man making do; I was fascinated at a basic, purely sexual level by this large excited man whose cock I was dutifully servicing with my mouth and I wanted to take in as much of his hairy, smelly maleness as I could.

I pulled off him and, catching my breath, said, “I want to suck your balls.”

He muttered a bewildered, “Yeah…?”  And I realised I was fully in control of this situation.  He would do what I wanted him to.

He pushed his bollocks into my face, large and heavy like golf balls inside his furry, wrinkled scrotum and I pressed my face into them, inhaling their musky odour which was more powerful and intense than that of his cock.  Again, I felt overcome with lust, all too aware that to me this was a novel and entirely homosexual form of desire but unable and unwilling to resist it.

I took his right ball into my mouth, rolling it around on my tongue, and pushed my nose into the mass of hair at the base of his cock.  The taste of it was sharp and bitter: the sweat from a day of being confined inside his briefs and an occasional dribble of piss from his cock as he tucked it away after urinating.  Guy started masturbating again, and his rhythm shook the bed we were on and made the headboard thud against the wall.

I relished the sensation of having his testicle in my mouth – the seat of his maleness – and of sniffing the sweaty, sexual odour at the base of his thick shaft.  I released and it took his left into my mouth.  It felt larger and, hanging lower in his scrotum than his right, I could take it further into me.  It tasted more strongly of piss and I wondered if this was the testicle his cock-head was more liable to rest against when it was inside his underwear.

I spat it back out and pulled back from him, gasping.  He stopped masturbating, and looked down at me through the gloom, as though waiting for me to deliver my next command.

I started licking at the base of his cock and he with withdrew his hand from himself completely, allowing my mouth to progress upwards along his shaft.  I worked my way up the thick ridge which ran down the underside of his cock – I’d never noticed anything so prominent on my own – enjoying how he’d keep saying “Yeah!” to encourage me, no doubt hoping I would continue sucking him when I reached the top.

I was absurdly aroused – one touch to my aching, throbbing cock and I was certain it would explode in orgasm – but I wanted still more from him.  But what?

I reached the top of his cock with my mouth and, pleaded by him to take it back into me, I sucked it again, feeling amused by how easy it was to excite him and how quickly he began grunting and thrusting into me.

Sex like this seemed straightforward, and perhaps more enjoyable for being so.  I had always found lovemaking with women to be fraught with the danger of misinterpretation – subtle signs I was supposed to notice but hadn’t; certain rituals I was supposed to perform but didn’t.  And yet sex with a fellow man seemed free from these shackles: we were simply doing what gave us pleasure without concern for some hidden, unstated subtext.  It made me feel, for the first time, quite liberated in the bedroom.

I grabbed Guy’s buttocks with my hands and kneaded them through the fuzz of hair which covered them.  They felt muscular and firm and I was impressed by the manliness of his arse.  I massaged their hard roundness as I sucked his oozing, pounding cock, feeling deep into the moist hairy crevice between his buttocks and working my fingers lower and deeper towards… towards… the place I realised I wanted to be.

I pulled back from his cock.

I wanted to say something to him but I was afraid of how it would sound; how he would take it.  The sober part of my brain was screaming at me to stop: what the hell was I thinking of to even consider asking another man to do this?

But, as Guy looked down at me, impatient to know why I’d taken my mouth off his cock for a third time, I realised that, no matter how shameful it might sound, I had to say it.  The compulsion was simply too powerful to resist.

“I want you to sit on my face, Guy.”

Again, a stupid-sounding, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.  Sit on my face.”

He misunderstood me and pushed his balls back into my face but I moved down on the bed, going lower, sniffing the hair at the base of them and licking the acrid, salty sweat from it.  He struggled to move with me, trying to keep my face on his scrotum and away from his most concealed, most intimate area.  I moved still lower, though, licking the ridge behind his balls and relishing how his odour became cruder and more pungent as I worked backwards, my face plunging still deeper between his thighs.

He muttered some warning and kept trying to match my movements: “Careful, mate!”  Like I didn’t know where I was headed; what I might find.

I was intoxicated with excitement at what I was smelling and tasting and at the prospect of what might be ahead.

He gave another warning: “You don’t wanna go back there!”

And now I called out to him: “Squat your arse over my face, Guy.”

He finally seemed to realise that my descent through his legs, along the sweaty, sticky ridge behind his balls and towards his anus had not been an over-enthusiastic accident on my part.  He seemed to understand that, if he allowed me to go deeper between his legs than I was already, I was not going to emerge spluttering in revulsion from what I might taste or smell between his cheeks.  He recognised that this was something I wanted and, perhaps for the first time, that this most secretive area held its own undefinable sexual appeal.

He made one last check, though, perhaps still suspecting that there had been a misunderstanding between us.

“You sure you want this?”

I said, with as much command as I could muster: “Squat over me, Guy.  With your arsehole level with my nose and mouth.  That’s what I want.”

He gave a cautious half-smile and said, uncertainly, “Okay…”

And he lowered his backside down onto my face as I’d ordered him to.

At first he was careful.  He held himself above me, slightly out of reach so that whatever it was I wanted I had to work for.  He was, I assumed, giving me a chance to change my mind and to withdraw.  Take a few sniffs and then pull out from under him; both of us feeling embarrassed but especially him.

But I went in undeterred.  I pushed my face between his firm, round buttocks and inhaled his most private and delicious scent.  The smell was funky, I’ll concede, but it was at the same time spine-tingling at a basic, animal level.  I pressed forward into the tangle of wiry hair in his hot moist crack, feeling them chafe at my nose and tickle my lips.  I extended my tongue and licked deep between his cheeks, warily at first and then, finding myself further aroused by the taste of his sweat mixed with something more raunchy, with a mouth-watering eagerness verging on hunger.

Gaining in confidence, Guy began to lower himself down onto my face.  He opened his legs further to give me better access to his arse cleft and I felt the rhythm of his masturbation resume as he started to enjoy the sensation of another man’s tongue sliding between his buttocks.  His heavy nut-sack started slapping against my forehead as his hand worked at his cock.

I heard him say, his voice gasping, “Yeah!  Jesus, yeah!”  The sound was muffled from his thighs which pressed into either side of my head.

I pushed my tongue deeper between his coarse, hairy arse cheeks and found, with the tip, the puckered ring of his anus.  It felt much bigger than I expected it and I licked around it, making broad circular motions.  Its taste was intense – base and filthy – and yet my cock throbbed painfully in its extreme state of hardness at what I was experiencing.

I heard Guy call out, “Fuck yeah!” and I kept licking at him, circling his hot, slimy hole with my tongue like a dog would.

He pushed his arse down further, opening his legs to expose more of his crack to my face, and I forced my tongue upwards against the ring of his anus.  It opened – ever so slightly – to allow me to enter.  Guy grunted and called out, “Keep going, mate!  Yeah, that’s it!”  He was trying to part his legs still further, grinding his backside down onto my face.

I forced my tongue into his hole, tasting the hot, muggy gunge inside, and started darting it in and out of him.

I had always enjoyed lapping at a woman’s vagina with my tongue, but this male variation was incomparably different.  The smells and the tastes were obscene and exhilarating in equal measure, and the simple fact of where I had my face – wedged between the buttocks of this big, excited man – was, for some reason, powerfully arousing.

Guy began slamming his arse down onto my face.  I rolled my tongue into a hard rod and fucked him with it, going deeper with each thrust and tasting the powerful stink of his rectum more strongly.  The rough, heady odour between his buttocks was almost overwhelming in its strength but I inhaled it still more eagerly.

I had never felt such sexual ecstasy.  I didn’t question why I was so aroused by having my face pressed into another man’s rear, by having my tongue licking in and out of a part of him I would ordinarily consider vile and repulsive.  That could come later.  Now was the time just to accept and enjoy it.

The whole bed was shaking by now from the exertions of Guy’s hand up and down his cock and from the rhythm of him banging his backside down onto my eager face. The mattress springs were squeaking in time and the headboard was hammering against the wall.  He was calling out, “Give it to me!  Put it in me!”

I could take no more: I needed release.

My hand quickly found my desperate cock urgently throbbing from the fly of my boxer shorts.  I jerked it two or three times before it exploded in a spray of semen up Guy’s back, soaking his t-shirt in a splattered white arc all the way up to his neck.

Guy felt it and quickly pulled away from me, raising his arse from my face.  The air of the room seemed cool and deliciously sweet after the rank, bawdy heat of his arse-crack.

He moved back a bit and directed his cock towards my face, still wanking it furiously.  I reached up and licked at its now red and angry-looking head, my desire still strong in spite of my climax.  Guy started cumming and I enjoyed the taste of his semen, hot and salty on my tongue as I lapped it up.  His climax seemed to last an absurd amount of time: he continued to stroke his cock, like he was milking it, and semen kept squirting from it and I kept feeding on it for maybe half a minute.  Eventually, though, his balls became drained of their pent-up load and his eruption subsided.

He climbed off me and, to my surprise, laughed energetically.

“You just about soaked my t-shirt!”

He started pulling it off and then laughed again.  “Jesus – you even got it in my hair!  I haven’t been able to shoot so high since I was about fifteen!”

I was amazed he could be so jovial after what we’d just done.

He took a sniff of his cum-spattered t-shirt and said, “Phwoar!  Your spunk doesn’t half stink!”  Then he threw it into his rucksack and turned to me, naked and smiling.  His chest was covered by a luxuriant growth of thick dark hair.  I had always admired a hairy chest and had been disappointed that my own was virtually smooth save for a patch of short wispy fuzz between my pecs.

He said, chuckling, “For a quiet guy you sure have few surprises in you.  Most women won’t even lick my balls, never mind go back as far as you did.”

Stumbling over my words, I started saying, “Look… I…”

But he interrupted me with another laugh and said, in a silly-sounding voice which I assumed to be from some TV show or a film, “Rob likes it nasty!”

He started pulling on his discarded blue briefs.  His cock was still mostly hard and a small pearl of white liquid was hanging from the slit.

I started again, “Guy, I’m sorry.  Things got out of hand there.  I mean…”

But he interrupted me again, tucking his cock into his briefs with difficulty and smearing the semen onto the material of them: “I told you before, mate.  We did it, we enjoyed it.”  He smirked over at me: “I don’t know about you but I really enjoyed it!  Nice to try something new!”

His cock now back in place in his underwear, he got back into his bed.  “But like I said earlier, now we forget it.”

Glancing over at me, he added, “Thanks, mate.  I needed that.”

I didn’t reply.  I was feeling too shocked at my conduct to know what to say.  I’d been licking his arsehole, for God’s sake!  I’d had my tongue up his bum!  What the hell had come over me?

I got up and walked over to the bathroom.  As I switched the light on, Guy switched his off and settled down to get some sleep.

As I was washing the smell of his backside off my face, I heard him snoring.  The combination of the drink and the sexual release had evidently knocked him out.  Good for him.

I stared at myself in the mirror while I cleaned up the solidifying semen from my softening cock.  Sucking him off would have been bad enough, but to go as far as I had… what had I been thinking of?

I rinsed my mouth to try and get rid of the lingering, acrid taste of his anus and then, turning the light off, went back to bed.

I tossed and turned for a while, mulling over what I’d done and, perhaps more significantly, wondering why I had enjoyed it so much, and managed to nod off sometime in the small hours.

***

Guy was just getting out of the shower when I awoke in the morning.

He emerged from the steamy room towelling his hair, naked and clean and with his chest hair making swirling patterns on his wet skin.  His soft cock flopped around between his legs, now rather pathetic looking in spite of its substantial size, and his balls looked even more asymmetrical with the left hanging considerably lower than the right.

He said, brightly, “Good morning!”

I muttered, my voice deep and grating, “Morning, Guy.”

“You want some coffee?  They’ve left us some sachets and stuff.”

He walked over to switch on the little kettle and prepare our drinks and I looked at his backside, still wet from the shower and with the hairs between his buttocks sticking to his skin.  I thought: “I had my face pressed into that last night.  I was actually licking his hole.  Licking inside it.  How could I have done that?”

And yet, beneath that, I could feel that the desire I had felt so strongly the previous night was still there, on some primitive, carnal level.  I wanted to be disgusted with myself – was perhaps willing myself into self-revulsion – and yet the sight of Guy’s backside, so firm and round, caused this hitherto unknown attraction to reveal itself again.

Might I want to do it again?  I imagined getting up from the bed and walking over to Guy, kneeling down behind and applying my face, my mouth, to the damp hairy cleft between his two round cheeks.  Licking around the wet puckered ring of his anus as he tore open sachets of coffee and sprinkled them into the chipped hotel mugs.  I wanted to feel appalled at the thought but instead I felt… what did I feel?

He would taste of shower gel, of the shampoo which had foamed down his back and into his arse cleft as he washed his hair.  He wouldn’t taste of himself as he had last night and I knew that would disappoint me.

Now I really was appalled, but at myself.

He turned to me.  “How do you take it?”

“Uh?” I grunted.

“Your coffee.”

“Oh right.  Milk but no sugar, please.”

I got out of bed and pulled off my t-shirt and shorts, planning to hit the shower while Guy made the drinks.

Guy turned to me and looked at me naked.  I felt a little skinny, perhaps even lanky, in front of his large, toned body, and all the more naked for being practically hairless.  Our cocks were both floppy but mine was much thicker and hung a couple of inches lower than his, my foreskin barely able to cover the fat mushroom of my cock-head.  I was uncomfortable to be naked in front of him, even after what we’d done together, but our differences in shape and size were, in their way, quite appealing.

He said, “About last night…”

Walking over to my holdall to pick up my shampoo and shaving kit, I said, “I thought we were going to forget about it, Guy.”

“We will,” he nodded.  “I just wanted to say that, if you ever fancy doing it again…”

I looked up at him.  “Again?”

He smiled.  “Yeah.  We both did what we needed to do and it was… you know… pretty good.  So if you fancy having another session… maybe take it a bit further…”

I was surprised.  Was he suggesting what I thought he was?

“How do you mean,” I asked, “‘Take it a bit further’?”

He laughed, “Well I don’t mean long walks in the sunset and candlelit suppers, mate!  I just mean… you know… like last night.  We do stuff we both enjoy and see where it leads.  We might not have a pair of tits or a pussy between us, but we’ve already found out that we can have a lot of fun with the bits we have got.”

Pulling my toiletries out of my bag, I glanced at him and saw that he was gawping over at my bare backside, making no attempt to disguise his interest.  I suddenly felt as if my bum was very exposed in its nudeness and was very self-conscious that he was checking it out in such a sexual way.

Was he actually suggesting that I might let him bugger me?  An image of us naked on the bed together sprang into my mind: me on all fours with him squatting behind me; his knees around my abdomen and his bollocks slapping against my thighs; the two of us panting and sweating as he held onto my shoulders; the sounds of his hips against my bum splitting the air like a slow applause.  The idea that I might actually concede to such a thing with another man was abhorrent on every level.

He smirked as I stood up to face him, adding, “We just need to… you know… experiment a bit… find a few positions we both like, just like we did last night…”

I shook my head.  “Sorry, Guy, but I don’t think so.”

He shrugged and turned back to fill the cups up with steaming water from the kettle.  He went on, “Well never say never, as my old gran used to say.  Give it some thought and if ever you feel like you need a… you know… give me a shout.”

“It’s really not likely…” I said firmly, making it clear that this was an end to it as far as I was concerned.

Still reeling from his proposition, I walked into the bathroom and closed the door, immediately becoming aware that behind the light floral scents of Guy’s shower gel and deodorant was a leftover odour from when he must have used the toilet.  Unlike the alluring smells and tastes of his backside which had excited me so much, this odour, though faint, held no erotic appeal.  Whatever sensual qualities his arse possessed which had turned me on so intensely, I was relieved to discover that the smell of what came out of it wasn’t one of them.

As I was taking my razor and foam out of my shaving kit, Guy called out, “I’ll probably be next door when you get out of the shower.  Trying to wake the dead.”

I hesitated, shaken by the sudden realisation that my son and his friend had been in the adjoining room when Guy and I had been in the full, noisy throes of our sex.  The sounds of their two fathers getting roughly physical together would have been unmistakable.  The rhythmic creaking from the bed, the gasping and grunting from the two of us, as well as the explicit masturbatory pounding of our fists would have awoken even the deepest of teenaged sleepers.

I opened that bathroom door again and said to Guy anxiously, “What if they heard us?  We were making a fair bit of noise…”

He smiled.  “I’ll say it was just a joke we were having… I mean, it’s exactly the sort of prank we were talking about playing on them.  I’ll say I can’t believe they were stupid enough to fall for it.  Turn the tables on them.”

I nodded, pleased that he had a story up his sleeve but doubtful that they’d buy it.

I said, “Tell them I wasn’t too comfortable with it, but you were very persuasive.”  That way Jake would be more likely to believe him.

Guy grinned and said, “One part of me seemed extremely persuasive… not the part I expected, but there you go…”

I felt my cheeks flush a little and then closed the door to take my shower.

 

Next chapter: Guilty Pleasures

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