by Robert Furlong
Part 7: Adam and Steve
A few months after Linda had left me, when it was becoming clear even to me that my ex-wife wasn’t coming back, I’d signed up to become a member of a couple of online dating sites in the hope that I might yet meet my soul mate. The endeavour had proven largely fruitless as the women who responded to my ad would either turn out to have an aversion towards children-from-a-previous-relationship or would behave in weird ways that couldn’t be dispelled as merely eccentric.
Needless to say, since I’d been looking at galleries of male rimming on the internet, I had all but stopped perusing the pages of women looking for dates and had given up on checking my mailbox to see if anyone wanted to meet up with me.
In any case, my own profile rarely got any takers. For a start, my picture looked like the sort of mug-shot they show on the news when the police have managed to infiltrate a paedophile ring. Coupled with that, my interests made me sound far too boring and I figured my new-found hobby, while acting as an eye-catcher, might not attract the sort of woman I was after.
Nevertheless, a few weeks after the trip to Liverpool, I logged into one of my accounts and found that I had a message from a woman who was a couple of years younger than me, recently divorced, lived local-ish and, as a rare bonus, didn’t sound like she might be barking mad.
She was called Debbie and she suggested that we might e-mail each other for a while to see how well we got on before deciding if we wanted to meet up.
It was a positive step – more positive than anything else that had happened to me in the romance stakes recently – and I agreed at once.
In the weeks which followed, Debbie and I established an amicable e-mail friendship. Her letters were usually just three or four paragraphs long, but her style was witty and her observations sharp, and I found myself chuckling at the stories she told me about other staff who worked with her at a veterinary clinic. For her part, she said she enjoyed my e-mails in which I rambled on about stuff that had happened to me at work or with Jake; indeed, I was thrilled when she revealed at the end of one her letters that she looked forward to finding a new message from me in her inbox.
In spite of enjoying the distant attentions of a female for the first time in over a year, however, my thoughts kept returning to my newly-discovered interest in my own gender; or, more specifically, in one particular part of them. It felt odd to go from reading an e-mail from Debbie, with a warm tingle of anticipation as to what might happen between us, to open a new webpage and trawl through screens of thumbnails of men being intimate together and feel a different sort of tingle in a more physical place.
It felt odd, and yet not odd enough to stop me doing it.
My visit to the library had elicited many more references to rimming across a much broader sweep of books than I could ever have anticipated. In spite of my lack of success with the librarian in the storeroom, I had at least emerged from it wondering which, rather than whether, other men in my acquaintance might share such a base attraction. Could my fetish – I could now accept it as being that – be more widespread than I had suspected? Perhaps it was something that lots of straight men fantasize about but few will admit to – the way that some men are sexually interested in their wives’ clothes and others have a thing about wearing leather.
I began to wonder if Adam, my long-time friend and former schoolmate, could be concealing a smouldering desire to get his face stuck into my backside when we occasionally met up for a pint. Or whether Steve, a guy I sometimes played squash with, was secretly checking out the back of my briefs in the changing room after a game, wishing he could stick his nose into the sweaty material between my buttocks. It was comforting to speculate that every ordinary-looking guy I knew might share my newly-discovered fetish, but I rather doubted that any of them really did. None of them ever showed the vaguest interest in me sexually – not even a furtive glace at my backside if I gave them an opportunity – and yet I found that I started to dwell on theirs, especially late at night as I played with myself in bed as quietly as I could so as not to disturb Jake in the next room.
Ever since Linda had left, my masturbatory fantasies had revolved around fairly mundane female imagery: the breasts of the girl in the sandwich shop who sometimes smiled at me; Jake’s hot-looking Biology teacher who always fondled her hair as she talked to me about his work; the new secretary at work with the most amazing legs. I’d construct scenarios about how I might get into bed with these women and what we would do together as I stroked myself through the fly of my pyjamas.
Since Debbie and I had started exchanging e-mails, I would sometimes try to fantasize about meeting up with her and where things might lead between us.
And yet, try as I might, I now found that often couldn’t even maintain my erection if I tried to restrict my thoughts to the opposite sex. I began to allow myself to relive what I’d done with Guy and then, by a natural progression, to explore what I’d like to do with other men who I knew. As well as Guy’s backside, my thoughts would turn to those of some of the men I worked with and the fathers of some of Jake’s other friends, and I’d enjoy imagining how their arses might look based on their build and how hairy they seemed.
But most often I would fantasize about Adam and Steve, whose backsides I didn’t need to invent because I knew full well how they looked.
Over the thirty-odd years I’d known Adam, I’d seen him naked on many occasions from our embarrassed dashes into the school showers through to when we used to go swimming together in our twenties. The most recent time I could think of was when we’d shared a room the night before my wedding, where he’d acted as my Best Man. I remembered noticing, in a disinterested way back then, how hairy he’d become since our school days when he’d slept with his back to me in his single bed, his duvet thrown askew so that his arse was exposed, albeit concealed within a saggy pair of briefs.
Now I regretted missing the opportunity to explore his backside as he’d slept off the pre-wedding booze-up. Obviously, at the time the idea would never have occurred to me and if it had I would have been both revolted and confused. But now it provided fuel for my nocturnal musings, reawakening my slumbering cock between my fingers after female-orientated thoughts had softened it.
Lying in the bed I’d once shared with my wife, I would imagine creeping up and kneeling alongside Adam’s splayed-out body in the hotel room, and leaning forward to sniff the crevice between his buttocks through his stripy briefs. I’d use my own underwear, discarded after a day’s wear, to help me imagine what Adam’s might have smelt like, nuzzling my face into the material where it had been riding upward so intimately close to me.
I’d sniff the sweaty odour on the damp material which had been between my legs, imagining it had seeped there from the raised hairy ridge behind my friend’s balls. Then, while my hand gently worked up and down the hardening length of my cock, I’d work my way back from the gusset and relish the stronger, richer odour behind it. While I knew this was the smell of my own arse – a not uninteresting fragrance, I have to confess – I’d be telling myself that this was how Adam’s backside would have been; that I was really inhaling from where his cheap-looking briefs had been pushed upwards by his trousers to caress his moist, puckered hole.
This was really the smell of my Best Man, if only I’d sneakily sniffed him as he’d gently snored that night before my wedding day.
Stroking myself more quickly beneath my duvet and rubbing my large hairy balls with my other hand, I would imagine easing his underwear to one side so that I could lick his moist hairy cleft, allowing the heady, pungent taste to guide me to his small, puckered anus. I would lap at his hole as if feeding from it, and imagine him pushing himself towards my face, unwittingly enjoying being gently entered by my warm, wet tongue in his drunken sleep.
If that wasn’t enough to bring on my climax, I’d move on to imagine Adam waking up and, laughing about letting me enjoy one last night of being a bachelor, ripping off his briefs. I knew full well that in reality Adam would be mortified to find that I’d been violating him in such a way in his sleep, but in my imagination he would willingly bend over on all fours so that I could rim him properly, egging me on to tongue him deeper while he roughly wanked the erection which the ministrations of my mouth had brought about.
Or sometimes I’d imagine Steve’s arse, hot and wet after a game of squash, with its hairy cleft exposed as he bent to take off his boxers before hitting the shower. With only the two of us in the changing rooms, he’d turn to me, still bending, and with a sly grin would say, “I know what you want… I’ve seen you checking me out… go on, Rob… lick it clean…” And I’d kneel down behind him and push my face towards his powerful odour, sweaty and rank in my nose and on my tongue.
By now I’d be beating my cock as fast as I could, my other hand holding the duvet up like a tent so that I didn’t make a thumping sound against it. With the fantasy of having one or other man’s arse in my face – my nose being tickled by his wiry anal hair and my tongue French kissing his acrid puckered opening – my cock would soon be spewing its pent-up liquid either into a hastily grabbed tissue or otherwise onto my pyjamas.
And then I’d lie in the darkness, feeling the chill of my sweat on my forehead and smelling the strong odour of my spent cock from beneath the duvet, and wonder with disgust what I was becoming.
I was curious to know whether our brief encounter had had any lasting effect on Guy. I’d see him occasionally, picking Simon up from college or at a parents’ event, but I kept well out of sight in the background, unsure as to how I would respond if he were to speak to me.
I wondered if he, like me, had relived what had happened between us when he masturbated and had fantasized about doing it again. Whether he’d found himself thinking about other men sexually, as I had, and what he’d meant in the hotel room when he suggested that we might ‘take things further’ in the future.
It would have been a simple matter to get Jake to mention to Simon that I wanted to meet up with his dad for a drink sometime. And yet, as much as I enjoyed the fantasy of repeating what had happened between us, I didn’t feel ready to actively seek a sexual encounter with another man.
I suppose it’s strange that I felt like this because if Guy had sent a message through Jake to suggest we meet up, I’d have agreed to it in an instant. We’d have both known why we were getting together and where it would likely lead, and as long as he was the one instigating things, I’d have willingly – enthusiastically, probably – gone along with them.
But for me to be the one to approach another man for sex – no matter however well I dressed it up and couched it in euphemisms, it would still feel wrong.
One evening in late October, just after the clocks had gone back, I was having a drink with Adam after work. We were chatting together and something – maybe it was some joke he made – brought to my mind the recurrent fantasy I kept having about rimming him on the night before my wedding. With him sitting in front of me, smiling and talking, I felt a sudden pang of guilt that I had been thinking of him in that way.
When he got up to go to the toilet, I glanced over at him walking across the pub from behind, and found my eyes inexorably drawn to his solid, round buttocks. I was captivated by them, bobbing around in his dark grey work trousers which were tight enough to reveal an occasional hint of the hem of his briefs. I realised that my cock was slowly lengthening inside my trousers at the sight of Adam’s arse and then I felt even more guilty. I shouldn’t be thinking of him in this way; shouldn’t be playing out fantasies about him.
And yet, that night, in spite of my best efforts, I couldn’t get the sight of Adam’s trouser-clad buttocks out of my head as I stroked myself in bed. I tried desperately to think of other things – fought with my cock to get it to respond to some fantasy about the barmaid in the pub or a woman I’d seen on the bus – but in the end I gave into my real desire.
Adam was in a toilet cubicle in the pub and I had my face buried into the back of his trousers. He’d worn them a few days and the smell of his arse was distinct on them. I imagined pressing my nose deep into him, low in his crack and right where his hole would be, and inhaling. In my bed, I used the hand that wasn’t working my cock to reach between my legs, to push aside my heavy scrotum and extended a finger into my hot, hairy arse-crack. I drew a couple of circles around my puckered anus and then gently eased the tip of my finger into the moist hole. I slid it in and out a few times, feeling my cock stiffening and stroking it more quickly, and then brought my finger up to my nose to sniff it.
Yes – that’s how Adam’s arse would smell. Raw and dirty.
I was overwhelmed with excitement as I eagerly inhaled the smell of my own backside on my fingers. My cock swelled to a seemingly impossible hardness and I realised I was grunting as I roughly wanked it, my fist pounding like a drumbeat against my duvet.
I dimly heard Jake get up to use the bathroom but I didn’t care that my bedroom door was ajar and that I’d probably woken him. In my heightened state of sexual ecstasy, I was unable to quieten the noise I was making, and it didn’t bother me that my bedsprings were creaking frantically like a rocking chair.
I was imagining Adam unbuckling his belt and hitching his trousers and briefs down to expose his naked arse to my face. My face was between his firm, round cheeks and I was inhaling his most intimate, most masculine, of smells – the same as the intoxicating odour on my own fingers. My forehead was wet with sweat and my armpits were dripping as I literally hammered my cock against my bedding.
With a couple of low gasps, I started cumming in copious spurts, surprised that such a powerful climax had managed to take me without warning. Even as Jake flushed the toilet and returned to his room, my fist continued its rhythmic beat against my duvet as I pumped squirt after squirt of semen from my twitching cock, panting for breath until both the outpouring and intensity of my orgasm had subsided.
Afterwards, as I lay there soaked with sweat and recovering my breath, still with my fingers at my nostrils, it occurred to me that at some point masturbation would no longer be enough. I was going to need a real man’s arse in front of me.
And I wondered again about arranging to meet up with Guy…
The next morning, Jake made some comment over breakfast about not being able to sleep too well and threw me a rather accusatory look.
Blushing slightly, I muttered, “Oh yeah. Sorry about that.”
I’d always encouraged openness about masturbation between the two of us, having experienced years of shame about doing it during my own adolescence, but we were normally both very discreet about it.
He shrugged. “It’s just that I’ve got a Chemistry test today.”
I apologised again. I felt embarrassed that I’d let myself get so carried away that I’d awoken him with the sounds of my climax.
He said, “It’s okay. I guess it happens sometimes.”
I smiled. This was Jake being all-grown-up about it.
“It was selfish of me, though,” I admitted. “It won’t happen again.”
“Maybe you should close your bedroom door,” he suggested.
I nodded. After Jake’s mum left, I’d taken to leaving my bedroom door ajar so that I could hear him at night. It seemed that darkness brought to the surface the hurt he managed to conceal during the day and I’d go to comfort him when I could hear he was upset. He was, by now, well beyond needing my attentions at night, so perhaps it was time to start closing my door again.
As he finished off his breakfast, I considered asking him to mention to Simon that I’d like to meet up with his dad again. But I couldn’t bring myself to. It was one thing to fantasize about what had happened between the two of us, but quite another to orchestrate a second encounter with the sole intention of it leading to sex.
I’d have to make do with my imagination and my hand – albeit more discreetly – for the time being.
My discomfort about waking Jake with my noisy orgasm went a lot deeper than just the embarrassment of having my son hear me climax. After all, I’d heard orgasmic grunts from his bedroom on more than one occasion and I was sure that, in spite of the great efforts I made to masturbate as quietly as I could, he must have heard me gasping in pleasure once or twice.
I suppose I was disgusted with myself that it had been the excitement of sniffing my own arse on my finger, while imagining the smell belonged to another man, which had brought me to such a state of sexual abandonment.
Not that Jake could know that, of course. But I knew it and that was enough.
I started to wonder if maybe, though, the intense arousal I’d experienced held its own significance; whether, perhaps, I’d inadvertently stumbled across the key to understanding the fascination which had grown inside me since the night with Guy.
One of the books in the library had suggested that an interest in rimming might be borne from a desire to break taboos: the act of putting one’s face near someone’s bottom eliciting sexual excitement because of being so contrary to our accepted codes of conduct. This had struck me as over-simplistic when I’d read it, and what had happened the previous night served only to support that view.
It seemed, instead, that my fetish might have developed as an offshoot of my interest in the smells of my own body. It might just so happen that Guy’s smells had been sufficiently similar to my own to trigger the intense erotic response which I’d experienced.
I was quite reassured by that hypothesis: it couldn’t be natural to be disgusted by one’s own body smells – one had, after all, grown up with them. It therefore stood to reason that some people might find such smells attractive.
I remembered the first few times I’d masturbated in my early teens: how fascinated I’d been by the smell and taste of my own semen; how I used to like to see if I could shoot it into my mouth when I climaxed. In time, my cock grew long enough for me to reach down and lick the head of it as I wanked it, as the sharpness of the odour from its swollen head was so sexy to me. Perhaps that explained why I’d found the powerful scent of Guy’s cock and balls so arousing.
And since I was so turned on by the smells of my genitals, it wasn’t so far-fetched that I would also be aroused by some of the cruder and more carnal smells of my body – even those of another man whose body happened to secrete similar odours to my own. Once I’d discovered that such an unexpected sexual interest had lain dormant inside me for so long, it was inevitable – surely – that I’d seek out information about it on the internet and that my imagination would cook up an array of masturbatory fantasies.
I was greatly consoled by this line of reasoning which cast me merely as a man with a healthy interest in his own biology rather than as some filthy pervert who liked to sniff and lick other men’s backsides.
I began to believe that, if I really had applied my face to Adam’s backside in the pub toilet, as aesthetically attractive as his buttocks might have seemed from afar, I would have been appalled by the reality of pressing my nose between them. No doubt his odour, being different from mine and from Guy’s, would have been rank and offensive to me.
I had to admit that men’s backsides looked appealing – they weren’t that dissimilar from women’s breasts, after all – and so, in my current lack of female company, I figured that I’d built up a bizarre fantasy about them, fuelled by pictures on the internet and my own over-creative imagination.
It had to be purely fantasy – didn’t it? – surely there could be nothing more to it. I mean, I was getting aroused at the thought of putting my mouth on another person’s arsehole: the part of the body used for shitting to put it at its crudest. And even more bizarre, the arseholes which were the object of my attentions belonged exclusively to other men – a gender towards which I’d never previously felt even a glimmering of sexual attraction.
Of course it was just some slightly sordid fantasy which I’d developed! After all, its origins could be explained completely rationally.
But within just a few days my new-found belief in the normality – innocence, even – of my fetish was shaken so badly that it put paid to all my attempts to explain it in such simplistic terms.
It happened one evening when Steve and I played squash together after work, as we sometimes did when Jake was having his tea at his mum’s. After the game, we stripped out of our sweaty sports kits before Steve would take a shower and I would get dressed – I always cleaned up at home as I didn’t like having to stand around self-consciously naked in the big tiled communal shower area at the sports centre.
As we undressed, I stole a few glances at Steve’s bum after he’d taken off his boxer shorts. This was now pretty commonplace for me when the changing room was empty and I was sure he wasn’t looking. I enjoyed admiring his backside – his cheeks were round and pert and he had a thick forest of sweaty hair nestling in his crack – and I knew it would form the basis of my masturbatory imaginings in my bed that night.
But I had now convinced myself that, as pleasant as his arse looked and how enjoyable it would be to fantasize about rimming him, my interest in it was purely aesthetic. The smell of him down there – especially after a day at work and the rigours of a squash game – would be foul and repellent to me.
Of course it would!
Steve hung his white shorts up with the rest of his clothes on a peg and, grabbing his shower gel and shampoo, walked over to the communal showers which were behind a screen. Pulling down my own shorts, I marvelled at how attractive he looked from behind as he walked away from me; Steve was tall with a naturally athletic build and the beauty of his pert backside was quite breathtaking. That evening, I’d probably imagine him squatting over me, beating off his very large and excited erection as I licked at his hole. Of course, I’d never seen Steve with a hard-on and I suspected, from the modest size and shape of his flaccid cock, that his erection would be pretty average. But in my fantasies he would be so aroused by me working my tongue into his anus that his cock would lengthen and thicken to well beyond its normal size and would tower above me as I rimmed him, oozing copious strings of dribble onto my forehead as he stroked it.
Smiling at the prospect of enjoying a good tug that evening, I tucked my own sweaty underwear into my holdall, pulling out a fresh pair ready to step into, and happened to glance at Steve’s discarded boxer shorts hanging on his. They were inside-out and it was obvious from a couple of faint stains that it was the back of them which faced outwards.
Here was my chance to prove to myself that the smell of another man’s arse – except for that of Guy for whatever reason – would disgust me. Even the thought of touching another male’s discarded underwear was distasteful to me, in spite of the regular contact I had with Jake’s sometimes luridly-stained boxer-briefs when I came to load up the washing machine at home.
Checking that Steve couldn’t see me from behind the screen and that I really was alone in the changing room, I grabbed his boxer shorts from his peg. There were dried yellow stains around the fly where he’d dribbled after taking a piss and I tentatively sniffed at these. They smelled unmistakably of his urine, but the cutting sharpness was combined with the thicker odour of his pubic sweat, especially where his hairy nuts had rubbed against the material.
The smell of Steve’s genitals was distinctly different from mine, and also very different from Guy’s powerful, strongly masculine odour. Steve’s sharper scent was not unappealing – in fact, it was quite attractive in its own way – and I was surprised that the thought occurred to me that sucking Steve’s cock and licking his balls would be not be unpleasant. Evidently, my enjoyment of male sex on the internet had given me an appreciation of what was to be found in the front of a man’s underwear as well as in the back.
I looked again at the backside of the shorts, recoiling a little from the slight discolouration and a few stray curly hairs along the hem from where they must have ridden up into Steve’s arse-crack during the day.
After checking again that I was alone – the prospect of being caught standing naked in a male changing room sniffing at the rear of another man’s undies was not one that I relished – I raised the back of the boxer shorts to my nose and inhaled.
Just as when I’d sniffed at the smell of my own backside on my fingers as I’d masturbated in bed, the odour of Steve’s arse had an instant and almost overwhelming effect on me. The smell of his bum was only faint but it was so distinct and so different from my own that it immediately got my heart thumping and my head reeling. I inhaled it greedily, running my nose along the length of the hem and enjoying the slightly richer anal smell about two-thirds down from the waistband. My cock hardened rapidly to a full-on erection, exposed in all its enormity by my nakedness.
I heard a couple of men walking from the squash courts into the changing room, talking and laughing after their game. I threw Steve’s shorts back onto his peg and dashed across to the toilet stalls to conceal my very obvious excitement.
From the safety of a cubicle, I peered down at my throbbing erection, my foreskin slowly retracting to expose its swollen, pulsating helmet. There was no more trying to persuade myself that my interest in guy’s arses was just aesthetic, or a substitute for female breasts or any other excuse I could think up. Just a whiff of Steve’s crack had made my cock stiffen faster than I could ever remember it, and had sent me to the privacy of a toilet stall to avoid breaking the first rule of male changing room etiquette: no public erections.
I quickly realised that my hard-on was not going to subside of its own accord: the faintly pungent smell of Steve’s backside was fresh still in my nose and was making it ache for attention. I started gently masturbating it, hoping I could quickly bring it to climax into the toilet bowl in silence.
Jesus Christ! Was this what I had reduced myself to? Sniffing underwear and jerking off in the toilet like some overly-randy sixteen-year-old?
The men in the adjoining changing room were chatting together, thankfully oblivious to my predicament, as they undressed to take a shower. I recognised them from their voices: they were younger than Steve and me and had the thin, pale bodies typical of office workers. One of them was usually fashionably unshaven and the other wore his hair gelled up in a sort of half-arsed Mohican style. They were probably workmates from one of the nearby firms of solicitors or estate agents.
I gently swept my foreskin back and forth across my fattened purple cock-head, wishing I’d brought Steve’s shorts into the cubicle with me so that I could take another sniff of them.
On second thoughts: what if he’d emerged from the shower to find they were missing while I was – how could I put it – ‘using’ them? No, that wouldn’t have been a good idea at all.
I heard the younger guys’ bare feet pad their way into the shower, the two of them making plans to go for a drink together after they’d finished up here.
It dawned on me that their underwear would be lying discarded, unattended, in the changing room. I could almost see them in my mind’s eye: they’d be the colourful boxer-briefs that younger guys wear, or maybe those fashionable white briefs which had a prominently-branded waistband.
Still quietly masturbating myself, I wondered if I could sneak out and take a sniff of their underpants before Steve finished off in the shower. He did tend to spend a long time in there.
The rational voice inside my head called out in horror. How could I even be contemplating this? What if I was caught?
However, I felt so horny from the sniff I’d had of Steve’s dirty shorts and the tantalising prospect that two other pairs were just lying around in the changing room waiting for my eager nostrils that such a voice was easily silenced.
I told myself that I might never again have such an opportune moment to get a flavour for a couple of guys’ butts from their underwear. They’d be sweaty from their game and no doubt a bit whiffy from where they’d been ridden up into their owners’ arse-cracks during the day in their office. My cock twitched its approval of the idea as my fingers gently massaged its length.
But was it really worth the risk?
I peered out of the cubicle into the now-empty changing room. The two men had undressed in front of the benches opposite to mine and Steve’s. One pair of underpants hung on a peg like Steve’s had – a light grey pair of briefs by the look of them – while the other pair – white but I couldn’t see the style – had been discarded on the bench next to a rucksack.
I could hear Steve chatting with the guys as the three of them showered. He was recommending a pub they should try; they were being polite but noncommittal. The three of them were, nevertheless, occupied.
I figured it’d be well worth the risk.
I crept out from the toilet stall and, cupping my genitals in my hands as best as I could, hurried over to where the guys’ clothes had been discarded.
I took a wary look towards the door, making sure no-one was coming in.
Then, satisfied that the coast was as clear as it was going to get, I grabbed the grey briefs from the peg. Rearranging them hastily to get them the right way around, I was impressed by how saggy and distended the crotch of them was from the large bulge obviously made by the guy’s cock and balls. The guy must be well-hung. Then, turning the rear gusset outwards, I inhaled as deeply as I could from the still-warm material.
The smell was disappointingly soapy: this guy was clearly a lot more thorough in how he washed himself than Steve. There was a trace of something more interesting right where his hole would be, but the overwhelming scent was fragrant – Lynx shower gel, maybe.
I gave my nose a quick once-over of the front of the briefs, but found the smell to be similarly soapy, aside from a small patch where his cock had probably dribbled after he’d taken a piss.
I thrust the briefs back onto the peg in disappointment and grabbed the white pair from the bench which turned out to be Calvin Klein boxer-briefs. It was obvious, from the crustier feel of the material and the immediate waft of dried piss and stale sweat from them, that these underpants had been worn for a good few days. This was more like it!
Turning the briefs inside out, I noticed how stained the gusset was with urine and that off to one side, where his trouser pocket would be, there was a stiffened area of what could have been caked-on semen or was otherwise the dried-up ooze from a prolonged erection. Being so well-worn, I worried that the smell around the back of them might be repugnant rather than attractive. Tentatively, I brought the seat of the underpants up to my nose.
Again, my excitement was instantaneous. My cock, which had softened a little in my nervousness about venturing out of the cubicle and the disappointing lack of interest in the grey briefs, hardened to full size almost as soon as I sniffed the young guy’s soiled shorts. The smell was in no way faecal, as I’d anticipated: it was powerful and undeniably anal, but also intensely exciting on some base, primeval level. I beat myself with renewed vigour and urgency as I pressed the underpants to my nose and inhaled the skunky, cloying odour of the guy’s butt-crack. I imagined he was bending over in front of me, parting his cheeks with his hands as I licked at his hole.
I ran my nose along the material between the leg holes of the briefs, avidly sniffing the pathway leading from the rich, robust flavours at the back towards the sweatier, more sexual, odours at the front where the guy’s hairy balls would have been cupped just moments earlier. If he was bending in front of me, I could push forwards and lick his dampness, rich with sex and testosterone, from his plump sack while my nose was wedged into his hot, hungry hole.
His hand would be fast on his cock – just as mine was now – thumping back and forth along its thick and veiny length, as he pushed his cheeks against my face and my tongue danced around on his seed-filled bollocks.
I returned my nose urgently to the back of the underpants, relishing the darker, more personal, odours permeating the material. It suddenly dawned on me that this wasn’t just the smell of him being rimmed: this was the smell of him being fucked.
This was the smell of me standing up, grabbing his hips and pushing my cock deep into his spit-moistened chute. This was the smell of my hips slapping against his buttocks as I thrust myself in and out of his most intimate hole. This was the smell of men rutting together, the smell of me butt-fucking another man, the smell of –
My balls began emptying themselves, spurting thick gobs onto the wall and the bench next to the guy’s rucksack as I struggled to avoid his pile of clothes.
Before my climax had subsided and just as the first pangs of disgrace were starting to bite, I threw the dirty underpants back onto the bench and darted over to my own clothes to find a handkerchief or sock – anything – to wipe up my cum which was splattered around the showering guy’s stuff.
At that moment I heard Steve’s voice behind me. “Jesus, Rob! Are you still not ready?”
I felt my face flush, quickly cupping my still-oozing erection in my hand to try and hide it from him as he emerged from the shower room, drying his hair.
I struggled to find any words, but managed, “Sorry, Steve… I just… well…”
Steve walked up beside me and, glancing down at my poorly-concealed hard-on, laughed.
“Oh fuck, mate! Not the best place to get one of those!”
I looked up at him, feeling my face burning. This was like one of the recurring nightmares I sometimes have, except that usually in those I’m experiencing this embarrassment in the middle of my office.
“Yeah… I… er… got caught out…”
He laughed again. I was amazed that he was finding this funny.
“You can say that again! Good job you always shower at home, Rob. There’s a couple of guys in there and things might get awkward if one of them drops the soap!”
I smiled with as much humour as I could muster and, still struggling to hide my excitement with one hand, grabbed my briefs with the other.
Steve finished drying his hair and threw his towel down on the bench.
He gave my forearm and affectionate pat and said, reassuringly, “Come on, mate – don’t get so hung up about it. It happens to all of us.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s just a bit embarrassing…”
“You should be proud of it, Rob… I’d noticed you were well-hung, but… Jesus! I had no idea you were such a grower!”
“Pity my ex-wife didn’t share your appreciation. She used to say it was about as pleasant as looking at an aroused horse.”
I tried to hitch the leg of my briefs over my foot without exposing my erection. It wasn’t so much the excited state of my cock that I was worried about him seeing – although that was bad enough – it was the white dribbles which were still oozing out of it and which he would immediately recognise as semen.
Steve grabbed his white boxer shorts from his peg and bent over to put them on. Laughing again, he called out, “I am safe to bend over, aren’t I?”
I flushed again at the sight of his arse which had, in part, led me to this state of discomfort. I yanked my briefs up, relieved to finally tuck my cock away out of view, and muttered, “Come on, Steve. Don’t be daft…”
Having pulled his shorts up, Steve glanced over at the stuff belonging to the guys who were finishing off in the shower. He thankfully seemed oblivious to the wetness on the bench and up the wall, his eyes instead being drawn to the more noticeable state of the white boxer briefs which were turned outwards where I’d thrown them down.
He nudged me and whispered, “Jesus – look at the state of that guy’s skivvies…”
I glanced over and feigned a look of disdain. “Ugh… grim…”
Pulling his shirt on, Steve went on, still whispering even though it was implausible that the young men could have heard him over the noise of their shower: “Gor – a sniff of those would have taken care of your stiffie, mate!”
“Yeah,” I muttered. “It would have sorted it out in no time.”
And then I grinned over at him as if the idea that I might sniff the back of another guy’s underwear was the most amusingly absurd thing I’d heard in a long while.
Next story: A Walk in the Park
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