by Robert Furlong
Part 18: Carried Away
Pulling out of the car park after meeting Cameron, I couldn’t help but marvel at how much nerve he must have. Imagine going back to a stranger’s flat and rimming him while his mates looked on! The idea of doing something like that myself was more than a little titillating and could form the basis of many a fantasy, but I doubted I would ever have the confidence to actually do it.
Having said that, the way I had approached Cameron and arranged to meet up with him for a drink was well outside of my usual comfort zone. Indeed, what I had done in the park and at the adult learning centre a couple of days earlier was something which, just a few months ago, I would probably have found so alien to my normal behaviour that it would have been difficult to even contemplate. So perhaps, now that the idea had been planted, I might one day develop enough courage to go ahead and act on a more daring impulse.
As I began the drive home along Rockingham Road, I thought about what Cameron had said about how much sexual activity goes on between men in the military. In my early twenties, I had briefly considered joining the forces – most probably the army – because at that time they were running a national drive to recruit graduates in engineering, the degree which I had just attained. I’d always been deterred for the most corporal of reasons: I had, by then, an extremely high sex drive and I’d worried that I wouldn’t have any outlet for the at least twice-daily relief that my swollen balls demanded. The thought of spending so many years cooped up in barracks with only male company was seriously off-putting: the prospect of having to make do with just my right hand for pleasure was not even worth considering.
I could now see, and the irony was not lost on me, that the very thing that had put me off joining the forces should instead have proven to be one of its main attractions. It had not occurred to me back then that all of us men together would have had equally insistent sex drives and that we all conveniently come with holes of roughly the right size which can be put to use as a practical outlet for those urges. Far from spending my life in enforced celibacy, I’d have probably enjoyed a fairly regular and pleasantly varied sex life in the quiet of the barracks after lights-out once I’d located a group of like-minded men who shared both my need for regular release and my taste for the male rear.
It struck me as bitterly amusing that I might have had more sex through joining the army than I’d had through my chosen course of getting married to Linda. I was confident I could have wangled a nightly hook-up with one or other like-minded soldier – we’d have quickly spotted each other in the cramped confines of the barracks – and I’d have no doubt come to enjoy taking turns with other men for mutual gratification. Thinking about it, I was fairly sure that I could have managed to fit in an early morning pre-shower session with those among my fellow-squaddies who, like me, found themselves waking before dawn with their erections standing to attention in their army-issue undershorts.
I wondered whether, extrapolating from what Cameron had said, such encounters between men for the sake of allowing a regular and healthy sexual release were now seen as acceptable – perhaps even desirable – within the forces. I rather liked the idea of tacit goings-on after lights-out, the men coupling up in their bunks, soundlessly helping one another to perform that last of the day’s duties. The thought of quietly mounting another man in the darkness, our bodies gently working together in the knowledge that other men around us were discreetly pairing up together for the same reason, was extremely appealing. It gave the activity a fraternal quality: a late night brotherhood of men whose lithe sweaty bodies would come together for a few short minutes of unspoken union. The close, confined air of the barracks would be thicken at first with the base, malodorous whiff of so many men’s quiet penetration of their brothers and comrades, and then, at length, by the more acrid, sharper bite of semen as so many pairs of balls were gratefully disburdened.
Such a bracingly masculine and loveless form of sex would have taken some getting used to, granted, but would gradually, in time, have acquired its own unique appeal. It would allow the discharge of a necessary bodily function, but would also be an intense and erotic moment of togetherness, the gentle rhythm of male coupling each night serving to unify us as a team and solidify the bonds of camaraderie between us.
Even if such encounters were still conducted in secrecy, like the discreet late night meetings of men described by Guy on the oil rig, such a low-key approach would bring its own attractions by introducing a sense of danger and taboo which I have always found exciting.
Having a regular and reliable means of release was something I’d only briefly enjoyed when I was married and it was strange to think that in the forces I might have had a more fulfilling sex life. I would have missed having a relationship with a woman, of that much I was sure, and my interest in my fellow soldiers would have been purely directed towards achieving mutual satisfaction at the exclusion of anything more meaningful. However, it occurred to me that whatever little companionship I had enjoyed with Linda was now long-gone and her departure had left me with the worst of all worlds: for the last few years I’d had neither the sex nor anything more emotionally-significant in my life.
I had Jake, though, and that was important.
As I sat and waited at some traffic lights, listening to my indicator clicking and watching it light up the sign to Foxton with a pulsing yellow rhythm, I realised I now had two evenings to look forward to between now and Christmas. First, there was my second date with Debbie, which I hoped might bring with it at least a snog and perhaps a mutual grope now that we’d got over the initial necessarily awkward meeting. Second, there was the prospect of a get-together with another bloke – the word ‘date’ didn’t sound at all appropriate in this case – which Cameron was going to set up for me. With my male-to-male encounter, I rather assumed there’d be a sexual element to the evening: in fact, if the night bring with it at least one climax I’d consider it a complete flop.
Now there’s double standards for you.
As I pulled away from the junction, I thought about what it would be like to kiss a woman after such a long spell of enforced abstinence. It would feel wonderfully intimate to touch my lips against hers; to feel her hesitantly yield to accept the tip of my tongue into her mouth and to feel her warm breath and the scent of her perfume so close to my face. I’d press close to her as my mouth worked against hers and might reach into her blouse to gently caress one of her breasts. Some women would enjoy that and groan their approval; some might even reach down and fondle the fly area of my trousers. I guessed Debbie would be more reticent and I’d have to take it carefully. Nevertheless, while we kissed, I’d get near enough for her to feel my bulge swelling against her so that she could be in no doubt of my eventual intent.
Turning into my estate, I thought about how it would be to be with a man for the first time. I pictured us going back to his place which, for some reason, I visualised as a cramped bedsit with a shoddily made bed. Having no idea who Cameron was planning to fix me up with, I imagined my colleague Matt Strickson naked, standing upright on the sheets of his unmade bed with me squatting behind him, also naked and with my face nuzzling between his ripe, round buttocks.
My lips would be clamped to his cheeks, my tongue exploring his hairy crack and his hot, sticky hole, while his hand was grabbing the back of my head urging me further towards his buried trophy. He’d bend low to grind his arse into my hungry mouth and would reach down, through his own legs, to grab my cock and wank me off with a rough, fast rhythm as I rimmed him.
Then he’d squat down in front of me and I’d slide myself into him, one arm gripping his shoulders and the other around his belly. We’d fuck like that, my knees around his hairy thighs and our balls dangling low as we squatted one behind the other on his dishevelled bed. I’d reach down and grab his cock and wank him as I fucked him, the two of us working up a rhythm against each other. With my other arm, I’d hold him close, feeling my chest rubbing up and down his back as we grunted and panted together; smelling the fusty whiff from his soiled sheets being joined by the more animalistic stink of our sweating buggery.
I pulled up in front of our house and switched off my lights.
It was difficult to know which prospect excited me more: a long, passionate kiss with Debbie including – I hoped – my first touch of a woman’s breasts for way too long; or a night of rimming and sodomy with some guy I might hardly know. They both had their own appeals; were both arousing in such different ways.
As I got out of the car, I felt the envelope full of the articles and clippings which Cameron had given me digging into me through my jacket pocket and decided not to take them back into the house. Instead, I stuffed them into the glove compartment of the car. They’d be safest in there until I could find somewhere discreet to bin them.
Having done that, I locked the car and let myself into the house. The hallway was in darkness but the distant deep throb of a baseline told me that Jake was in his room.
I poured myself a glass of wine from the fridge and grabbed a cold slice of pizza, a leftover from a couple of nights earlier. Tipple, our old ginger cat, started meowing around my feet so I filled his bowl. Then I went upstairs to see Jake.
He was at his desk doing some work for college with the music playing from his iPhone through his speakers. A familiar smell and a ball of scrunched up tissues in his bin betrayed how he’d taken advantage of my late return.
I touched his shoulder, startling him, and he asked if his music was too loud.
“No. I’m just saying ‘hi’.”
“Oh right, yeah. Hi,” he said, turning back to whatever it was he was doing.
“Have you eaten?”
“I had some toast.”
“Do you want anything else?”
He knew that expression bugged me but I let it go. I left him to whatever it was he was doing, and switched on the computer in our box room. While I was waiting for it to boot up, I ate the slice of cold pizza and took a few sips from the wine.
I was both nervous and excited that the prospect of having sex with a man – full, unhurried and unpaid for sex – was soon to become a reality. I could hardly believe it was about to happen.
The idea of penetrating a man from behind in the classically ‘gay’ sexual position was very attractive and the image of Matt Strickson and me squatting together on his grubby bed, our balls slapping against each other as my hips worked against his buttocks, came back to me. I thought about how it would feel if our positions were reversed: if I was the guy in front, feeling Matt’s – or whoever’s – cock driving in and out of me and having his hand beating at my erection as his stubble chafed the back of my neck. That would have its own appeal too, I was sure, and the prospect of following Cameron’s suggestion that we would take turns on each other – something that wasn’t possible with a woman – held a particular allure.
I liked the idea of having sex with guy at his place: the fact that we would be doing it on the bed he shared with his girlfriend or wife presented, for some reason, a tremendous turn-on. The two of us men would be enjoying furtive, forbidden sex together on a bed more used to the delicate bouquet of the sensual and vaginal. We’d be rutting together, revelling in defiling the feminine sensuality of the place with the strong, unashamed odours of our rough, male-on-male buggery, making the bedsprings shriek in ways it never had, and coating the already sex-smeared sheets with our own, more expressive stains.
As the Windows desktop loaded up on the screen, I realised, however, that it was far more likely that I’d have to bring my ‘companion’ (is there a better word for such a person?) home with me as my place would make a more obvious venue for our get-together if he was involved with a woman. The thought of having sex with another man on the bed I’d shared with my wife was similarly pleasing, though for rather different reasons, and I realised how gratifying it would be to watch the two of us wanking, rimming and mounting each other through the mirrored wardrobe doors which ran the length of the room.
Taking another drink from my wine, I reminded myself that I was going to have to get Jake to stay with his mother that night, or else force him to have a sleepover with one of his mates. He’d know exactly what I was up to – he was eighteen, after all – and would probably be intrigued by the prospect of listening in to the sounds that two men make when they get together for sex.
He’d already proven, with his undisguised interest at the sounds that Guy and I had made during our clumsy hook-up in the hotel, that he was fascinated by the idea of men being sexual together. I wouldn’t put it past him to creep along the corridor and lurk outside my bedroom door while we were in there, just to hear what his dad and his new-found friend were doing together.
I really didn’t want to have to feel conscious at the sounds we were making together for the sake of my son; to worry about every creak of the bedframe and to feel inhibited about what we did together for fear of making too much noise. It was embarrassing enough that he’d heard me masturbating that night a few weeks ago: how worse it would be to know that he was listening to the rhythm of his father being buggered for the first time.
Although it was unlikely, I could imagine Jake’s curiosity driving him to peer through the keyhole of my room. The possibility was certainly real enough for me to end up spending more time feeling concerned about what he might see than enjoying what we were doing. How would he feel to see his dad naked and aroused with another man? Sucking another man’s cock? Licking another man’s bum? Would it surprise him to see me beating myself off in my excitement as I did so? Would he be disgusted to see me anally penetrating a man? Would he be shocked to see his own father bending down to be similarly mounted by a member of his own gender?
No – he’d have to be out of the house. There were no two ways about it.
As I glanced through the work e-mails which had come in since I’d left the office to meet Cameron, I mused that if I were to bring a woman home with me, I’d have no such qualms about Jake being in the house. I’d ask him to keep a low profile, of course, but the thought of him being aware that his dad was having sex in the next bedroom would not be an issue for me.
Perhaps, in time, I might come to accept Jake’s presence in the house when I brought men back too, but not right now. Certainly not the first time.
I could envisage a time when I might bring Debbie, or any other woman, home with me one evening for a meal, and have her stay over with me, and then the next evening having a guy around for a few beers and extending the same invitation to him. Slow, gentle lovemaking one night; rough, sweaty butt-fucking the next. Different needs; different ways of satisfying them.
I could actually see that happening as a realistic possibility, and I liked the idea.
To my surprise, as I was looking through my e-mails, a message came in from Cameron. He must have sent it just moments earlier.
“Nice to meet up with you tonight, Rob. Lots of good stuff to talk about. Been doing a bit of research about one of your misgivings. Google ‘Andrew Marter’ if you’re interested. Looking forward to the Xmas party. It will be a very good night! Best, Cameron.”
As he’d sent the message through the work e-mail system, its contents were deliberately vague, but his meaning was clear enough to me.
I typed the name ‘Andrew Marter’ into Google and looked down the list of results. Most of the most prominent links were to Facebook and LinkedIn pages and those below cited references to the author of several erudite papers on management techniques. At first I wondered if Cameron actually intended me to read through those – perhaps his e-mail really was of a purely professional nature – but on the second page I spotted a blog entitled, “For Men Like Me”.
The author was from Southampton and appeared, from the picture on the front page of the site, to be a slim, bespectacled man who was married with three daughters. He had the look of an accountant or a solicitor; a fairly nondescript kind of guy who you wouldn’t glance twice at if you passed him on the street. He’d discovered that he had a taste for rimming on a business trip with a long-time friend about a decade earlier (details weren’t forthcoming) and had set up an internet group for others of a similar persuasion, of which there seemed to be many.
I read through some of his posts and chuckled at the tone of his language which seemed inappropriately formal, as though his interest in rimming, or ‘anilingus’ as he insisted on calling it, was of a purely academic nature. Perhaps he liked to think of it that way: as if he was doing some kind of high-brow research or studying a largely abstract branch of science.
I quickly found the post which I assumed Cameron was trying to direct me to in which Marter described how a guy might overcome his worries about meeting another male with a sexual motive for the very first time.
“The choice of one’s anilingual companion is of paramount importance in affording a successful and fulfilling sexual experience,” he wrote in his typically scholarly style. “One needs to choose someone who is sufficiently close and trusted as to facilitate unembarrassed intimacy, or otherwise it may be preferable to locate a complete stranger via the internet or other means.”
Well, I couldn’t argue with that.
“Bear in mind that you and your chosen companion are likely to be naked together, that you will be sexually aroused in each other’s presence and that you will experience contact of the most intense and deeply personal nature with each other’s bodies. If you are choosing a friend with whom to share such an experience, you must ask yourself whether your friendship is strong enough to survive such an intimate encounter and how you will relate to one another afterward.”
As Jake was always quick to point out, I didn’t really have many guys who I could call ‘friends’, so the point didn’t seem to apply to me. I played squash with Steve once a week and sometimes met up with Adam for a drink, but there was no way I’d suggest anything like this to either of them.
“That is not to say that what you are contemplating doing together is necessarily of a homosexual nature,” the blog went on. “While it is no doubt true that some anilingual encounters between men might occasionally develop along homosexual lines, the vast majority have no homosexual elements to them whatsoever and remain primarily a means for both men to achieve sexual gratification using each other’s bodies as mere facilitators in that process.
“As such, you may want to consider at an early stage whether you wish to expose your penises to one another when you are sexually excited. Many men – myself included – find this to be unacceptable and therefore wear jockstraps when engaged in anilingual intercourse. Such garments, which are available in standard sports shops and have no sexual connotations in themselves, allow you full access to each other’s anuses without requiring your erections to be bared.”
I found that idea quite laughable: it seemed ridiculously prim to insist on hiding your cocks inside jockstraps during rimming. I’d be the first to have reservations about exposing my genitals to someone, but it would be a suggestion of almost Victorian absurdity to suggest that two men could have sex together without exposing themselves to one another.
Our cocks would have to be bared – that was essential, I realised. I didn’t particularly find the idea of another man’s cock attractive – as far as men went, I definitely acknowledged myself to be an arse-guy – but if I was to have sex with a guy, I wanted to see that he was aroused and enjoying what we were doing together. There was something appealing – amusing, almost – about climaxing with another man; shooting squirt after squirt of our semen over each other, the two of us ending up covered in the stuff.
In any case, it seemed I was a step or two ahead of this guy in terms of how far I wanted to pursue my interest in other men. Marter’s blog assiduously avoided any reference to anal penetration other than with the tongue: I was now keen to push something significantly bigger up there. The jockstrap idea really was a non-starter.
“My own recommendation,” I read on, “is to choose a partner with whom you are sufficiently well-acquainted for the two of you to recognise in one another your shared interest, but someone who is not within your most immediate circle of friends to avoid the risk of awkwardness afterwards. The physical attractiveness of your chosen companion is largely irrelevant because anilingual sex works on the level of the physical and the bodily, although that is not to say that matters of cleanliness and hygiene should not be factors which inform your decision.”
I skimmed down the text and found Marter’s suggestions about how to rim a guy for the first time.
“Have your companion bend over in front you and apply your face to his rear: your nose and mouth level with the lower part of his intergluteal cleft.”
I figured that meant his butt-crack.
“Do not be alarmed by any abhorrence you feel towards what you are doing: be assured that anilingus is a perfectly natural activity for one man to perform on another. Any repugnance that you experience at this stage is a purely mental construct: the effect of years of negative social conditioning which has taught us that the backside of a person, especially someone of the same gender, is a ‘disgusting’ and ‘offensive’ area.
“Disregard such negative thoughts and press your face between your companion’s buttocks. Take a moment to inhale his unique scent and, if you are able, extend your tongue towards his anus.
“You will probably find at this point that you will begin to feel sexually excited and that your penis will aggrandise considerably. This is a normal reaction to the act of anilingus: male anal glands secrete a pheromone called androstadienone which acts as a sexual stimulant, the effect of which is most potent when perceived by other men.”
I wondered if that was true. It certainly sounded plausible.
“Most men,” Marter continued, “find themselves so intensely aroused by anilingus with another male that they are compelled to lick their companion’s rear with an almost uncontrolled excitement. I suggest that you partake fully in this activity before retiring to the bathroom or another private place to stimulate yourself to completion.”
I had to laugh at this guy: this stuff was hilarious. Imagine being comfortable enough around another guy to sniff and lick his butt, and then have to excuse yourself to go and beat off in privacy. Maybe he felt that if you and your mate’s cocks came out, that made the activity somehow more ‘gay’; I don’t know.
“However you feel after you have discharged your excitement,” the blog went on, “be considerate towards your companion, and allow him to experience the same pleasure using your body as you did using his. Bend forwards as he kneels behind you, and allow him to tentatively –”
Jake’s bedroom door abruptly swung open behind me and I clicked to close the webpage before he could see it.
“I’m going to get a Sprite,” he called in to me. “D’you want anything?”
“You could top my wine up since you’re going that way.”
He nodded and grabbed my glass.
“I’m going to phone Dan,” he said. “I’m having trouble with this assignment.”
“Okay,” I said. “Give me two minutes, though. I’m checking my e-mails.”
He threw me an exasperated look.
“Come on, dad. You can be online and make a call at the same time. We’ve had broadband for like five years.”
“Oh yeah,” I said lamely. “I knew that really.”
Sometimes Jake must think I’ve just arrived from the Palaeozoic.
He went off to fill up my glass and I got on with checking through my work e-mails. I didn’t feel like reopening the ‘anilingus’ website as it wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t already know.
After Jake had brought me up a fresh drink and was on the phone to his friend downstairs, I took a look at a few photo galleries showing anal sex between men. Purely for research purposes, you understand.
Receiving another man anally certainly looked like an activity which I might grow to enjoy, though undoubtedly it would take some practice and I would probably need time to become familiar with how it felt. In the photos, the men who were being penetrated were almost always erect and in some cases would intriguingly reach orgasm just by having their arses stimulated by the back and forth pumping of another man’s organ.
I scanned through quite a few websites, enjoying looking at men of all ages, shapes and sizes having sex together. I was impressed by the sheer variety of possible techniques and positions, as well as the way in which widely different combinations of men were apparently drawn to have sex together.
Here were two young men, almost Jake’s age – young, attractive and largely hairless – smiling together as they enjoyed face-to-face anal sex on a bed. The guy doing the fucking revealed a lovely pink arsehole when he was photographed from behind, and I started to grow hard at the thought of licking his tightly puckered ring as his long, thin cock pumped away at his eager friend’s butt.
I moved on to two older men fucking in an alleyway – one behind the other with their trousers around their ankles. They were hairy and muscular and, from the snarling urgency of their faces, their sex seemed to be borne more from mutual desperation than the more passionate lovemaking of the younger guys. The man being fucked had a rock-hard erection – large and thick, like mine – with a fat pair of bollocks hanging between his legs. Apart from how hairy he was, he could be me, standing there having my arse shafted by another man’s cock while I bent forwards with my hands on my knees. The next picture showed him gripping his cock and ejaculating as the man behind him grabbed him tightly by the hips and winced in pleasure as his own orgasm was discharged into his bowels.
I found two muscle studs in their early twenties, doing it doggy-style on the floor next to a Jacuzzi. I rubbed myself through my trousers when I realised they were taking turns on each other: the fucked becoming the fucker, each guy’s arsehole gaping open from being pumped by his friend as his own cock got to work between the firm, round cheeks in front of him.
And then there were the off-beat combinations: two newly-married men, consummating their bond still elegantly dressed, a cock poking through one guy’s fly and the seat of the other guy’s formal trousers yanked down. Or even more interesting than that, a younger guy pleasuring himself inside the dimpled, sagging arse of a grey-haired older guy. A cutesy student-type, clean-cut and a bit nerdish, roughly pounding his impressively large cock in and out of a very eager skinhead’s hairy buttocks.
So many possibilities; each one seeming more captivating than the last.
I found a movie showing two sailors together having sex in what looked like an engine room. One was lying flat with his back supported by a large, metal pipe, while the other was between his open legs, thrusting himself in and out of his well-worked hole. The setting was hackneyed and the men clearly cosmetically well-muscled, but what caught my attention was when the guy doing the fucking leaned forward between the legs he was holding onto and planted an energetic kiss on the mouth of his partner.
The camera zoomed in on their faces showing their lips working against each other, both men striving to dominate, as their bodies pounded back and forth. Ordinarily, I would have clicked to close the movie and switched over to something else, but after what Cameron had said about kissing helping to establish intimacy between men, I decided to watch them for a few moments.
There was something unaccountably interesting about seeing two men kissing, I had to concede. The way these guys were doing it didn’t seem ‘gay’ in the slightest: they were using their mouths quite aggressively on one another, their tongues fighting together as each man struggled to penetrate the other’s mouth. Spit was spattering across their faces as their lips vied for control, and when they did momentarily pull back from one another, their teeth flashed in a snarl before they plunged back in for more.
I realised I would never dream of kissing a woman like this; would never in a million years expect her to try and kiss me in this way. And that made it all the more fascinating.
Their kissing was not just ‘intimate’, as Cameron had said; it was vigorously strenuous and fuelled by their pure, greedy passion for one another. These guys were revelling in their same-sex union, ravenous to enjoy their combined celebration of male sexuality, and using their mouths against each other as they fucked served only to heighten their excitement for their own kind.
The guy who was being fucked, for all he had assumed a submissive role to receive his partner’s pounding cock, was easily the more dominant of the pair with his mouth. He grabbed his friend’s head and held it steady above him with both hands as he ate at his mouth with his spit-soaked lips. His tongue all but mirrored the other man’s cock: driving deep into the face above with strong, forceful thrusts.
Hearing Jake in conversation on the phone downstairs, I undid my trousers and released my own oversized cock from my sweaty boxer shorts. It felt good to give it some air in its inflamed state and it slowly hardened and lengthened, arching upwards from the front of my trousers, as if grateful for its freedom. I pulled my foreskin right back to expose the taut, purple helmet of my glans, sniffing appreciatively at the sharp, androcentric scent of my own sex which wafted up from it.
God, it felt so good to free myself from my trousers. I’d had so many erections that evening in the pub hearing about Cameron’s experiences, it felt like I’d been repeatedly strangling my organ with the hemlines of my underwear.
In the movie, the camera switched positions to show a close-up of their homosexual version of face-to-face intercourse. The top guy’s cock ploughed wildly in and out into the gaping pink hole between splayed legs, while the bottom guy’s cock throbbed impatiently against its owner’s stomach and oozed a puddle of sticky precum onto his abs.
My cock thickened further as it seemed to peruse the screen in front of it, peering with its slit-eye at the images of what one of its brothers was getting up to between another man’s legs; a pleasure which it soon might be enjoying for itself. I smiled down at it, wondering if it would throb so eagerly when another of its brothers was doing the same thing between my legs.
I rather thought it would.
I pulled my balls out from my underwear and let them hang down, cooling themselves, over the front of my trousers. They felt like they’d been overcooked as they’d slowly swelled to the size of apricots with the constant trickle of my collecting semen. Now, free from the cramped, muggy heat between my legs, I let them swing low, heavy and hairy and enjoying the fresh air of the room.
Now that my genitals were released, I opened my legs wider to allow them to breathe as I watched the men enjoying their anal intimacy together on screen. Once Jake was finished on the phone, and was clattering up the stairs in his usual inelegant way, I’d have plenty of time to stash myself away and zip up my fly.
On the screen, the cock was hammering in and out of the guy’s arse with a fast, mechanical rhythm. The man doing the fucking grabbed his partner by the shoulders and pulled him more deeply onto his organ as he pounded his hips back and forth.
My hand squeezed my own cock, enjoying its warm thickness in my palm, and made small, gently tweaking movements on its hard stem as I watched them.
The guy lying down grinned up at his partner – which I liked – and then grabbed his own cock and flaunted it to his friend as if to show off how aroused he was by the feel of his rectum being so forcefully ravaged. The guy doing the fucking looked down at it and laughed: an amused and affectionate laugh which seemed to say, “I told you you’d get off on it, you dirty fuck! I knew you’d love taking it up your arse!”
He grabbed the guy’s cock and wanked it roughly with the same rapid speed that his hips were bucking back and forth. The guy looked up at him and laughed back. His lips mouthed, “Fuckin’ yeah!”
I began masturbating myself more quickly, making longer strokes up and down my shaft so that my foreskin eased back and forth across the shiny, engorged head. I listened out for Jake – yes, he was still on the phone downstairs – and wondered if I could sneak a quick climax into my hanky in the time it would take him to come back up to his room. If I could catch my semen as soon as I started ejaculating, I might be able to conceal its strong smell from Jake; a civility which he had evidently been unable to extend to me earlier in the evening.
The camera focussed in on their fucking again, showing one guy’s cock working the anus while the other guy’s cock was worked by the hand.
Imagine if that was my virgin arse which another man was thrusting in and out of, I thought, and my much thicker and larger cock which he was roughly wanking as he did so. My organ swelled in anticipation of the idea now that I knew such a prospect was a reality, once Cameron had arranged it. As I masturbated myself, taken with the idea that it was me being fucked on the screen of the computer, I watched as a dribble of clear lubricant oozed from the slit on the head of my cock and was quickly dispersed across the shiny helmet by the sweeping back and forth of my foreskin.
I paused to take a long sniff of my erection, further exciting myself with the sharp, acetic waft from its sweaty shaft, and the fuller, more complex odour from the sweaty pubic hair at its base and on my large, ripe balls.
I yanked my trousers and shorts down around the tops of my thighs and thrust my free hand between my legs, intent on fingering myself as I masturbated to aid my imagination in applying the action on screen to myself. Quickly finding my hot, slimy hole through the coarse tangle of hair in my arse-crack, I pushed the tip of my middle finger in through my constricted ring and found, to my surprise, that the passage inside was moist enough for me finger myself without the need for spit.
I really had been getting sweaty down there sitting in the pub with Cameron!
A few strokes of my finger in and out brought a familiar whiff up to my nose from between my legs and I realised it wasn’t just sweat that was making my arse slippery enough to lubricate my finger. The rich, pungent smell from my gently fingered hole had its usual effect on me and I started wanking myself more quickly, squatting down to open my arse up further so that I could finger myself more deeply.
On the computer monitor, the men pulled away from one another and the guy who had been fucked turned around, opened his legs as wide as they would go and bent over the large pipe. The other guy positioned himself behind him, grabbed him by the chest and worked his long, slick erection in between his buttocks. After a few tentative thrusts during which the guy bending over grinned up at his companion and gave him the thumbs-up, their fucking restarted in earnest. The men worked with each other’s rhythms, arse pushing back against thwacking hips, as they pleasured themselves in the most decadently homosexual of all the positions they could have chosen.
I so desperately wanted to be the man being penetrated, revelling in bending over to expose my arse so crudely, and delighting in having another man behind me, slamming himself in and out of my gaping hole with such wanton abandon.
I slipped a second finger into myself and, on finding my pleasure intensified, managed a third. My arse took up a wet slurping sound as I pounded it with my three fingers together and I squatted lower and opened my legs wider to try and simulate as much as I could the extent to which another man’s cock would fuck me.
The crude, deliciously anal, smell was growing stronger with the increasing assault on my arse and I inhaled it in deep gasps as my hand fired up to full speed sweeping up and down the length of my straining erection. My balls, heavy and plump, were dancing between my legs, making alternating slapping sounds against my thighs and my hand with the rhythm of my masturbation.
I saw myself as the man bending over the pipe, looking up at my companion as he buggered me from behind. I imagined the two of us grinning at each other; implicitly acknowledging how much we were both enjoying the crude, unrefined aroma of male sex. My hand sped up faster between my legs, the rough thrusting of my fingers in and out of my slippery passage giving me the merest taste of the sensation I so strongly craved. The smell of our sex would grow stronger the longer he fucked me; the smell of my arse yielding to another man’s cock; the smell of me being roughly sodomised.
Without warning, white jets of semen erupted from my cock, the first thick splash of it hitting my chin, while my other hand was still deep inside my arse, three fingers sloppily slurping in and out of my spasming hole.
At that moment, a voice behind me said, “Dad… oh… Jesus!”
Before I could turn around – before I could even think of some implausible way of trying to explain – Jake ended the call he was partway through: “Dan… I gotta go. Something just… er… came up…”
He hung up the phone as glutinous gobs of my seed continued to spurt from my organ, soaking the front of my shirt. To add to my confusion and intense embarrassment, I was unable to stop pounding at my length. As Jake gaped at me and I peered back at him in shock, my fist continued to sweep up and down my cum-erupting cock, intent on prolonging my climax in blissful oblivion to the predicament its owner had suddenly found himself him.
“For God’s sake dad!”
I stared over at him, horrified; half-squatting in front of him with one hand involuntarily pounding at my climaxing shaft, making my balls thump up and down as Jake looked on, and the other still between my legs with my fingers deep up my clenching arse. Could this get any worse?
As my orgasm waned, I managed to reassert control over my forearm and overcame the urge to continue masturbating in front of my son. Instead, I used it to try and catch some of the semen I was still squirting, keeping the other well out of sight.
Jake threw me a forced grin, I suppose to try and reassure me that we’re both guys and we all get caught out at some time, and said, flatly, “I’ll get you some tissues.”
He disappeared momentarily and I pulled my fingers out of my backside with an abrupt fart which I hoped Jake hadn’t heard. I tried to catch as much of the flow from my cock as I could by cupping the head with both hands. I didn’t want to reach into my pocket with either of my dirty hands, one of which bore the crude evidence of what I’d been doing between my legs, as I’d hoped to get a couple more days wear from these trousers.
Jake returned with a wad of toilet roll and threw it in my direction. It landed on the desk on which the monitor was still playing out the scene of the two men fucking: one was still bending over the pipe to receive the other from behind. Their position made the general theme of the movie obvious to even the most unseasoned eye.
Jake flashed a glance at the screen and said, “Dad, I can’t believe you’d jerk off to that!”
He took a step back towards the doorway, probably about to give me some welcome privacy, but then sniffed the air. “What’s that smell?”
“I better clean up, Jake,” I said, pointedly, grabbing the tissue from in front of the monitor.
“What is that smell, though?” he insisted on asking. “It kind of reminds me of scout camp…”
“You know how this stuff smells, Jake,” I muttered, turning away from him to wipe off both hands and to dab in some privacy the fattened head of my oozing cock. A copious amount of semen had landed on the carpet but a near-lifetime of experience had equipped me with a few ways of attending to that.
“It’s not a cummy-sort of smell,” he said, as unperceptive as always as to when to drop a topic and make himself scarce. He sniffed the air a few times and announced: “It’s like the smell at camp when those two lads were… you know…. when we were watching them… doing it…”
“I need to clean up, Jake,” I said more emphatically than before, hoping he’d get the hell out of there. I wanted him gone, feeling more self-conscious than I could have imagined about having myself exposed like this.
He kept sniffing, trying to place the scent. “It’s kind of sexy in a way… but, at the same time, not…”
My cock was still oozing but it was sufficiently spent for me to begin hitching up my underwear and trousers and stuffing its swollen form back into them.
He glanced at the tissue I’d used to clean myself with and asked, “What are those dark stains, dad? You’re not bleeding are you?”
“But where have those stains come from?” he blundered on. “They’re like skid marks…”
He leaned forwards and took a sniff towards the sodden, stained tissue.
I quickly snatched it away and turned to face him.
“Jake – please! I need to clean up.”
He stared at me and I saw the penny drop in his eyes.
“Oh God! You weren’t…? Oh my God! You were…”
“I was just trying something out,” I muttered, part of me wondering why I was justifying myself to my son. “I should have done it in private.”
“Oh Jesus, dad! That’s like… heinous! ”
I fastened up my zip and did up my belt. “I thought you were downstairs. I was… well… curious to see what guys do… you know, when they get together. I guess I got carried away.”
“And some!” Jake gawped, his eyes wide like saucers.
“I’m sorry,” I said, aware that these apologies were becoming rather a habit. “I’m really sorry you saw that.”
Jake stared at me, his eyes still full of shock. He muttered, “Christ… forget what I said about the smell being sexy… ugh!”
And then, collecting himself and perhaps realising that, since I’d put myself in the position of being the naughty boy caught playing with himself, he should try to take an adult stance on the matter and offer a mature response.
“Look… seriously… it’s not a big deal, dad. Honestly. I could have done without seeing… you know… what you’d been doing… but… well… these things happen, don’t they?”
“Do they?” I asked. “I mean, do things like this happen to other people?”
Jake smiled and shrugged. “Well, maybe not. But it happened to us, so… well… what can you do, eh?”
Trust Jake to be so philosophical about things.
I tried to smile back but suspect I was rather less than successful.
He said, “I only came up to ask if we’re doing anything on Boxing Day. Dan’s dad is getting tickets for the Newcastle match and they asked if I can go.”
“Oh,” I said gormlessly, feeling like I’d been brought down to planet Earth with a jolt. “I don’t know… I don’t think I’ve made any plans.”
Jesus, was Christmas that close?
“I’ll phone him back, then. Tell him I can go.”
Hitting the redial on the phone, he smirked. “Don’t worry. I’ll tell him you had a computer meltdown, or something.”
I nodded. “Yeah… I suppose I sort of did.”
He went back downstairs, chatting to his friend as if nothing had happened – as if he hadn’t just walked in on his dad climaxing to gay porn with his fingers up his bum – and I walked through to the bathroom to flush the dirty tissue away and wash my hands.
I glanced in the mirror at my scarlet face, flushed not only from my exertions in front of the computer but at the humiliation of being caught in flagrante by my eighteen-year-old son.
“Robert,” I said to my bemused face through the glass, “You should put in for the Dad of the Year award. You really are a natural at it.”
Next story: By Popular Demand
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