Butt Monkey
by Robert Furlong


Part 19: By Popular Demand

“Jake.  I’m really sorry about what happened last night.”

I threw him a glance across the car, as I pulled out of our estate as I drove him to college.  He looked over at me and shrugged.

“It’s not a big deal, dad.  You’re trying a few things out.  I get that.”

“I need you to know though: I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t have to say it the first time.  You’ve caught me in plenty of embarrassing situations.”

Had I?  I couldn’t really remember any, other than hastily repositioned duvets when I’d gone to wake him up; but that must be pretty standard for all parents of teenage boys.  Perhaps I hadn’t been aware that I’d walked in on him in the middle of something.  My attention to what’s going on around me can be pretty vague at times.

Whatever he’d been doing when he felt he’d been ‘caught’, it couldn’t compare with what he’d walked in on me doing the previous night.  Being caught masturbating by one’s eighteen-year-old son would be awkward; being caught masturbating in front of gay porn would be painful; being caught masturbating in front of gay porn with one’s fingers up one’s bottom had turned out to be mortifying.

I hadn’t really slept because of it.  I’d found it difficult to believe that I’d been so stupid as to do something like that with Jake just downstairs; the same Jake who’d always had such a gift for sneaking up where he was least expected.

“Well, I’m still sorry,” I said.  “I wish it hadn’t happened.”

He nodded and I pulled in to let some cars queuing up on the other side of the road get through a narrow gap caused by a parked van.

“I’m… er… guessing, then,” he started hesitantly, “that you’re interest has… well… moved up a couple of notches since we first spoke about it…?”

“What do you mean?”

“Back then you said that you weren’t sure what you wanted to do with another guy, other than… you know… using your tongue on him…”

“Well, yeah…”

“It seems like… from what I saw last night… you’re ready to take it a few steps further…”

I nodded.  “Possibly… well, probably, actually.  But as you said yourself, I was just trying out a few things.  Just like you might have done when you first realised what your willy could be used for.”

“Is that how it feels to you?” he asked.  “Like you’ve just woken up to… well… I suppose in your case it’d be what your bum can be used for…?”

I looked over at him before pulling away and overtaking the parked van.  His question seemed genuine; his face was quite serious.

“I suppose that’s a fair summation,” I replied, when we were clear of the congestion.  “I’m realising bums aren’t just for the obvious.  There are loads of other things two men can do with them.”

“Like the things those guys were doing in that movie you were watching?  Would you like someone to do that to you?”

“I thought we’d agreed a while ago there’d be no more sexual questions,” I reminded him.

“I’m just surprised at how quickly this has happened… how you’ve gone from being, like, Mr Squeaky Clean to being… I dunno… suddenly into all this hardcore gay stuff…”

I was surprised that Jake had considered that I’d set myself up as some kind of ‘squeaky clean’ father as I’d always thought I’d been quite frank and honest with him about sexual matters.  However, it was certainly true that I’d undergone quite a transformation over the last few months.

“I think, Jake, people often assume that once you get past adolescence, once you’ve ‘grown up’, you’re pretty much the finished product.  That, after that, you’ve done all the developing that you need to do and you’re going to pretty much stagnate doing the same old same old until you die.  I don’t think that’s true.  I think in reality people keep changing and evolving as they grow older.”

He nodded.  “Well, yeah, okay.  But do people really change their sexualities?  Can a guy go from being into women to suddenly finding other men’s bums so attractive?”

I shrugged, putting my foot down as we pulled out onto the dual carriageway.  “Maybe it was there all along, Jake.  Maybe what happened between me and Simon’s dad triggered what I’m going through now.  I don’t know.  I just know it feels right and so I’m pursuing it.  Why should I try to ignore it and push it to the back of my mind when it’s clearly part of who I am and something I’m finding that I enjoy expressing?”

He nodded again.  “Of course you shouldn’t.  I think, like I said a few weeks ago, you need to get together with another guy.  Do some stuff together… have some fun.  See if it really is what you want.”

I smiled over at him.  “You’d be okay with that?”

“Yeah… of course I would.  It’s clearly pretty important to you.”

I beamed at him, hugely grateful that he was being so understanding about something which could have proven vexatious.

After a few seconds I cheerfully added, “On a totally unrelated matter, I’m thinking of going to the office Christmas party this year.  Would you be able to sleep at your mum’s that night?”

Jake grinned broadly.  “Oh, right… in case you get lucky with one of the filing boys?”

“That’s not the reason I’m going,” I lied.  I didn’t want endless witticisms from him between now and then.  “I’m just hoping to widen my circle…”

Jake chortled.  “I think you did enough of that last night!”

“Come on, Jake, you know what I mean… I’m just trying to be sociable… you’re always saying I should make more friends…”

“Don’t worry – I’ll get out of your way.  Just… you know… be careful.”

“Okay, thanks,” I said.

“Don’t forget to… you know… buy some –”

“Okay, thanks,” I repeated with enough finality to let Jake know the subject was dropped.  I really didn’t want a lecture from my son about the importance of safe sex.


After I’d dropped Jake off at college, I called into the petrol station at Sainsbury’s on the way to work. Having filled up on fuel, I grabbed a bottle of cheap chardonnay and a few essentials we were running low on in the little shop and then went to pay.

The lad on the till was young and rather cute, and when the bloke in front of me asked for a packet of Rizlas which was on a low shelf behind him, he bent over to show off a very nice backside bulging conspicuously in his tight black work trousers.  I wondered if that’s why people bought Rizlas – just to get a flash of cashiers’ bums – as they always seem to be placed in the least accessible places.

“Have you got a red packet, actually?” the bloke in front asked.

Oh, nice one, I thought.  I was quite sure the colour of the wrapper didn’t signify anything about the product inside.

The lad turned around and bent down again to hunt around among the boxes of matches and cheap lighters.  The guy in front of me strained to get a good look at his arse as he did so – almost standing on tiptoes to peer over the desk at it – and I felt sure I was in the presence of a fellow devotee of the male derriere.

It was indeed an extremely nice bum he was marvelling at: solid-looking with nice, full buttocks.  It occurred to me that Cameron would describe it as ‘fuckable’, and, having had that thought present itself, I couldn’t help but muse on what it would be like to slide myself into it and give it a test drive.  It was the sort of backside a guy would want to look at while he was humping away: if the cashier was riding you, you’d want him to turn his back to you so you could get a good view of your cock sliding in and out between its round, succulent cheeks.  Or maybe, on second thoughts, it would be better to have him facing you.  That way you’d see his cock, stiffened with excitement, bobbing around in front of your face while he pumped his pert little tush up and down.

Yes, front-on might be best. Apart from the fact he had a very pleasant face, which would probably be quite expressive during sex, it might be possible to crane forward and suck the tip of his hard-on as he worked his magic with his bum. It would be nice to watch him wanking himself, gasping with that cute mouth of his, and have him shoot over your –

“Pump, please?”

“Er… sorry?” I asked, momentarily confused.

“‘Ave you got fuel?” he asked.  His voice was quite deep and his accent strong.  He pronounced ‘fuel’ with two distinct syllables.

“Oh… er, yeah.”

“Which pump, then?”

I glanced over at my car.  “Number… ah… two, please.”

He rang it into the till.

“And this lot,” I added, putting my wine and groceries on the desk.

He turned to one side and called out: “Gill!  Alcohol!”  Actually, it sounded more like ‘alk-rol’.

A grey-haired woman peered out from around a door and nodded.

Evidently he was too young to be able to determine that I was eligible to buy a bottle of wine.

As he scanned my few items of shopping, I wondered how old he actually was, given what I’d just been fantasising.  Did having to get an older colleague to authorise the sale of the wine mean he was younger than twenty-one?  Or might he be younger than eighteen?

Could I have been imagining having sex with a seventeen-year-old boy?  A lad who might be younger than Jake?

Is that what I had come to?

Jesus Christ, Robert, I thought.  Get a grip, man.

Just then someone tapped my shoulder and a voice behind me said, “Hello, stranger!  Where’ve you been hiding?”

I turned around and saw Guy grinning at me.  He was wearing a leather jacket and had at least two days of stubble.  With his hair cut so short, he looked, quite simply, stunning.

The realisation that I might have been perving over a lad who was younger than my son had been alarming enough: now I was staring into the face of a man whose backside I had drunkenly rimmed.  The very same backside that was now right there in front of me, albeit hidden away in his underwear under the back of his jeans.

I was momentarily lost for words.

Guy laughed.  “Aren’t you speaking to me?”

“Yeah… I… wow!  It’s been way too long!”

He laughed again.  “It’s only been a couple of months, mate.  But how are you keeping?  How’s Jake?”

Before I could answer, the cashier said in a monotone, “Seventy six pounds eighty one, please.”  He said pounds like ‘pa-ands’.

“We’re both fine,” I told Guy, and then turned to push my card into the reader.  “How are you guys?”

“Likewise, likewise… we’re both good,” Guy said.

“Could you check the amount and enter your PIN?” droned the cashier.

“Look,” Guy said.  “We really should go and see another match.  The four of us.  It was a good night… well, I mean the football was good too… but it was good to stay over in that hotel… you know… have a laugh and stuff.”

And stuff.  Yeah… the ‘and stuff’ part had certainly been the highlight.

I turned to key my PIN into the keypad.

“Yeah… it was good.  You’re right – we should do it again.”

“Let’s commit to it,” Guy said.  “See who’s playing in the New Year and book something up.  Make it even better than last time.”

You really want me to lick your arse again, I thought.  And, after what Cameron had revealed about his habits on the oil rig, I suspected he wanted rather more than that.  It was obvious from the excitement on his face that he was well up for whatever was going.

And I was too.  Let’s be honest about it.

“Yeah… let’s do that,” I smiled.

The boy – the underage boy – had packed my shopping into an orange carrier and stuffed the receipt into it.

“Don’t wimp out on me, Rob,” Guy chuckled.  “Let’s make it a firm date.”

A date.  That sounded a bit heavy.

But, picking up my bag, I turned to him and grinned.  “Yeah.  We’ll make a night of it.  For sure.”

He grinned back and, with a playful wink, said, “Even better than last time, big boy!”

As I passed him to leave, I half-expected him to slap me on the arse.  Although just weeks earlier I would have been outraged by having something like that done to me by another man, at that moment – right there in the petrol station – I think I’d have rather liked it.

It would have been like he was staking out his claim for me.  Telling me, with his actions speaking far louder than his words could, that he’d let me do whatever stuff turned me on with my face between his legs, but this time we both knew where this was headed.  Last time had been just a warm-up, just a few first tentative steps.  Now we both knew the score, this time was the real deal: if I chose to stay over somewhere with him, my arse – to put it bluntly – belonged to his cock.

There’d be no more pussying around: I had to accept how it would end.  Me on all fours with him behind me; the two of sweating as I took it from him; the sounds of our sex growing faster and faster; him grunting as he squirted his seed deep into my bowels.

I’d be happy with that; I’d let him use my bum to pleasure himself if that’s what he wanted.  I’d lick his arse and suck his cock and then, in return, he could fuck me until he came.  I’d prefer to use him, of course, but I’d understand his reluctance to let me do that to him and I’d have to accept it.

As I got into my car, I looked over at him inside the shop paying for his petrol.  He was staring at me; that smile still etched on his face.  I smiled back and gave him a thumbs-up.  That pleased him a lot.  Maybe he took it that I was accepting our arrangement; that as long as I could rim him again, he could fuck me.

He smirked broadly and gave me a thumbs-up in return as I pulled out from the forecourt.


On the drive to work, I wondered how Jake would react if I suggested that we go away for an overnight stay to see a football match with Simon and his dad. He’d certainly be positive about it: he had himself, after all, suggested another trip away as a way of me spending some more time with Guy. But I was a little concerned about the form his positivity might take: would he tease me with innuendoes about what might happen between the two of us dads, or would he find it funny that I was setting myself up for a ‘date’ with another man?

I wouldn’t be able to stand it if he were to make ‘phwoar’ type quips about what might go on in the hotel room after lights-out: it wasn’t really his style but I wouldn’t put it past him.  If he said something like that in front of Simon and Guy it would be excruciating.

I’d have to introduce the idea with some kind of rider.  ‘Look, Jake, I don’t want any inappropriate comments, but…’  Or, ‘Jake, don’t even think about cracking some lame joke, but…’  Or even, ‘Pretend you know nothing about what happened between me and Guy Leeson, but…’

Once we got to the ‘but’ it would be plain sailing.

I wondered if, in the hotel room with Guy, I’d be able to say the same about the ‘butt’.

It was obvious that, if we did commit to arranging something and the four of us were to stay over somewhere, I’d have to make sure that Guy and I didn’t share a room which was right next door to that of our sons.  Even staying opposite them on the same corridor might be rather too close for comfort.

It would be similar to the problem I had anticipated about bringing a man back home with me from the office Christmas party.  In both cases, the prospect of having my son listening to my clumsy homosexual fumblings from an adjoining room was not something I wished to endure.  With Guy, my discomfort would be exacerbated by having both of our sons overhearing our attempts to couple up.

Jake would be fully aware – if indeed Simon didn’t suspect – that when our respective doors were closed for bedtime, events in the room the two of us dads were sharing would soon be taking a sexual direction.  He would assume that, at some point during the evening, his father would end up tonguing his friend’s dad’s arse-crack and he would probably expect that one or both of us would get sucked.  I didn’t like the fact he knew enough about my sexual habits to presume I would want to rim Guy for a second time, nor that his knowledge of sex between men was sufficiently lurid for him to regard oral stimulation as commonplace.  I didn’t like it, but it seemed to be rather how things had turned out.

What I was less comfortable with was that, knowing Jake as I did, I was aware that he would not fail to discern and recognise our more intimate sounds.  He’d visualise us squatting together, listening to his friend’s dad noisily pleasuring himself between his own father’s eager buttocks.  He would know, from the slapping of my cheeks against Guy’s pelvis, that I was pushing my bum back against his cock, revelling in the sensation of being so roughly buggered by him.  He would hear me gasping and crying out, perhaps dimly conceiving that the balls which had given rise to him were being repeatedly thumped by those in the swinging scrotum of another man.

I found that I didn’t really care that Jake might assume that I would want to rim Guy and that we might do some other foreplay together; I wasn’t even that bothered that his friend Simon might realise that the guttural noises he could hear from our room were somewhat more than just drunken horseplay.  It was the thought of the two of them – but my son in particular – hearing me being sodomised by another man that I had issues with.  This was why our rooms would have to be far apart – preferably on different floors, if that were possible.

I didn’t want Jake to find out – through sounds he might hear or from what we might call out – that his father was more than willing to receive a man from behind without expecting him to reciprocate in turn.  If he really had to imagine me with another man, for some reason I wouldn’t be too bothered to think of him visualising me as the dominant partner: for him to see me as the man behind; for him to imagine me holding onto Guy’s hips and looking down at his hairy crack as my cock ploughed back and forth into his gaping hole; for him to think it was my balls whacking against Guy’s and my spittle dribbling down onto his back.

If Jake had to know I was having sex with Simon’s dad, I wanted him to picture me thrusting myself, with energy and vigour, into the other man; not being fucked by him.

At the very least I wanted him to think that, if his dad had submitted his backside to another man’s cock, that I’d done so purely in order to similarly gratify myself.  That I’d let my arse be used by his friend’s father so that I could, in time, enjoy swapping positions and using his equivalent hole to experience the same thrill.  To know that, even if I was being loosened by having to pay my dues to another man, my own rod would soon be more than making up for the time it had lost.

But it wouldn’t be like that.  I’d be the guy in front, taking it unconditionally from his friend’s father.  I’d be the one on all fours, being shafted by the bigger, hairier man, groaning with pleasure as my arse was stretched wide.  I’d be the one beating myself off, my mouth gasping, as I was roughly butt-fucked by a man whose slick, furry crack I’d just licked.  I’d be the one spraying my semen up the wall as the man behind pulled me close to him and pumped his own seed, hot from his sweaty balls, up into my bowels.

I might be calling out, “Give me it, Guy!  Squirt it up my arse!”  And he might be shouting, “Take it, Rob!  Take my fucking load!”

And, as trickles of his juices leaked down the insides of my thighs as he shuddered behind me, “God – that smells hot!  Jesus Christ, mate!”

We’d have to be on different floors.  Maybe in different hotels.


Once again I was musing on how one would get from A to B in the simplest most straightforward way. This wasn’t a geographical problem: this was the problem of what would happen between Guy and me from closing our bedroom door after saying goodnight to our sons, to stripping naked and enjoying our brief but hopefully satisfying male-to-male tryst on one of our hotel beds.

I was at my desk at work, halfway through checking someone else’s awe-inspiringly dull product specifications and unable to stop my mind from wandering.

I was attracted by the idea of being direct with Guy as soon as our bedroom door was closed.  Of saying, “Okay, mate.  We both know what we want, so let’s not waste time messing around.”  And then walking over to him, unzipping his fly and playing with his hardening organ through his zipper.  Or doing what Cameron had done with Malcolm and yanking his jeans down from behind, plunging my face between his buttocks and sliding my tongue into his moist hole.

Then we’d both get down to it, quickly shedding our clothes and clambering onto one of the beds so we could do with one another all the things we were so desperate to.  I’d suck his cock and lick his balls, and then I’d have him bend over for me so I could feed voraciously on that most private part he’d only once allowed another person to be intimate with.  And then I’d give myself to him and we’d fuck together, sweating and panting on the bed, both staring forward towards whatever generic hotel painting happened to be hanging above the headboard.  Guy’s hand would be beating at my erection, our bodies briefly joined man-to-man and the room slowly filling with the crude odour of our sex.

My problem remained, though, how to get to that point.  I liked the idea of being frank about my intentions – of bypassing the lumberingly circuitous route we’d taken last time – but at the same time, I didn’t want to put him off with an approach that was too overbearing.  Guy seemed to like to lead and to be the dominant partner, and he might not respond well to having another man appearing to force himself on him.

Perhaps I should be the one to pull out a bottle of whisky this time.  Grab us a couple of glasses and sit alongside him on his bed, pouring the two of us some overly generous measures to get the party started.  Compliment him on how he looked, especially once he started undressing.  Tell him how nice his bum filled out his briefs; how much I admired his substantial bulge out front.

Yes, that would get him going.  He’d soon be rock hard and making a ridge in of his underwear; offering my mouth his fat bell-end like it was the tip of an especially extravagant cigar.

The phone on my desk rang and I took a call about a camshaft I’d signed off.  Then I got back to the dreary table of specifications I’d been checking.

Where was I?  What had I been thinking about?  Had I reached any kind of decision about what I’d do when Guy and I were alone together?

I found myself wondering what men usually took with them when they were expecting to have sex together.  Condoms?  I’d definitely need to have a few packets of those stashed away.  A couple of tubes of KY jelly would also come in useful.  I wondered whether laxatives were also a standard part of the kit; maybe even some strong painkillers.

Since I was going to buy condoms, what size Guy would need?  One didn’t like to offend a bloke about stuff like that.  His cock would disappear without a trace into my own ‘U’ size marquees but if I got him anything less substantial than ‘XL’ he might be insulted.  I’d better buy a selection and play it by ear on the night.  Try and slip one on him without making an issue of its size.

I realised I was assuming that he would want to wear a condom – what if he didn’t?  He’d clearly worked his way through a succession of male partners during his time on the oil rig – if not before and since – and I didn’t really fancy gambling on the fact that he hadn’t picked something up along the way.

Surely he’d be used to rubbering up when he was faced with the splayed, hairy buttocks of a member of his own gender?  Surely he’d want a layer of protection around his organ given that it was another man’s dank, slimy rectum he was going to be working it up inside?

Again, I’d have to play it by ear.  See what happened on the night.

But I was determined there was no way he was going to get his cock anywhere near my virgin hole if there wasn’t a sheath of latex rolled down it.

So, how to get from A to B?  That was the question.  How do two purportedly straight men go from closing the door of the hotel room they were sharing to rutting on the bed without a stitch on just a short time later?  It wasn’t really the sort of problem one could just type into ‘Yahoo! Answers’.

Maybe I should start undressing first and flash my bum a bit towards him.  Since he was, by all accounts, used to regarding other men’s backsides as sexual opportunities, he’d be likely to see that as an invitation.  He’d probably start undressing with me, showing himself off to me.  He’d flash his own arse towards me, knowing full well the peculiar interest I had in it, and might bend down a few times to tantalise me with thoughts of pressing my face into the well-worn material between the backs of his thighs.

He might stay bent down and turn to me, over his shoulder, and say, “Come and get it, mate!”  And I’d quickly approach to find out if that thin strip of material between the backs of his thighs smelled and tasted as alluring as it looked.

Or he might come over to me as I sat on my bed, just like he had last time, and stand in front of me with the front of his briefs in front of my face.  This time I’d relish the view of him filling his underwear so abundantly and inhale as deeply as I could the thick wafts from his cock and his hot, sweaty balls.  I’d lean forwards and nuzzle my face into his briefs, feeling his cock harden against my face as I smelt his sharp, masculine scents.  And perhaps I’d reach up and pull his waistband down, letting his slowly swelling cock flop into my mouth and feeling his hands grasp the back of my head as his organ lengthened inch by inch towards my throat.

Matt Strickson startled me from my reverie, coming over to my desk with another set of figures for me to look through.  As he put the file on my desk, one of my pens rolled onto the floor and I bent out of my chair to pick it up.  As I got back up, I noticed Matt peering down at my bum with a distinctly interested expression on his face.  He may even have licked his upper lip slightly, but I can’t be sure.

I thanked him for the documents and he strolled back over towards his desk, flashing his own incredible backside, emblazoned so extravagantly by his flagrantly tight trousers, in my direction.

I wondered if, in spite of Cameron’s insistence to the contrary, career-obsessed Matt might after all be harbouring a secret fascination for his office-mates’ rears.  Had he really just looked at mine with what had appeared to be lust?  Was it possible that he could have been thinking about rimming me?  What it would be like to stick his face into my round backside and sniff my hairy crack through the combined whiff of my underpants and trousers?  To have me bend forwards for him so he could wedge his nose low down where my hole would be; to hungrily inhale another man’s roughest scent through the enticing patch of material that had been working up between his buttocks all day?

I looked over him sitting himself back down at his desk and he threw me an amicable smile.  I grinned back over at him and then we got on with what we were doing.

Could he really be one of my kind?

Was it possible that he might have been admiring the back of my work trousers, licking his lips to see the hem disappearing between the rounded orbs of my cheeks?  Imagining what underwear I might be wearing underneath them and how exciting it would to work his tongue around the back of them to seek out the taste of my hot, wet hole?  To have me yank my sweaty briefs down so he could probe the most carnal of another man’s openings; to push his face so hard against my squat, hairy arse that my swollen ball-sack would be bobbing against his chin.

The ping of an e-mail forced me back to reality.

Of course Matt wasn’t harbouring such thoughts!  Apart from anything else he was straight; and even if, like me, he was curious about his own kind, he would probably be disgusted at the thought of doing something so base as to be licking the hairy arse of a forty-odd year old bloke.

I got on with the product specifications, trying to focus my mind on the task in spite of how dull it was.

It occurred to me that in spite of him being straight, his lingering glance at my bum might nevertheless have been a betrayal of other, less imaginative but equally promising thoughts.  It wasn’t totally implausible, for example, to suppose he might have been thinking what it would be like to work his cock into the curvaceous backside I was so obligingly presenting for him.  Even the straightest of blokes must occasionally succumb to such illicit thoughts when they find themselves staring at another man’s splayed and undeniably inviting rump.

If he had been privately pondering the potential of my bum for a bit of improper penetration, such thoughts would make for a very appealing prospect.  I could easily envisage him, as a younger man and probably someone who could be sexually very demanding, holding onto me and driving himself in and out of my spread behind.  Cameron said he thought Matt was probably well-hung so that would make it even more interesting: imagine his large and insistent erection, long and thick and with the impatience of youth, thrusting upwards so deeply into my bowels.

I looked over at him as he checked something on his computer monitor and compared it with a printout he had in his hand.  He had an angular face with a strong jaw line and pale, piercing eyes.  It was odd to think of another man in such a way, but I mused that he would make an amazing sexual partner.  He was tall, attractive, had a well-built cock (if I could believe Cameron) and an arse I would willingly have for breakfast, lunch and tea any day of the week.

I looked back down at the document I was supposed to be checking.  What the hell was wrong with me this afternoon?  Why was I having all these thoughts about a younger colleague?

I glanced over at him again.  Those eyes.  Jesus Christ!

I wondered if he liked football; whether he might want to come along on our trip with Guy and me.  Of course I would never ask him – I hardly knew the guy – but what if I did?  What if the three of us – somehow – were to end up sharing a room in the hotel?  The three of us stripping naked and playing around together.  It was a ludicrous idea – so implausible as to be laughable – but nevertheless I started to get hard at the thought of it underneath my desk.

Cameron had said that three men together could be a lot of fun.  I hadn’t really thought of myself in that position before but now that I did, the idea was as exciting as it was intriguing.  Three of us guys, probably a bit drunk, feeling horny and getting naked together; three pumped-up cocks demanding gratification; three hot, moist arseholes eager to please.  The possibilities were almost endless; the many combinations we could get ourselves into fascinating.

I gently rubbed myself through my trousers at the thought of having Matt rimming me while I bent down low to suck Guy’s cock.  Or Guy fucking me from behind while Matt stood in front of us both, holding my head and driving his cock in and out of my mouth.

The fun three men could have together!  The sheer variety of things we could do!

Matt standing behind me, fucking me, while Guy bent over in front of me so I could have my turn licking his arse.  Or Guy fucking me on the bed, lying on my back and as he held onto my ankles with both hands, while Matt squatted over me, lowering his arse and a lovely big pair of spunk-filled bollocks into my face.

Or – even better – the two of them lying flat on the bed like Cameron had shown me with his hands, so I could straddle over them and have both of their cocks fuck me at the same time.  That would be just amazing!  Slamming myself down on them, the two of them sweating and gasping.  Turning one way so Matt could see my arse being fucked and then the other so he could see my cock and balls jumping around over his stomach.

Reaching down to finger them both as they fucked me.  Enjoying their different smells as they thrust themselves together to reach up into my bowels.

And then Matt getting up and bending low so I could mount him, as Guy came up behind me and entered me as my hips were bucking back and forth.  The three of us heaving together like that: me in the middle, enjoying it both ways.  Giving it and taking it both at the same time.

It would be like being the middle segment of a weird centipede-like creature.  How amazing it would be to feel Guy’s thick cock pumping in and out of my bum while mine took up the same rhythm inside Matt’s splayed arse as bent over in front of me.  We’d be panting, grunting and laughing together at how wonderfully erotic three horny men could be with each other.

And the smell of the three of us!  Oh God, imagine that!

The powerful, unmistakeably rectal stink of two men’s bums being rapidly fucked at the same time would be incredible.  Better still, the raunchy nasal assault of our frantic joint penetration would combine in the heat of the room with the cloying reek of our sweat, the base fug of our six fat balls slapping together underneath us, and the acrid tang of Matt’s swollen cock being frantically wanked.  What a deliciously carnal and aggressively masculine aphrodisiac it would make!

Just a few whiffs of such an uncompromisingly homosexual musk – perhaps a single, bracing sniff of it – would have me hurtling towards my climax.

With a jolt, I realised Matt – the real Matt – was staring pointedly over at me across the office and that I was making a blatantly masturbatory motion against the front of my trousers.  He couldn’t see my hand beneath my desk but the rhythm of my elbow and the angle of my forearm told him everything he needed to know.

I felt my cheeks flush and threw him what I hoped he would take as an apologetic smile.  He raised his eyebrows towards me, his expression more quizzical than offended, and I quickly got up from my desk, pulling on my jacket to hide the prominent tenting of my crotch and darted off to the gents to attend to my urgent excitement.


When I got home that night, I found I had a message from Debbie. She was suggesting that we meet up again the following Friday night. It was the only night she was available this side of Christmas and she said wanted to spend it with me.

That was unexpectedly hopeful.

I skipped through a couple of paragraphs of general chit-chat and almost missed an ambiguously-worded invitation back to her place.  I had to re-read what she’d written a couple of times to make sure I had understood her correctly.  For something so loaded, it seemed odd that she had dropped it so casually into otherwise unremarkable small-talk.

As the letter went on, she offered to cook me a meal and to get in a few bottles of wine.  She mentioned that she’d noticed I’d had a Semillon on our first date and suggested I might enjoy something fuller bodied next time.  I wasn’t sure if I was misreading flirtatiousness into her e-mail – was she word-playing Semillon with semi-on? – until she wrote that she hoped ‘the two of us can make a night of it.’  If that wasn’t a thinly-veiled offer for me to stay over, I don’t know what would be.

How fantastic was this?

Not only did I have the prospect of another weekend away with Guy on the horizon, I now had an evening of likely passion lined up the following week with Debbie.  Her one night off and she was giving it – and herself, hopefully – to me.

I even had the office Christmas party to look forward to, with the promise of a hook-up to be arranged by Cameron.  That was quite soon, I thought.

I checked through my calendar on Outlook.  Yes, it was next Friday night.

Now there’s a coincidence.  That was also the night Debbie suggested…


We have, I grimly acknowledged to myself, something of a problem.

Do I risk offending Debbie by asking her to rearrange our evening – even though she said quite categorically that it’s her only available night – or do I miss the office party and miss meeting the likeminded ‘friend’ Cameron might have in store for me?

A pleasant evening spent with a woman, or a filthy night spent with a man?

Which was it to be?

Oh God.  I had, at the back of my mind, rather suspected that one day this choice would come but I’d hoped it wouldn’t be so soon.

Both prospects were so attractive in their different ways.

But which was it to be?

I clicked the ‘Reply’ button above Debbie’s e-mail.  This was going to be a difficult message to write.  I had to be very tactful with the wording.

“Hi Debbie,” I wrote.

“Thank you so much for the invite – it’s so great of you to ask me over and I can’t wait for us both to try the stronger stuff you mentioned.  Unfortunately, though, I’ve already arranged something that evening.  I know you have very little time right now, but do you think you could squeeze me in on another night?  I really hope so as I’m sure we’ll have a really great time together…”

The potential for a night of sex with a man was simply too good to pass up on.  Debbie, I resolved, would have to reschedule.

Talk about getting your priorities right.


Next story: Both Ways

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