Butt Monkey
by Robert Furlong


Part 23: Roadside Assistance

Driving over to Rugby for a meeting with a prospective customer, my car started spluttering on the A4304, and refused to respond when I tried to accelerate. Half a mile on, the engine was threatening to cut out altogether, so I pulled into the next lay-by, which was thankfully not too distant.

One might assume, as an engineer by trade, that I’d know my way around the innards of a car. In fact, I know embarrassingly little about what goes on beneath a car bonnet and have never had even the slightest inclination to find out. I can fix a vacuum cleaner, no problem, and could probably even get the better of a broken washing machine if given enough time. But present me with a car that won’t respond when you turn the key in the starter-thing, and I’m practically clueless.

I know how to phone the AA, though, and that usually gets me out of most pickles I find myself in.

After a forty minute wait, which I mainly spent on the phone to the Rugby office trying to get through to somebody competent enough to delay my meeting, a recovery van pulled up behind me and a young lad got out. I say ‘young lad’ but he must have been about thirty. He was tall and quite skinny and the fringe of his hair, which he’d gelled up, was bleached to a blondish-auburn colour. It was his hairstyle, and his jovial manner, which made him seem young, but the lines around his eyes betrayed that he’d been working outdoors for a good few years.

“Mr Furlong?” he asked, walking up to me. He had a cocky swagger to him which I instantly warmed to.

“That’s right,” I said and offered my hand for him to shake. I like to establish an air of formality on such occasions. Maybe I’m a bit old fashioned.

As he was checking my membership card, I glanced at his name badge. “Duncan Flood”, it read. “Roadside Assistant.”

He asked me what the problem was.

“It was making spluttering noises for the last few miles,” I explained. “And the accelerator pedal had no effect.”

“When you say ‘spluttering’, what do you mean?”

What was wrong with the word ‘spluttering’? It seemed a perfectly adequate description.

“Well, it was faltering,” I tried, struggling to think of a way to explain what the car had been doing without using the word ‘spluttering’. “It was as if it was coughing… like maybe the fuel wasn’t getting to the engine or something…”

The thing was spluttering. That was the only word for it.

He looked dubious; like I really had no idea what the hell I was talking about.

“Let’s have a look under the bonnet,” he suggested in a voice which was just on the polite side of patronising. “How do you open it?”

“I think there’s a catch in the glove compartment,” I replied.

Or was that where it had been in my old car? If I couldn’t even get right something as basic as opening the bonnet, the guy was going to think I was a total numpty.

He opened the passenger door and leaned in to take a look in the glove compartment.

“Actually it might be underneath – in the footwell,” I offered, trying to remember what exactly I’d had to do last time I’d opened the bonnet to fill up the screenwash. It was somewhere over that side of the car, I was sure.

He seemed quite occupied with looking in the glove compartment and I left him to it. Standing out front, watching other people driving past, I wondered if perhaps he was trying to find one of those tools that are specific to each car, like the alloy wheel-nut spanner which I have lying around somewhere.

After a minute or so, a catch deep inside the car clicked and the bonnet popped up slightly.

Duncan came around to join me at the front of the car and lifted the bonnet, clipping it into place. He nosed around under it, busying himself with checking that everything was plugged in where it should be and that there was nothing loose.

I took the opportunity to check out his backside as he leaned over the bonnet with his high-visibility jacket riding up. He was wearing a blue pair of heavy-duty trousers which didn’t give a lot way, but I suspected he’d have quite a nice, firm bum hidden away inside them which, in view of how thin he was, wouldn’t be too meaty but would have its own particular attractions lurking between his cheeks.

While I was idly checking him out, he surprised me by saying, without lifting his head from the car engine: “Some of that stuff in your glove compartment was a bit… er… bizarre, Mr Furlong.”

“Bizarre?” I repeated. “In what way?”

What was in there? A packet of mints, maybe? A small road map?

He kept pulling at wires and tightening connections as if we weren’t having this conversation.

“Those pictures. Drawings of men licking each other’s bums.”

I felt the blood drain from my face. “Drawings?”

“Yeah. And some articles. I didn’t even know blokes did that kind of stuff to each other.”

I didn’t know what to say. I had completely forgotten that I’d left the wodge of information I’d received from Cameron in there.

He stood up and smiled at me. “Is it a gay thing?”

“Actually, no,” I stammered. How on earth was I going to explain this? “I meant to throw all that away…”

“Seems an odd thing to have in your glove compartment,” he chuckled.

“Someone gave it to me,” I said hurriedly. I felt like a child pointing a finger and saying, “He did it, not me!”

“People give me a lot of stuff,” Duncan grinned. “But I’ve never been given anything like that!”

I was struggling to think of why I would have information like that in my glove compartment. “I… er…”

“Look,” he cut in, his expression becoming more serious. “I’m going to need to run a few tests. Get a bit of kit out of my van. You might want to sit in your car. It’s a bit cold out here.”

“I’m fine here,” I managed to say.

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

He fetched what looked like an old CB radio from his truck and started wiring it up to my engine. I stood alongside feeling like I was a pervert and a rather gormless one at that.

After taking a few readings, he asked, “So are you into that kind of stuff then?”

“What kind of stuff?” I replied. I knew exactly what he meant but I wanted to buy a bit of time to think up an answer.

“Licking other blokes’ bums,” he said flatly.

I considered my response. It wasn’t likely that he was going to turn nasty with me. I knew his name and could make a complaint with his company. But at the same time I didn’t really want to share my sexual fantasies with a stranger.

I decided to play it fairly neutrally.

“It was something I found out about on the internet a while back,” I said.

He kept running his checks and, if you were watching us from a distance, you wouldn’t even know that the two of us were talking.

“Have you ever done it?” he asked.

He seemed very curious about this. Perhaps his interest was more than just academic.

“I’ve… er… dabbled,” I admitted.

He looked over at me and grinned. “Are you gay, then?”

“Actually, no. Not at all. It’s just… well… something I was curious about…”

He nodded. “Curious about doing it or having it done to you?”

“Doing it,” I replied, unsure as to whether I was giving him too much information. “It seemed a very intimate thing to do to someone.”

He chuckled and got back to his machine. “Cor… d’ya think?!”

Then he asked, still pressing buttons and taking readings, “So have you actually tried it. I mean, for real?”

“You seem quite interested in this,” I observed.

He looked over at me again. His eyes were the colour of milky coffee.

“I just didn’t know people did this kind of stuff. I mean, I like to look at stuff on the internet just like any other guy. But I’d never even heard of this.”

I smiled. “Neither had I until just a couple of months ago.”

He nodded. “So, you didn’t answer my question. Have you actually done it?”

I was going to ask him what made him think he could expect answers to his questions, but his curiosity seemed sincere and I wondered if this might be something he’d want to investigate further on his own, just like I had over the last few weeks. I had in my mind that I might have in front of me my first fledgling recruit and I wanted to fuel his curiosity rather than quell it.

So I nodded back. “A couple of times, yes.”

He grinned. “But wasn’t it… like… really grim?”

I chuckled. “Not at all. It was very… er… stimulating.”

“And you’re definitely not gay?”

“I was married for nearly ten years. I’m pretty sure I’m not.”

Duncan stared at me, clearly fascinated. I wasn’t sure why my sexuality was so significant to him; perhaps he’d felt a tingling of his own when he’d looked at the drawings in my glove compartment and was relieved that this might be something that straight guys find appealing.

He got back to his machine and, having pressed a few more buttons to no avail, unplugged it from my engine.

“I can’t work out what the problem with your engine is,” he said. “The motherboard has probably burnt out. It’ll have to be taken in.”

“Taken in? Where?”

“There’s a repair centre over at Lutterworth. They’ll be able to run some proper tests and they’ll probably have a replacement motherboard in stock. It’s a pretty common make and model.”

I nodded. “Would you be able to follow me there? It might start splut… er… coughing again…”

He shook his head. “You can’t drive it. It’s not safe. I’ll phone them – they’ll send someone out to collect it.”

“I’m supposed to be at a meeting in Rugby.”

“I can give you a lift to that,” he offered. “And someone from the repair centre will bring the car over to you when they’ve sorted it out.”

I was impressed. “That sounds great.”

“All part of the service,” he smirked, throwing me what could have been quite a suggestive wink.

While Duncan was back in his van radioing through for a truck to come and take my car away, I took my briefcase out from the backseat and stashed the papers that Cameron had given me into it. I’d have to throw them away as soon as I could; preferably shred them.

Eventually he emerged from his van and told me that somebody would be with us within the hour.

I felt awkward that he was having to wait with me. The radio in his van kept crackling with new calls and it sounded like his skills, such as they were, were greatly in demand.

“I’m sure the recovery van can drop me off in Rugby,” I offered. “Feel free to get going if you need to.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, pulling out a packet of cigarettes and sitting down on what was left of a bench near an overstuffed bin. “It’s my job to take you where you’re going if I can’t fix your car, even if it means I get to sit around doing nothing for half an hour or so.” He smirked, lighting one up, and I realised he might appreciate having a paid break from fixing broken down cars.

He offered me one from his pack – when was the last time someone had done that? – and I politely refused.

“I don’t suppose you have a hip flask, though?” I grinned, sitting down next to him, and he shook his head and chuckled.

After we’d watched a couple of cars drive by, he returned to the subject I had been expecting him to.

“So this thing you do…” he started and then took a long drag on his cigarette.

“Rimming?” I asked, turning towards him.

He kept facing the road and exhaled the smoke. Then he turned to me, smiling, and said, “Is that what it’s called? Rimming?”

I nodded and he chuckled. “Good name! I like it!”

After a few moments and another drag from his cigarette, he asked, “So what’s the appeal, then?”

I considered his question. I wasn’t really sure myself. I’d read all the theories, heard all the explanations, but I still couldn’t figure out why it excited me so much.

After another car had driven by, I replied, no doubt a touch anticlimactically given how long it had taken me to think about it. “I don’t really know. I just like having my face down there. I like the smell of it, the taste of it.”

He turned back to face me, his expression puzzled.

“But it’s a bloke’s hairy arse! Isn’t it… like… ugh!?”

He pulled a face like he’d just eaten something unpleasant.

“You’d think so, but no. It’s surprisingly… er… arousing.”

He turned back to face the road and took another long drag from his cigarette.

“Are you interested in trying it, to see what it’s like?” I asked.

He smiled, and blew smoke out from between his lips and through his nose.

“It’d be kind of fun to feel someone do it to me, but if you’re asking would I like to lick another guy’s brown eye, the answer’s a definite ‘no’.”

“But you’d like to feel someone do it to you?”

He turned back to face me. “Yeah, it’d be kind of interesting. I don’t know if it would make me feel horny, but I wouldn’t mind trying it.”

“With a woman, obviously?”

He laughed. “You’re lucky if you can get them to give you a blow job, mate. I wouldn’t even dream of asking one to lick my ring-piece!”

“So not necessarily a woman?”

He smirked at me, flicking his ash onto the tarmac. “That’s right. Not necessarily a woman.”

I turned back to face the road. I felt that if I pursued this any further I would be propositioning him. I’d made my position transparently clear: it was up to him to make the next move.

We sat in silence for a while and I think he was waiting for me to say something; to make him some kind of offer. When it became evident that I wasn’t – that I’d gone as far as I dare – he stubbed out his cigarette and turned back to face me.

“So when you do it to a bloke, I guess he has to be… you know… fresh from the shower?”

“I think that would defeat the whole point,” I smiled. “He needs to be clean, yeah, but you want to know what he tastes like, not the shower gel he’s just washed himself with.”

Duncan nodded.

“So if a guy had been, say, sitting for a few hours in his van, driving around, that wouldn’t be a problem?”

I nodded. “It’s nice to have a bit of sweat down there… gives it a bit of flavour. So if he’d been, say, working on cars during that time, getting in and out of his van, that would make him pretty ideal.”

He laughed and looked down at the edge of the kerb.

Then he looked back up at me – his eyes had a hardness to them but their colour was quite exquisite – and asked, “Do you mind where you do it? Would doing it, say, in the bushes next to some layby be a problem for you?”

I smiled at him. “Not at all. It would give it a certain… rustic charm.”

He smiled back but I got the feeling he didn’t know what ‘rustic’ meant. ‘Spluttering’, after all, had proven difficult.

He stood up and looked down at me and abruptly his smile seemed to freeze on his face. Within that split second I could see he was pulling back, suddenly unsure of how to proceed.

It was one thing to make jokes with a guy about him rimming you; to flirt with him and tease him with half-hearted come-ons. It was quite another to pull down your underwear and let him actually do it to you; it could present all sorts of uncomfortable questions, especially if you found you enjoyed it.

Given Duncan’s change of heart, I chose not to say anything: I thought it best to hold back and let the invitation come from him. I didn’t want him to accuse me of forcing myself on him or of misinterpreting a bit of playful banter. If he wanted a taste of what he knew I was offering, he had to ask for it.

He said, bluntly, “I’m going for a piss.”

I nodded and he just stood there, staring at me and seemingly wondering what to do.

“In the bushes,” he added.

I nodded again.

He continued to waver, half-wanting to walk away from me and half-wanting to make his intentions clearer.

In the end, he settled for: “Do you need to go too?”

I smiled and said, “Yeah. Couldn’t hurt.”

I got up and followed him into the tangle of undergrowth next to the layby. A car drove past as we clambered our way through the dead remains of that summer’s brambles and nettles and I wondered what, if the occupants had seen us, they thought we were up to.

We pushed our way into a small clearing behind a broad rhododendron bush with thick evergreen foliage. We would still be visible from the road to someone who was specifically looking, but to casual drivers we would be largely obscured.

Duncan walked up to a tree and undid his belt. He glanced over at me, unzipping himself, and then hitched his blue work trousers down enough for me to see his red underwear underneath and the tops of the pale, freckled cheeks of his bum. His underwear had a white pattern on it but was much too folded for me to make out what the shapes were. The waistband read: ‘Hello Ladies’. They looked like the leftover of some bawdy night out with his mates; a stag night, maybe.

I wasn’t sure what to do: should I walk over to him, or should I go over to another of the trees and make out that I was also preparing to urinate?

I decided to hold fire and just stand there, waiting to see what he did. I clung onto my resolution that he had to be one the invite me: that was the only way this was going to work.

He continued to face the tree but keep peering over at me, watching for my next move.

I held my distance, unwilling to be the first to show my hand.

After a few moments, he asked either “Don’t you want a go?” or “Don’t you want to go?” I wasn’t sure which.

Still uncertain as to his motives, I thought I’d better play it safe. I asked him, “What do you want me to do?”

He looked back over at me and then pulled down the back of his trousers and underwear a bit more, revealing the lower and more interesting half of his arse-crack.

“If you want it,” he called over, “come and get it.”

He’d been mustering up the courage to do this: standing there like he was about to piss was his way of giving himself a way of backing out. I realised that this was probably his first homosexual experience, barring, perhaps, the sort of laddish drunken gropes between him and his mates which would be more to amuse than to arouse.

That made me the sort of guy who enticed other men into having their first homosexual experiences. It was a label I wasn’t terribly comfortable with.

I walked over to him and stood behind him. His bum was quite skinny but very inviting. The cleft, or what I could see of it, looked practically hairless.

“Are you sure you want this?” I asked.

He nodded. “If you’re up for it.”

Like the guy I’d hooked up with in the toilet and the waiter at the restaurant, Duncan was no doubt aware that this could be one of the few chances in his life that he’d get to experience someone doing this to him. It wasn’t every day, I was sure, that people would offer him sex – even as tacitly as I had – when he was fixing up their cars and to have someone offer to do to him what I was – well, it was, if you pardon the pun, not to be sniffed at.

I knelt down behind him and pulled his trousers down a little bit lower. His underwear came with them, but the waistband clung to his buttocks, straightening the material out so that I could see that the white patterned shapes were actually old-fashioned moustaches with their tips curled upwards. I grabbed the waistband and pulled it down as well, obscuring the moustaches among the folds again.

“Never had a bloke pull my pants down,” he laughed tensely.

I could already smell his arse – a familiar, piquant whiff from his crack – and it was making my mouth water.

He turned around a little and I saw his cock poking out from the front of his trousers, looking shrivelled and slightly despondent flopping over his open fly in the cold air. Its wrinkled shaft was much browner than the rest of his skin and his foreskin puckered open just short of the dry tip of its pink head.

“If anyone comes,” he said, “stand up like we’re having a piss.”

“We’ll hear them pull up,” I suggested, already aware that the recovery truck would be on its way and that we might need to cut things short.

“People might be out walking their dogs… joggers… cyclists… I dunno…”

I nodded. “Okay.”

He turned back to face the tree, presenting his almost hairless bottom to my face again.

I leaned forwards and touched my nose very lightly into his arse-crack. Before I could appreciate the fullness of his scent, he pulled away, making an unnerving giggling sound. “Your nose tickles!” he snorted, looking down at me over his shoulder.

I glanced up at him. “Sorry!” I’d have to be less sensual with him; this was going to descend into farce if he got the giggles every time I brushed against him.

He turned back towards the tree and bent forwards a little to push his backside out towards me. Whatever else he was feeling, he was certainly keen to know what it was like to be rimmed.

I levelled my nose with his backside again and pressed myself more firmly into him. His buttocks were firm and muscular against my face, presumably from hopping in and out of his van all day, and the cleft between them smelled satisfyingly sharp. It was a rough, rather sour scent, far less sweaty than I had anticipated, and it had rich, almost woody, undertones.

I extended my tongue and heard him giggle again. It was rather cute to hear him laugh like that: quite girlish. He must be very ticklish in this area and had probably never had cause to realise it before.

He must have liked the warm, wet feel of my tongue sliding into his crack because he bent a little further forward, grabbing hold of the tree. He pushed his arse outwards, opening his buttocks to give me better access to his lushly-scented cleft.

I reached up with both hands and held his hips to steady myself and pushed my tongue deep into his crack. All of the men I had rimmed up until then had been very hairy between their buttocks. Duncan, by contrast, was silky smooth and, to my surprise, this seemed in no way to diminish the intensity of his taste and smell. I had assumed that a hairy crack would trap a man’s odours more than a hairless one, but Duncan’s taste was just as strong, although conspicuously different, from Guy’s and the bloke from Asda who I had rimmed in the toilet, both of whom had been abundantly hairy. (His smell was, perhaps thankfully, a good few notches below the powerful full-on stink of the backsides of Shane the carpenter and Greg the waiter.)

Finding Duncan’s wrinkled hole with the tip of my tongue and having its raunchy, acrid taste send shivers down my spine, I began to feel my cock hardening in my trousers. Running my tongue around it, relishing its biting tang, I suddenly realised how much I liked this position: squatting behind another man with my face pressed between his buttocks. It was arousing, yes, but it also felt ‘right’ to be poised like this, with my nose wedged into a fellow male’s arse-crack and my tongue lapping at his most tender and intimate spot.

He muttered, “Yeah, get right in there!” and pushed his bum harder into my face. As he did so, his body started moving rhythmically – I realised he was rubbing his cock.

I pressed the tip of my tongue firmly into the middle of his puckered entrance and forced it open. The strong-tasting ooze from within was almost electrifying on my tongue and I urgently probed further, finding it difficult to breathe quickly enough in my mounting excitement.

Feeling Duncan’s rhythm becoming stronger and faster, I reached around to grab his cock from him and take over wanking him. I found, to my astonishment, that he was by now fully and impressively erect. I had thought he was trying to rouse himself into excitement when I’d felt the rhythm of his hand: I hadn’t realised that the feel of my tongue on his arsehole had caused him to stiffen so quickly.

His cock felt unexpectedly large given how unimposing it had looked in its floppy state. Its surface felt as if it was swathed with veins and its head was sticky and wet; like a fat, oozing plum.

I started masturbating it as best as I could, given the awkwardness of the angle I was at. Nevertheless, he appreciated my efforts and ground his backside against my face as if in encouragement.

I worked my tongue in and out of his tight opening, delighting in the murky, dirty taste he was exuding and inhaling as deeply as I could the more delicate but irrefutably raunchy scent of his arse-crack.

This had to be rimming at its very best and I was so pleased that Duncan was enjoying it with me. His cock was throbbing in its swollen hardness as I wanked it and from the dribbles of stickiness it was weeping onto my fingers, I could tell he was getting extremely aroused.

I pulled back from licking between his buttocks and stood up behind him. Taking my hand off his cock, I hurriedly unzipped and released my own, arching upwards at full size in response to the tastes and smells of Duncan’s bum.

I had a strong desire to fuck him: right there standing behind him with him bending forwards and grabbing onto the tree. I contented myself, though, with sandwiching my cock between his buttocks, grabbing his cheeks and pressing them together with my thumbs, and working myself back and forth along his spit-sodden arse-crack.

I liked the feel of being in this position: just like rimming him, it felt ‘right’ and ‘natural’ to be behind him like this, thrusting my thick organ up and down between his bared bum-cheeks as he bent over in front of me. In spite of how slippery his crack was, his buttocks had enough friction to grip my foreskin tightly so that with every thrust my cock-head would emerge, plump and reddened, from between his cheeks. My balls were thumping against the tops of his legs, feeling heavy and full as I bucked my hips back and forth.

Duncan obviously found, perhaps to his own surprise, that he liked this position too: his hand returned to his cock and he pumped it quickly, excited to have a man pretending to bugger him and apparently finding easy to disregard any reservations that might be gnawing at the back of his mind. As he pushed his bum back at me in time with my thrusting cock, he looked up at me, over his shoulder, his mouth a grinning snarl, and said, “Yeah! This is so fucking hot!”

I slid my cock up and down his crack, masturbating myself between his buttocks. I grinned back at him, the two of us smirking at each other as if we were amused at being so delightfully naughty together. Duncan probably thought that I do this often: that I was well-practised at picking men up and of having them bend over for me. He was obviously unaware that, like him, I was experiencing and greatly enjoying my first time in such a homosexual position.

He pulled away from me and stood up. Turning to face me, he cheerfully blurted out, “I wanna do it to you! Let’s change places!”

I hoped he was going to rim me and took up my place in front of the tree, yanking down the back of my trousers and underwear to expose my arse to him. Instead of squatting down behind me, though, he pushed his cock between my butt-cheeks and rubbed himself up and down inside my arse-crack as I had been doing to him.

He grabbed my hips and made like he was fucking me, the tops of his thighs making rhythmic smacking sounds against my buttocks. His balls were slapping against the bottom of my arse and I bent lower to open my cheeks wider, hoping they would rub against my hole when he thrust himself back and forth.

I bent over to give him better access and then looked over my shoulder at him grinning down at me as he worked his cock quickly up and down between the cheeks of my arse. I smiled back up at him and he said, “Yeah! Take it!”

This was clearly far more arousing than he might have expected it to be, had he ever imagined doing such a thing with another man. He liked the position of being behind me just as much as he had enjoyed being in front. He was panting as he worked himself inside the forested cleft of my arse; staring down at his erection with fascination as his shiny helmet repeatedly thrust upwards from between my buttocks before quickly disappearing back between them.

He grabbed my hips tighter, pulling my arse further towards him, and muttered, “This must be like fucking a bloke’s arse!” as if it had only just dawned on him that we were simulating male-on-male anal sex.

I smiled back up at him but didn’t respond. I wanted to quip something like, “No shit, Sherlock!” as Jake often would to me, but it didn’t seem appropriate to make jokes.

He kept pounding at my backside and I found that, like he had, I enjoyed it hugely. Once again the position felt very natural to me: it felt right to be offering another man my arse by bending down in front of him and for him to be using me to pleasure himself. The rhythm of his organ between my cheeks and the beating of his balls against my anus were turning me on hugely.

I grabbed my cock and jerked it roughly, grinning up at him over my shoulder. He smiled down and then made another snarling face, pumping his cock more aggressively in my arse-crack. I worked back against him, pushing my bum into him with every upward thrust of his cock, and he said, “You fuckin’ want it? Don’t you? You fuckin’ want it right up you!”

Before I had time to answer – assuming, of course, that he wanted an answer – he pulled back from me and started masturbating himself furiously. I turned around to face him and pulled at my own organ.

“I’m getting close!” he informed me as his hand pounded violently up and down the length of his organ. His foreskin was sliding back and forth across the fattened head of his cock so fast that the action looked almost mechanical.

He muttered, almost breathlessly, “D’you give blow jobs?”

Like I was a prostitute.

I didn’t reply but reached between his legs and ran my middle finger from the base of his balls, back along the ridge between his legs to find his wet, sticky opening just behind.

“Ah, yeah!” he mouthed and smirked at me. “That’ll do!”

I worked my finger into him, being very gentle, and took up a slow rhythm moving in and out of his hole.

“That is fucking hot!” he said and pushed his backside down onto my hand, desperate to take more of my finger.

I pushed more of it into him – up to the second knuckle – and his rhythm on his cock quickened to an even more frantic speed. He kept pushing back against my finger until he had its entire length inside him.

Wondering if I should suggest fucking him – from the way his arsehole was eating my finger, he might well be up for it – I quickened the wrist of my other hand, pumping away at my own organ.

Suddenly he gasped, “I’m there! I’m fucking cumming!”

Without thinking about it, I squatted down in front of him and opened my mouth wide in front of his cock. For some reason – perhaps having done something similar with Guy – I had an urge to drink his seed; to swallow it in gulps as it erupted from his cock.

“Ah, yeah!” he exclaimed and directed its head between my lips as the first squirts of his hot semen were ejected from the swollen slit. I eagerly took each spurt of his ejaculum, drinking down the copious flow of it as he wanked himself into my mouth. It tasted salty and acrid but I loved the sensation that I was feeding from him; consuming every drop of the exploding climax that surged in thick pulses out of it.

“Fucking eat it!” he cried out and kept working himself with his hand, milking his veiny erection to drain as completely as he could the paired nuts that dangled below it. I guzzled hungrily at his fountain, feeling his rectum spasming tightly on my finger which was still buried deep inside of him.

As his orgasm subsided and the squirts from his slit were weakening, I reached forwards and took the plump red head of his organ into my mouth, sucking the last dregs of his cum up through his cock from his gratified balls. I swallowed down the last of the ooze, wanking myself quickly and feeling my own orgasm drawing near.

He pulled back from me and my finger slid out of his arse with a low, rasping fart.

I stood up and masturbated myself as quickly as I could, which was a good deal slower than the rhythm he had been able to sustain on himself. I noticed that my cock was much larger than his – it hadn’t occurred to me until that moment – and for the first time in my life, I found myself feeling a little proud of my size. It suddenly seemed to be rather a turn-on to find myself so much bigger than Duncan. Instead of feeling like I was some kind of freak, I felt an urge to flaunt myself for him; to show off my large endowment for his admiration.

I thought he might back away and pull up his trousers, disgusted with himself for going so far with me, but he didn’t. Instead, he grinned at me and said, “I know what’ll get you off!”

He reached between his legs, putting his hand beneath his softening cock and squatting down slightly to grope behind the almost hairless bag of his scrotum.

After rubbing himself down there, he surprised me by bringing his hand up to my face and outstretching his index finger in front of my nostrils.

“Sniff it,” he commanded. “Sniff my arse.”

I leaned forward and sniffed at his finger, getting a mere whiff of the scent of his anus but finding myself hugely excited by the act of him doing this to me.

He grinned at me inhaling his dirtiest scent from his finger and then said, “Lick it.”

I obeyed his instruction and licked at his outstretched digit, tasting a slight tang of the strong flavour I’d enjoyed earlier.

“You dirty bastard,” he laughed and pushed his finger into my mouth. “Like my arse! Go on, mate! Feed on it!”

I found myself salivating as he worked his outstretched finger back and forth into my mouth. I sucked at it like it was his cock, tasting the odorous sleaze of his backside on it; faint but distinct on his skin.

He grinned at me again and kept urging me on. “Eat my shitter! Go on! Lick it! Taste my hole!”

As I sucked at his finger – the taste all but gone – I began to climax, squirting thick strings of my seed over the deadened leaves and twigs on the ground.

He pulled his finger out of my mouth and, even while my release was in full flow, laughed, “Jesus, mate! I can’t believe you swallowed my spunk!”

“All part of the service,” I managed to gasp, still pumping my jizz over the ground, and he laughed again.

We cleaned ourselves up as best we could and then hitched up our underwear and trousers. Duncan seemed remarkably good-natured, given what we’d just done, and the issues I had expected him to have to face post-orgasm didn’t show any signs of manifesting themselves.

He had clearly enjoyed what we had done and that seemed to be all that mattered to him. Perhaps he realised that his sexuality was a little more complex than he’d had the chance to appreciate up until that point, but if he did, he behaved like he simply cheerfully accepted it.

I wished that I had managed to be so nonchalant after my first tryst with Guy, instead of falling into a deep introspective reverie the way I had. If only my reactions to the unfamiliar could be so simplistic.

As we traipsed back towards the road, Duncan asked me: “So how do you get to meet other guys who like doing… er… that thing you did?”


“Yeah. That’s it.”

“You enjoyed it?” I asked.

He chortled. “Couldn’t you tell, mate? I thought I… you know… threw in a few clues.”

I smiled over at him. “Okay. So obviously you’re thinking about how you might get to do it again?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “I think so.”

“What about your wife… your girlfriend… whatever?”

He shrugged. “It’s not like it’s anything serious. Just like having a wank with a guy licking your arse. I can’t see how it could be a problem.”

“So you’d tell her?”

He laughed again. “Bloody hell, mate – of course I wouldn’t! But it wouldn’t be anything serious so it wouldn’t matter. It wouldn’t be like I was seeing another woman behind her back or something.”

We clambered out from the undergrowth back onto the layby.

I wondered if we had the appearance of two guys who had just had sex together. Whether people driving past would be able to hazard even a remotely accurate guess at what we’d been doing from our demeanour and the slightly dishevelled state we’d got ourselves in.

Whether maybe one in a thousand of them – or even one in ten thousand – might correctly speculate that the older guy in the suit had been squatting behind the younger man wearing the AA jacket and had given the crack of his bared arse a thorough licking.

“I’m not sure how you go about meeting guys for this kind of stuff, Duncan,” I told him. “Like I said at the start, I’ve only known about my own interest for a couple of months.”

He nodded.

“I suppose,” I went on, “you could try putting drawings of guys rimming in your glove compartment. That worked out quite well for me.”

He chuckled.

As we were talking, a truck pulled up with a logo on its bonnet showing a recovery vehicle with a clip art man’s manically happy face sticking out of the driver’s window. Underneath it read Lutterworth Vehicle Repairs; Full Motorway Recovery Service.

The man who got out of the truck couldn’t have made himself look more different from the image on the logo if he’d tried. He was grey-haired, unshaven and looked determined to be as humourless as he could manage.

“Footlong?” he asked gruffly.

“That’ll be him,” chirped Duncan. “Definitely him,” he emphasized, and chortled loudly.

I felt my face blush as I corrected the driver’s pronunciation of my name.

We left him dourly hoisting my car up onto his truck with an electronic winch, and set off for Rugby so that Duncan could drop me off at my meeting.

“So… come on,” he began, almost as soon as we’d pulled out of the layby. “How do you meet guys to do stuff with?”

I repeated that I was new to this but told him a little about the man I’d met in the public toilet. I failed to mention the small detail of me having to pay for my fun.

“Yeah, I know stuff like that goes on in bogs,” he smiled. “I just didn’t know the guys there might lick your arse.”

“I don’t think it happens very often,” I said. “I think guys like me – and perhaps guys like you as it turns out – are few and far between.”

He nodded. “It’s not something you really hear of.”

He was a fast driver – we were going well above the speed limit – and he had the disconcerting habit of keeping his left hand on the gear stick instead of the steering wheel.

“If ever you fancy another try, I can let you have my phone number,” I suggested. “You’d have to keep the message pretty vague, though, if I wasn’t in.”

He didn’t immediately commit himself to anything. Instead, he asked, “So you don’t live alone?”

“My son Jake lives with me but he’s at college most days.”

“Are you seeing anyone at the minute? A woman, I mean?”

I nodded. “I’m kind of… er… dating. I’m seeing her later this week, actually. But that shouldn’t be a problem. Like you said, if you were to come over to mine, it wouldn’t be anything serious. No-one has to know anything.”

He smiled and seemed relieved that I had at least the hint of a woman in my life. Perhaps he’d been worried that, in spite of my assurances to the contrary, that I might have actually been a gay guy looking for more than just sex.

“Okay,” he agreed. “I’ll give you my mobile number as well. Same goes for you too, though – be careful what you say in a message.”

“Sounds fair enough.”

I wondered how far he would want to go: whether he’d let me mount that hairless backside of his after I’d rimmed him; whether he’d want to penetrate me.

“Do you think you’d be interested in rimming me?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I dunno. We can find out… have some fun trying some stuff, maybe.”

I smiled.

“I’ve never been with a bloke, not up until now,” he went on. “But I’ve always figured that you just have to take things as they come in life. See what you like and what you don’t like. Just go with the flow.”

I nodded. “That’s a very embracing way to approach the world.”

“Anything we do would be just for fun,” he asserted. “No gay stuff. No kissing or saying stuff to each other. If I come around to your place, it’s got to be like it was back there in the woods – just the two of us having a wank with each other.”

I didn’t remind him that what we’d done in the woods was rather more than ‘having a wank’ but instead readily agreed to his terms. If he was happy that ‘having a wank’ could extend to me rimming him and to us pretending to fuck each other, I’d be interested to see in which other directions we could stretch the definition.

Duncan and I were never going to be best mates – that much was abundantly clear – but we could, perhaps, become ‘fuck-buddies’ as Cameron had called it.

He pulled up outside the company I was supposed to have arrived at a good two hours earlier and we exchanged details.

“You might want to wash your face before your meeting,” he suggested. “You’ve still got a whiff of my arse on you.”

I smiled. “I can still taste your spunk as well. It keeps repeating on me.”

He laughed. “Well, there’s plenty more where that came from, mate. I’ll give you a call sometime.”

I got out of his van. “I’ll look forward to it, Duncan.”

He grinned and threw me a thumbs-up. “Mind you don’t get indigestion!”

And then, still laughing, he drove off to his next call.

As I watched the back of his van disappearing down the street, I thought: “Robert, you absolute tart! Some innocent young lad turns up to fix your car and you end up with your tongue stuck up his arse! What the hell are you turning into?”

I smiled and headed towards the door of the building. Whatever I was turning into, I rather liked it. And if Duncan was true to his word and gave me a call, I suspected I would grow to like it substantially more.


Next story: Badly Drawing Boy

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