Story Codes: MM/incest/felching/drugs
Copyright 1997 R. Keith Peck; All Rights Reserved
Originally Posted: Sat, 20 Dec 1997 [Usenet]
The best thing about Steve's ass is the way it sucked on my cockroot when I crammed it all the way in. My cockhead rammed something in his guts that made his sphincter clench so tight you'd think he'd pinch my rod off. Sort of like a toothless old grandpa gobbing a banana.
But Steve's no grandpa.
The second best thing about Steve's ass: it stayed tight even after it's been plowed for hours on end. Which is good for him and me, since that's the way I usually fuck him.
That night, when I pulled out for the last time, clawing some strands of blond hair out of my mouth, his fart boiled so hard that I felt his hot breeze on my thighs. Wet stuff flew out onto me -- hot stuff, like lava out of a fumarole. His groan echoed about as long.
I unhooked Steve's legs from my shoulders, provoking another groan about as loud as when I slid it to him. They flopped to the sides, splayed like a wishbone. I grinned and rocked back on my heels, my long softening dong oozing spermlets onto his sheets.
Wiping the sweat out of my eyes, I got a chance to see where he'd shot his load this time. The boy was rough on his Kiss posters. So far this year he'd soaked seven with his flying gouts of jism ... and it was just spring.
I watched him shudder for a few minutes before I laid down on him. It's easy to drowse on Steve. His body's like a hard stone in the middle of a lazy summer pond. There wasn't too much jism on his chest to glue us together; he's a shooter and I'm a plower.
We kissed. Pot, beer, and my jism on his lips. His hands came up and wove our hair together, almost braiding it.
"Man," he said, "you 'bout broke my back."
"Don't let it be so fucking long until you give me some."
He laughed, because I nail him every day -- done so everyday for the past three years straight. Steve rubbed my tit, light as dandelion fluff. "Can't believe the bed's stood up to it."
It's not a real bed. It's a mattress and box spring tossed on the trailer floor. Steve grew up in it. We grew up in it.
"Don't need a bed," I breathed in his ear. "I can fuck you anywhere." And saying which I rolled off him, knees popping as I stood. I rummaged through the junk on the floor, looking for a pair of jeans. Fifty-fifty shot of them being mine.
"Man, you know what I like best about you?" Steve asked.
"Yeah, fucker," I said, and waved my cock at him.
"That, too. Man, every fucking thing you do is the best. The way you screw. The way you drive. The way you sing. Everything."
"Nah," I said, extending my meat. "It's this."
Steve laughed, looked over at the clock. 11:30. "Fucking curfew. Fuck your Dad."
I found a pair and shoved my legs in. "Hey, man, it's the way Dad's got it."
"Man, you ain't never spent the night with me."
"No," I said softly, shoving my limp meat in. These were Steve's jeans -- I hang to the right, Steve to the left, and these jeans don't have the cockpocket my jeans have developed. "But I don't like it either."
"We need a place," he said.
"We need jobs," I said, "so we can pay rent, so we can have a place."
"The county's doing this thing for the Bicentennial."
"It don't pay shit, and it don't last but for a couple of months."
Steve sat up, fired up the bong for a bit, then extended it toward me. "Jane for the road?"
I shook my head, got smacked in the eyes by flailing ends of hair. "Got some of Mitch's at home." I pulled on a tee-shirt, then my jacket. I bent over him, tongued those lips that felt like soft raw meat. "Tomorrow, guy. Love you."
He threw a hand round my neck, opened my throat with his long tongue, and flooded my chest with a lungful of pot smoke. He pulled away grinning, the gray fumes coiling in the air between us. He shoved three fingers up his butt, said, "I'm thinking about you, buddy."
I grinned back, split.
Steve's old man was in the den, lounging in his favorite chair -- a brown naugahyde recliner.
It's off to one side of the cheap bay windows -- maybe he liked gazing off over the trailer park, or maybe at the woods just past. Three cans of Bud lay on the shag beside it. On Channel 11 Carson spewed some jokes -- Ford had stumbled down Air Force One's jetway.
I think Steve's old man was dozing, because he jumped a little as I walked through. He wiped his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Later, Mr. Wilson," I said.
Oh yes, he knew about me and his son. Hell, he'd walked in on us as we got started I don't know how many times. I'd had to spit his son's cock out of my mouth in order to talk to him some times. Christ, the way Steve growls half the county knows when we fuck. He doesn't care. I don't care. Wilson doesn't care. It was almost always Later, Wilson, and out I went.
He held up a hand tonight. "You leavin'?"
"Yeah." He and my Dad had been paratroopers down at Bragg for a couple of years, so he knew my Dad's thing about curfews.
"Hang on a sec," he said, climbing out of his chair.
His name was Jim, but I'd never called him that. He was too big a guy, too much like my Dad. Tall, and a big man. Not beer-big, though he liked the stuff as much as his kid. Muscle-big, like a paratrooper. Pecs the size of dinner plates, and shoulders sloping down from his neck at about a 30 degree angle. His neck was as wide as his square jaw. His stomach wasn't washboard, like Steve's but it had been, and it was still flat if a little fleshy. He just pissed away most of the beer he drank.
He stretched, then headed off for the kitchen. He came back with a frosty can of Bud. "For the road."
I caught the toss, cracked the can open, sucked on foam.
He put his arm round my shoulders, big hand spreading over my right pec like a hairy tarantula. "I wanna ask you something," he said, looking over his shoulder, down the hall towards Steve's room.
"Sure," I said.
He guided me toward the door. "Outside."
The iron steps rang as we left. It was spring, but this was North Carolina, so while our nipples got hard as rivets we didn't start shivering.
He grinned at me, like a boy about to ask a question. His teeth were white in the middle of his unshaven face. "I wanna tell you something about me."
"You're queer, right? You and Steve?"
"Queer as fuck," I said.
"You like a guy's jism."
I sucked on the Bud, but not before a big shiteating grin spread over my face. "Best stuff in the world."
"See, I like jism too."
"So you're queer?"
He laughed. "Maybe. With the right guy."
"But you like jism," I said. "Pussies don't make jism."
"They do if you stroke 'em right. But the kind of jism I really like -- I mean really -- I want only from special guys."
I laughed. Now this was weird. A dad coming on to me after I just fucked his son? Guys are after me -- and Steve -- all the time. We know it; we share, trade. But Jim ... I smelled the beer on his breath and wondered if maybe Steve had slipped him a 'lude like he did Mr. Evans back in high school. Maybe Jim was now totally fucked up.
"You want my jism?" I hooked my thumbs in my jeans, pushed one out between the lips of the button fly.
"No. No," he said quickly. "I'm talking about Steve. I want Steve's jism."
If it hadn't been for all that experimentation with my older brothers so long ago ("Will it fit?") I probably would've choked on my sudden double mouthful of Bud. I thought he was joking. I mean, it's a little again type for Daddies to want sperm -- they're sperm-givers by nature.
But looking at him that night -- his tits hard like blasting caps under his furry chest, his faded cotton boxers tented just a bit -- I knew he wasn't kidding.
"So why don't you just go in right now and get some?" I asked. "Steve usually a beats a load or two out of his dick before he goes to sleep."
"No, no," Jim said. He talked like a grandmother who's just stepped on a giant, squishy dog turd. "I mean, I like jism." He sighed. "But I'm not too much into guys. I mean I do, and I have ... but ... a father can't not with his boy."
"So ... what do you want?"
"A trade," he said.
"Earl's got an opening down at the body shop. I know you want a job. I'll put in a good word for you. I can get you the job."
My eyes narrowed. "And what do I do?"
"I wanna eat Steve's jism out of your ass."
Easy. "Done." I extended my hand and we shook.
I beat curfew by one minute. Thank God for V-8s, though I burnt up a week's worth of gas doing it. Dad was glaring and checking his watch, but I made it, so he didn't say anything.
I fell asleep, wondering: How the hell am I going to get Steve to fuck me?
Steve's ass was one of his better features, pretty, pert, heart shaped. I grooved on him because of those pouty lips and sleepy eyes and hair like a cloud of black smoke -- but also because of his ass.
Steve was the most butt-oriented guy in the world.
He only wore jockstraps, nothing else, because he wanted his butt hanging out. His cock and balls were too heavy to go without underwear altogether -- he'd pull a groin muscle trying to hold all that meat up. So he had to wear something, but it wasn't going to be a lot, and it sure as fuck wasn't going to come between his ass and his 501s.
Steve's brain was in his ass -- he thought with it. He walked with his hands behind his back like Spock so he could touch his butt with his fingertips. I've seen him ass-up at the bar, raised up on his toes, so he could set the flesh on it, to stimulate it and show it off to the band.
He's the only guy I'd ever met who seriously played drop-the-soap in the locker room showers, grinning like a idiot while he did it.
I've put my meat into a lot of guys, made a lot of the them cum for the first time just by rubbing against their prostate. But second or third time, they're stretched enough so it's not quite as intense for them. But not Steve. We've spent entire nights together, his hands knotted in the sheets beside his hips, legs on my shoulders, my cock buried up his ass like a giant pale water moccasin, his prong jetting sperm onto Paul Stanley and Gene Simmonds on the wall behind his bed.
So ... how do you get someone like that on top for a ride?
And I didn't know why Jim thought Steve rode me. I guess a moan is a moan, and it's hard to tell if it's coming from someone sinking a cock into a tight ass or a tight ass swelling to take a monster. Me and Steve always communicated by growling during a fuck, so there was none of this "Fuck me, you hot stud" crap. So I guess Jim just thought Steve was doing the screwing dads assume their son is always in the saddle.
But Jesus this sucked. I mean, it doesn't take much to get me on my back with my legs in the air (a truck stop; a quarterback; a Marine but they're about as butt-centered as Steve).
Steve? Fucking? I'd rather try to turn water into wine, or grass into marijuana.
Jim was at work, so Steve was alone in the trailer when I showed up next day.
I dropped the bag from Food Town on the table. An old, half-eaten package of Fig Newtons gave up the struggle and tumbled onto the linoleum.
"What the hell is that?" Steve asked. He'd been jacking off. His jockstrap dripped creamy jism and his cock curved in a lazy arc from his groin.
I started unbuttoning my jeans. "Just hang on a second."
He scooped up a strand of sperm and dribbled it over his lips, slurped at it as if it were a long strand of spaghetti. Clorox fumes rode his long "Ahhh!"
I laughed, pulled a bunch of bananas and a cucumber out of the bag. "What've you been up to?"
"Beatin' off." He threw the jock over onto the dining room table. There were two others like it, but they were hard, yellow, crusty like old cumrags. Which they were. "What'cha got?"
I looked at his jism-soaked jock and got an idea. Actually two. The first one I knew immediately I couldn't pull off. I was dealing with Jim -- a parent, and they know all the tricks. So taking Steve's jock and squeezing the cum out like it was oil and stuffing it up my ass ... no, he'd smell that right off the bat.
The second idea still involved Steve's jism.
"Just stuff," I said. "You done nothin' but beat off all morning?"
"Got stoned. You weren't here. What the fuck else was I going to do?" He stood up and walked toward me. His prong swung sleepily in front of him, a ropelet of jism flailing between his knees. He swapped spit with me, his fingers working into my fly and tugging my jeans down my legs. He pushed my ass back onto the table. A rough finger burnt my tit. "Need it, bud. Need it now."
I sucked my tongue out of his mouth, ran it over his neck, down to his armpits, then up to curl it behind his ears, feeling him moan and shudder. I stuck a thigh between his legs, felt his balls still heavy and hot even after a morning of beating off. "Wait for it," I breathed.
"What?" He pulled back. "What? You're bitchin' last night about not getting enough of it. Now you want to wait?"
I grinned, kicked off my ratty shoes, and finished shimmying out of the jeans. His jeans, actually: cum stains in the ass. I've not been able to find my jeans for about a week -- I think he's hoarding them all. "Yeah, motherfucker, wait."
I picked up the bunch of bananas, broke off one, held it up like a long, yellow monkey finger. Steve laughed when he saw it, bent forward, wrapped that long tongue of his around it. He twisted it on the brown-blotched yellow shaft like a snake squeezing prey.
I grinned, bent forward, put my lips on his tongue while he aped cocksucking, drank his saliva with the hunger of a vampire. My fingers felt his gooey prick, rising to erection, ready to spew another hot load.
He pulled his tongue off, and we kissed. His hands went round my torso, linked together on my spine, and pulled me to him. His cock probed between my thighs, draping my balls on either side of his, two lengths of flesh rapidly filling with sperm. Steve pulled back. "You gonna put that up my butt?"
Meaning the banana. His mind and mine walk the same sick paths. I licked the stubble on his chin, tasting the faint odor of pot where the fumes had come to lie. "Hand me your jock."
His grasp behind my back broke. One hands vanished; the other dropped between my asscheeks, feeling the hair here, stroking up and down. He knew I got off fore and aft; he didn't care how I get hot, just so long as I top him, filling him with enough cockmeat for an entire varsity football team.
He dropped his cum-wet jock onto my face. Jism's basic, I think (only thing I got out of biology and chemistry, if I even got that right) ... my eyes burnt with his cum. I flicked it off my head with a motion of my neck, speared it as it tumbled with the banana. Arcs of cooling cum hung from the catenaries of the straps. It looked like some gigantic-hung oriental dude's had boned again in his jock after squirting about forty gallons of cum into it.
Tongue roaming like Johnny Appleseed through rich countryside, Steve licked his jism off my face. Anymore he lives on sperm. The spermhound gene must always be a dominant (lesson two from biology). Wonder how Jim and his dad dealt with it.
I grabbed the soaked jock pouch and ground it into the banana, squeezing just a bit. The fruit beneath the rind got a little squishy, but I felt jism ooze out of the open weave and coat the banana. I flung the jock down onto the shag.
"Let me go," I said. "I wanna do something."
The pressure snapped in my ear as his tongue slurped out. His teeth were as bright as his father's as he grinned. We undocked our groins -- our cocks are as hot for each other as Apollo and Soyuz. Precum smeared he hair on our lower bellies. Both me and Steve pee precum like we had prostates the size of an elephant's bladder. Some ropes gluing us broke; diamond-colored droplets flew over our shoulders to further stain the ratty rug.
In about three seconds Steve was kneeling in front of the couch, arms thrust out to either side, legs spread, asshole pulsing like a throbbing wound.
"No, no, you fucker," I said, laughing.
He turned, a hurt look in his eye making me think of a little boy denied his recess.
I kicked the sprawling remnants of the Sunday paper to one side, laid down on the carpet on my back. I kicked my legs up into my second favorite position (I usually want it hands-and-knees, some stallion putting it to me while my eyes roll up and I drool for him and his prong) and winked my butthole back at him.
"What the fuck?" Steve's asshole and his mouth made same motions as he spoke.
"Hey, man, I'm aching for it."
"You're aching for it?" He arched his back, extended a leg, squatted down a bit. I could just about see my way up to his pancreas.
"Yeah, fucker, I am." I put the hard tip of the banana on the base of my bloated balls, rubbed it in a circle. This was probably going to turn into a tease battle. One of us goes crazy, fucks himself into the other's ass.
I slipped the tip down, felt it plunge into the sudden gaping hole, on-ramp to my asshole. The jism coating it felt like cold vaseline. I rubbed it further down the crack, through the hairs, because I really wanted my crack to stink of Steve's sperm. Then back up to the hole, pressed the rough nub into my hole.
"Come on, man, fuck me," Steve whined.
I laid my head back on the shag, laughed. I exhaled, felt my muscles go slack. A trucker taught me this little trick -- Zen, he said it was, but it seemed more to me like good common sense. My rectum inhaled the banana.
I growled, shoved more of the fruit up me. It was different than a cock going up -- bananas aren't round, they've got angles that aren't sharp but they give a good buzz while they're going up. It was cold, like a dead man's prick; my nipples went hard and my balls sucked up tight so it looked like I had one giant, smooth testicle nestled under my fat, spitting prong.
The banana's more like a semi-hard cock, which presents some problems. It kept wanting to double up (I got a tight hole), or take a turn to the left and go fuck with my kidneys or something. Which wasn't fun with that hard, woody thing on the end. But the width of it, the length of it, the perverted act which I'm committing with it -- that's what made it fun.
Steve's ass still faced me, and he still stared at my little dog-and-pony show. His asshole opens and closes like a large-mouthed bass sucking in water. His cock pressed against the couch; he'd peed a big spot of precum into it. Wonder if Jim jacks off sniffing the couch, because if we don't have an audience I usually fuck Steve there.
I got it down my butt all the way. I shoved the last few bits up it by grabbing onto that handle at the end, which was getting flabby as my body cooked the banana slowly. Then I spread my cheeks wide, to show Steve my anus, now closed up tight again round the little yellow finger that was all still showing of the banana.
"Man, that feels good!" I rotated my hips for him, a little belly-dancer trick that always worked in the locker rooms, the bathrooms, the barracks ...
He didn't move, just stared at me. "Man, Will, I fuckin' need it! I been jacking off all this morning thinking about it ... "
I pulled my prong up to the vertical, felt the precum run down it like fresh water oozing from a spring. I jacked it. The pressure in my whole midsection was too much, and I had to let out a moan. "I need it!" I got out over the sound, which squeezed out of me through the pressure my ass was putting on the banana.
"Will, come on!"
"Christ, Steve!" I dropped my cock and it slugged my gut. I rolled upright, squatting on the carpet, staring at him, pissed. My cock probed out of my groin like an angry horn. The banana squished in my rectum.
"Fuck me, man!" There were tears in his eyes, I swear.
I flung myself on him, bit him on the neck, grabbed a handful of pectoral muscle and twisted it like I was a baker kneading a loaf of bread. He howled as I drove it up him. And we didn't stay on the couch long, because I put a half- nelson on him and flung him on the carpet, ass-high, and screwed him. I was so pissed my asshole squeezed hard on the banana -- and I broke the handle off.
All I got from him was a pair of fingers to help pry the sodden, hot mass that had been a banana out of my ass.
I was pumping gas into my Mustang when Jim rode up. Ass up against the chill metal, my crotch shoved forward because Earl's son was eyeing me again. The hose pulsed beside me while the Arabs ate my dwindling stash of cash.
Jim got out of the car. The knees on his jeans were dirty and the flannel shirttail hung loose. He was on the way home (where Steve lay in bed, my sperm boiling like spitting acid from his crater-sized hole). Jim worked at the physical plant down at State, and it showed.
Seeing him I cringed, because there was a look on his face like a cannibal loose in a rectory. But he looked good. Steve gets his meat from his Dad's side of the family. Jim's got enough crotch for a platoon of U.S. Army Rangers. Steve probably gets that aching void called his rectum from Mommy's steaming pussy.
So my cock plumped up a bit, as Jim sidled up next to me. Even though I knew what he wanted.
"How's it hangin'?" I said.
"Low," he said. "You see Steve?"
"You saw him?" Already his lips curled in a grin of triumph.
"Spent the day," I said. Too late; he kept seeing encyclopedia's in everything I said when all that was really there was exactly what I said.
The pump handle popped next to me and a pale orange spray spat out. He had me by my arm in seconds. He drug me across the pump island towards the station. The man had a boner down to his knees. I've never seen anything go up so fast, and I mean I've been thirteen just like the rest of us guys.
He leaned inside the station. "Earl. Keys." He caught them in his left hand like an outfielder. Jim's right handed.
"Look, man, it's not what you think -- " But he was in a fury. If I'd stopped, locked my knees, he'd have drug me over the damn concrete and to hell with me and my ratty tennis shoes.
He shoved the key in the lock. A big block of dirty, oily wood dangled from the ring. Jim's hand dropped to my ass, felt around, looking for wet spots. I read Earl's Body Shop in squared off black magic marker letters.
We tumbled into the reek of the bathroom. The door slammed heavily behind. Jim pushed my crotch -- going hard because urine's like Spanish Fly for me -- into the dirty wet sink. His fingers -- big, thick, callused, hard, hot -- ripped open my fly (and it is my fly; the cockpouch's on the right side). He peeled my jeans down to my knees.
"It's not -- " I started again, but stopped. Because hot puffs of air from his nose blow along my asscrack like steam from a locomotive. From instinct and years of brotherly love I split my legs and pulled my asscrack apart.
"Smell good," he said, and went at my ass with his tongue.
For a jism-hound he spent a lot of time lapping at the sticky sweat between my asscheeks. Like a dog sampling liver. Jim licked from my crack outwards along the curves of my hard glutes, his tongue a planet and my hole a hot sun. The fine hairs -- Steve's got the brillo-pad ass -- got as slick as if I'd swum across the Neuse River. For someone who's not really into guys, his tongue on my butt was enough to get my prong belly-slapping up and proud as a sailor.
Or maybe it was just something with me.
He spent long minutes slurping on my crack, breathing on it, making me so hot I arced my back up and stared at my wide eyes and flying hair through the dry zit-squeezings in the mirror. His stubble scoured me, made my dick so friggin' hard I about swore it was going to split down the side, squirting jism through the raw edges. No one's done me this good. Not brothers, not teachers, not coaches, not preachers, not even sergeants. This man does.
His tongue touched my hole.
Then another touch, lingering this time in the wet heat. It pressed forward, slid in. I growled. It felt like a sizzling slug. I clenched my anus down on it, imitating Steve's ass, wanting to pinch off that hot, wet piece of flailing flesh and live with it up my rectum forever.
Jim pulled out after just seconds. I felt like a nympho who'd just been shortchanged by a premature ejaculator (I hate them). My ass quivered like a stallion shaking off flies. I felt his heat all along my back as he stood. His eyes found mine in the mirror. "I don't taste jism," he said. "I know Steve's prick isn't that long."
Something glimmered in his eyes, a false dawn, or heat lightning in August. His misbelief still had form. So I said nothing.
"You didn't fuck?" Jim asked.
Stole my alternative. "We fucked," I said. "All damn day. What the hell else is there to do?"
He slapped my ass like the coach used to, covering a disappointment. "Pull your jeans up, Will."
I turned around before I buttoned the fly back up to show how fucking hard I was.
But Jim stood back from me, arms folded. The keys dangled limp in his hand. He wore an expression like someone had just kneed him in the nads.
"You fucked Steve."
"You bet," I said, too cocky, because the baloon that was the image of his son was sagging and deflating like his cock.
"I thought ... " but he trailed off.
"Yeah," I said. It's hard to be gentle, when everything you can say that's not an out and out lie digs into somebody like the clawed end of a hammer.
"Damn!" he said. "I really wanted ... he never fucks you?"
"He's never fucked me, guy," I said. "He's never fucked anyone."
Softly, this time: "Damn. I really wanted it."
Somewhere in this mess there was still a future for me, on my back in Earl's grease pit, and I wasn't going to let it go. "Look. I worked on him a bit today. My ass was banana split for a while."
"What?" He was busy rearranging fantasies and illusions.
"I'll get his jism up my ass. I'll put splints on his cock and sit on it if he can't get it up because a dick ain't rammed up his butt. I'll get the fuckin' 82nd to warm him up if I fuckin' have to." I sighed. "But it's gonna take time."
He nodded. "OK."
Two syllables which scared me. The picture of me in the grease pit was next to the picture of me and Steve shacked up and fucking the years away. The one was the key to the other. The one was running like a mole fleeing a garter snake.
"OK," he said again. And gave me the key. And left with no further word.
His Olds was gone by the time I returned the key to Earl. Earl's boy was hard in his jeans -- and wet -- but for the first fucking time in my life I wasn't interested.
"Seven bucks," said Earl, not noticing his boy who was opening his fly and masturbating like a retard. Earl's fat pink hand extended towards me. "And move the shit faster through your ass next time."
I tried everything.
I had him eat me (Jim sort of got me in the mood for that) ... he slurped for seven hours straight, I refreshed his saliva with beer, piss, and the occasional load.
I out and out asked him. He just whined, wanting to know why, if he fucked me that meant that my cock wasn't up his butt and surely I couldn't think that was fair.
I did the fag joke thing and turned a barstool upside- down, rode it till I shot. In public, and everything. It got him hot ... so he slid his ass down the leg I'd warmed up already and lubed with my mucus and rubbed his prostate until he got his big wet nut.
Some people don't even have light bulbs to go on.
So after about a week I figured fuck it, I wasn't gonna get anywhere with him. But I'd learned a lot. I really started grooving on stuff up my butt. I started cumming harder; the bigger the thing I had crammed up in the tunnel of love the more jism I shot and the farther I shot it. Hell, I came so hard a couple of times I had nosebleeds.
A week later, I took a cucumber to his house.
From long solos -- beating off is a hobby -- I'd learnt that cucumbers -- if treated right -- are better than bananas. It's their lack of symmetry that does it.
About a week after Jim's aborted ass-eating, I got a hardon for one at Food Town. And a bag boy'd seen me bone in my jeans, and I boffed him in the employee's rest room. And got the cucumber for free.
It was about ten inches long, about three inches thick at its max. A good stretch, something to make you see God. The thickest part -- the knobbiest, most misshapen, and pleasurable part of it -- occurred about one third of the way down from one end. The other two thirds of it tapered slowly away towards the other end. The whole thing was shaped like a fat teardrop.
I went over to the trailer. Jim was beer-fogged in the naugahyde recliner, so I passed him without comment. Steve put down the bog, looked at it when I showed him. "You gonna shove that up me?"
I laid down on that old mattress, on my stomach, with my legs spread and my buttsweat spicing up the air. "Eat me."
Steve did a pretty good imitation of Jim with his tongue, getting a lot of spit up there, getting me loose and dripping with saliva. He didn't see my grin in the darkness, unless somehow his lapping tongue could feel what was going on at the other end of my digestive tract.
Before the ass-eating got me so lazy that I wouldn't be capable of shit, I got up, turned around on the bed to face Steve. Then squatted down over the sheets -- once white but now so soaked with sperm and mucus they looked like yellowed parchment.
Thick end up, I sat the cuke under me.
Steve looked up at me. "Man, you're fucking hungry for it!"
"No shit." I backed my butt over it, feeling the chill center on my butthole.
Steve laid down on the bed, staring between my wide spread thighs, my balls stretched and heavy, my cock a copy of the Sears Tower.
I stuffed it in, one swift stroke, eyes rolling heavenwards as it penetrated.
"Shit," he said, the same tone of voice he'd used at the end of THX-1138.
I didn't sink all the way down on it. That'd be wasting it. The trick was in the thickness and where it was on the cucumber. I plunged my ass down on it until the thickness of it holding my anus open was an agony. I held it there, pain shooting up my sides along my ribcage towards my pits now streaked with sweat. I waited. Waited for as long as I could hold it. My ass couldn't decide if it wanted to spit the cuke out or swallow it whole.
Then I pulled myself up. Just rocked forward onto my knees, so my ass was a few more inches in the air. The cucumber's tip rose off the sperm-stinking sheets. A war erupted in my guts -- between the inward sucking force of my ass and the downward sucking force of gravity.
Slowly the cucumber extruded, my anus spasming before relaxing and letting it go. Slowly it slid out of me, until the tip fell down to rest on the sheets again.
"Motherfucker," Steve said.
And I set up a rhythm. I knew just which rhythm to take. Slow strokes, measured and even pace. My coach used to prong me like this, nice, almost drowsy, strokes that went on for hours until we were both so fucking crazed that our screams blew frothy spit on each other's chests as orgasm lightning burnt us to a crisp.
I moaned when the three-inch thick six-inch circumference of the machine held me as open as if Steve had his fist up me. The cool cucumber wagged like a stubby tail when I held it like that.
I watched Steve through slitted eyes.
"Wild, man, fucking wild!" he said. The tongues of Kiss waggled over his shoulder in a play for pussy.
We got off on them anyway. Get off on anything. Any how, any time.
"Like getting humped." It sounded tight, like my chest muscles were clamped onto my ribcage. "Gotta have this."
"You're fuckin' boned, man," Steve said.
I got my first fucking hardon shoving a toy submarine up my butt. I do my best impressions of a stone column when I've got something up there. Jim's tongue was good; there's a certain pleasure in dealing with a small, moist, soft object. But there's nothing like sheer hard, arrogant size about to rupture your tubing to bring up a hardon worth of a stallion.
"Yeah," I breathed. My nipples were so hard they would've poke Steve's eyes out if he'd come close. My balls were so swollen with sperm they felt hard. I stroked myself on the cucumber, up and down. Frictional heating warmed it higher than my own body temperature, so I felt as if a Doberman had buried his bone up my butt.
Steve got up off his belly, finally, and imitated my position. Squatting on the mattress, balls slung low, cock aimed high. His fingers were on it, stroking. I've got more meat than Steve -- we're the same length, but I'm thick like a ... cucumber ... and he's thin like ... a carrot. His fingers rubbed up and down and coaxed out a dollop of precum which ran down the shaft.
Sometimes me and Steve used words. Sometimes we growled. Sometimes we communicated by deciphering the hidden meanings in the rich flavors of sweat. And sometimes everything's in the rhythm of our heartbeats, our own Morse code, untranslatable to others but eloquent enough.
He leaned forward and we started swapping spit as his fingernails plucked at my tits like a burglar clawing at a safe. Prongs like ours have a mind of their own. Defying their rigidity they bent down, no longer parallel to our flat bellies but perpendicular to our stinking groins; the heads swapped precum, bouncing off each other, strung together by glimmering lust.
Steve slipped his hands down to my thighs, half on inch from my cock and balls, while his long tongue burrowed into my throat like a coral snake seeking shelter from the winter. His fingertips felt my thighs expand and contract while I rode my cucumber.
I pulled back. "Bong."
He backed off, grabbed it, lit it, fed it to me, carburated it. The smoke burnt my lungs -- it felt like I breathed pure ammonia fumes. It hurt. I held it, sucked all the THC out that I could, blew it all away into the moonlit dark room.
His tongue reentered me, licked away the woody feel inside of my mouth. My head spun. My tendons stretched like nylon string as I rode my ass on the cuke.
Steve turned the remainder of the week to dark, gummy ash. He held onto the herbal smoke even longer than me. Then he blew it out into my face, laughing without noise.
His hands touched me again. The bed rolled over and began to spin counterclockwise. My cockhead described a circle precisely the opposite of the spin. Steve's fingers were under my balls, on the loose skin just north of my asshole, where his father's tongue had never slurped.
They were stroking and time turned to a clear jell in which you couldn't see forever.
"Will," he said, and his pupils were the size of the night sky.
"Yeah," I said through a growl as my ass ring bitched about the thick shape blocking it.
Little circles of pleasure fanned out under my balls. Seminal vesicles went wild producing sperm. The cuke moved. He'd put a fingertip on it.
"Can I fuck you?"
Not only had the boy got a light bulb but the fucking electric company supplied him with his own nuke plant to run it.
I rolled backwards over my heels. Second favorite, third-favorite, what the fuck did the damn position matter.
He held the cucumber in me as he bent low over me, kissed me, licked the harsh sweat out of my armpits and put back in my mouth. He let it slide out until the agony of the thickness made me feel like I had to piss forty gallons of urine.
When he put his cockhead against my ass, all I could think was a stupid Christmas verse. And laying his dick on top of my rose, giving a thrust up the rectum it goes. Or something.
"Double-team me," I said, but he was going to do that anyway.
"Let go," he said.
I did and like a boulder plunging into a stream it went up me. I shrieked, I know I did, because not even I had had two at once.
Animal, vegetable -- if I could get a plastic dildo crammed up there, I'd have mineral too. The entire world crammed into my hole.
As he stroked me, the cucumber vanished into the labyrinth inside of me. I didn't care. It was just the feeling of fullness I wanted -- my man in me, hard for me, on top of me, hard fucking me, pouring fluids onto and into me.
He shot four times and we never bothered to separate. I had sperm all over my chest and the lower half of my face. We would have kept going to, but I looked over. The clock said it was 11:20.
"Motherfuckit," he said, seeing my motion. "Goddamnit."
"Don't worry about it," I said. I rolled off the bed, feeling the cuke moving around in me like a gigantic fart demanding exit.
There were six beer cans by the base of the naugahyde recliner. Jim dozed. He was having a wet dream -- his cock, a perfect replica of Steve's, probed out of the fly of his stained old boxers. It was a damn good dream, because his prong was bouncing like crazy and spitting up juice like a cobra.
His shoulder was hard and muscled. I shook him awake. He started, stared up me, saw me there with my own hardon in my jeans.
I cut loose with a fart, wondering if he knew what that meant. It lasted about ten seconds, stank so much of sperm that it made the trailer's den smell like a locker room, and cause a huge wet stain to bloom in my jeans. But the fart didn't relieve any damn pressure.
"What?" he asked. He was still pretty foggy, but his nose was gulping down the stink of sperm in the room.
"Come on outside," I said. "We need to talk about Earl."
He groggily followed me towards the door. I could tell when he woke up. His hands shot forward, glued themselves to my cheeks were the 501s were dark with about half a gallon of his son's jism.
"Let's move it, Will," he said, and shoved me outside.
He threw me onto my back on the hood of my Mustang. The metal boomed loud in the cool night. I saw the light go on in Steve's room, saw the curtains part as Jim undid my fly.
I let him get my jeans off, lifted my legs like I'd done for his son, felt the ropes of sperm spring up from my crack as Jim worked my jeans off my ass.
His breath was cool, just like I remembered it, but he didn't waste time playing. He slurped off his son's jism like a boy scarfing up a milkshake, then plunged his tongue into my ass.
I couldn't hold it. I farted around his tongue. I heard him moan, because I released a flood of jism onto his tongue. The wet rhythmic noises I heard was his hand on his prong, jacking off while his son's sperm dripped onto his tongue.
He kept eating. The fart had shifted everything around in my guts. There was more sperm, lower down, loose like liquid butter. He lapped at it. I was too fucking tired to moan, but I gave Steve in the window a thumbs up. He had no idea what this meant.
Another fart, from deeper inside. Cramps seized me and I doubled up. Sperm smacked Jim in the face like a wave down at Kure beach.
The cuke poured out of my ass like I was a mother spurting a baby into the world. It fell and Jim caught it in his hands. He licked the brownish sperm from it, then said, "What the fuck?"
"Keep eating," I said. "Have it bronzed, man. It's a monument."
E-Mail (Oct 2000) Web (Oct 2000)