Did this get you off? Let me know at erik.j.sander@gmail.com.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance on the part of characters in this story to actual persons, whether living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Do not read this story if it would violate local or state obscenity laws.

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Doc's Jack-Off Journal, Day Two

I don't remember most of my dreams. My girlfriend Cypress asked me to keep a dream journal once. Said she wanted to learn more about me. Took me three weeks to fill up a page, and it was boring as shit.

Most of the dreams I remember aren't sexual. Not a huge surprise, since I ejaculate four or five times a day, most days, whether there's someone to do it with or not.

Last night, though. That was a doozy.

Ten of us guys were crammed into my bathroom. In my dream, the room's dimensions were expanded to accommodate all of us -- we got some big fuckers in our crew -- as well as a circular porcelain bathtub, maybe six feet across. Just enough circumference that we could stand around it shoulder-to-shoulder, the occasional ankle or forearm rubbing together as we jerked ourselves off.

The room was hot with breath and body heat, a little claustrophobic with sweat, saliva, and dick smell. Nobody was particularly ripe -- not even me, and I'm a stinky little bastard -- but the mixture of aromas was part locker room, part whorehouse. Every once in a while, a guy would shift his weight and his toes would creep over another guy's foot. Nobody did it on purpose, but nobody moved away either.

It's good to be with a group of guys you feel comfortable with, even in a dream. I wouldn't think twice about whipping my dick out in front of any of these guys in real life either. In fact, I have occasionally.

None of the guys were actually in the tub. The only occupant was Cypress. Not a drop of water in there, either. Any moisture in the tub came from her, or from us.

Her bronze skin contrasted nicely against the porcelain, caramel on ice cream. She writhed beneath us, eyes squeezed shut, listening to our panting and the wet noises of us fisting our dicks, as she mauled her weeping cunt with both hands.

There was some quick eye contact here and there across the bathtub, some embarrassed smirking and shit-eating grins, but mostly we kept our eyes on Cy.

"Lotta meat in here," she moaned through gritted teeth. "I can smell it." Us guys all grunted our agreement.

Every once in a while one of us would squeeze the length of his dick, root to bulb, and fling a glistening wad of precum onto her taut little body, sometimes with an audible splat. I'd aim for her small, pert tits. While we all chuckled, she'd wipe it up with her pussy-soaked fingers, lick them clean. That was usually enough to make another guy squeeze out another clear, salty wad.

In the dream logic I knew that nobody was shooting until she said so. Until then, the tub was ringed by leaky meat faucets.

Her slender brown fingers squelched against her wet vulva and her head came up, tendons straining in her neck, as she started sobbing out her first orgasm. We all egged her on as she rubbed it out, using three fingers on each hand.

"Do believe I'm ready," she whined, her voice high and squeaky with pleasure.

That was enough for my buddy Jake, a 6'2" viking, hairy as fuck, with an angry red nightstick between his legs. He rose up on the balls of his feet. Reggie Cline, a short stocky blond on his left, put a free hand on his back to steady him.

"Here we go," Jake muttered, squeezing the base of his thick tool with short, rapid strokes as three, four, I think I counted seven thick ropes of cum shot out of him.

This whole scene was pretty unlikely, but this is where I knew it had to be a dream. See, instead of spattering Cypress' bronze skin with his load (knowing him, he would have aimed for her feet, he's like that), Jake's thick cumshot snaked through the air like a pearly white ribbon, then dove directly into her twat like it was milk pouring down a drain.

She pulled her pussy lips apart, legs straight in the air, dainty brown toes curling. I heard a thick churning as her twat drank his seed.

Spent, Jake laid his forearms on the shoulders of the guys next to him for support. "Whoever's next," he said, panting, "let 'er fly."

"My turn," grunted Dan Bealch -- we just call him Bulge for short. Or Belch, depending. Dan was a tall beefy guy, mid-40s, with plenty of thick muscle under his middle-aged flab. Fine brassy hair curled over his various bulges, from the nape of his neck to the tops of his toes.

Dan needed two guys to steady him as he fisted himself two-handed. The juicy plum head of his dick swelled and he groaned long and low as a watery flow of cum poured out, almost like he was pissing.

Like Jake's load, Dan's didn't land anywhere (and I knew from experience that he went for the face), but instead wound through the air like it was being sucked through an invisible novelty straw, right into Cy's cunt. I swear I heard the wet sucking sound of someone bottoming out a milkshake. She didn't waste a drop.

After he'd pumped the last pearly drop of seed from his stout member, Dan dropped to his knees and wiped his forearm across his, sweaty brow. He was beet red, pale blue eyes bloodshot. "Beat that, fuckers," he said, with a low chuckle.

They all sure tried. Load after load snaked through the air and was slurped up by Cypress' hungry pussy. We egged each other on, held each other up, clapped for some of the more impressive shows of volume and consistency. The whole time she was rigid, grinning like death, in a state of almost constant orgasm.

My roommate Drew shot the second-to-last load. Guy's a dirty little freak. Short and swarthy. Adopted, so he doesn't know his parentage, but I bet he's part Greek, part Puerto Rican. Big uncut choad on him. He asked, "Hey, anyone wanna jiggle my nuts a little?" He flashed his signature evil grin.

I usually see him using that grin on reluctant girls who don't normally "do things like that." More often than not, he gets his way.

The guys all groaned, laughing, and waved him off. "C'mon!" he insisted. "Help a guy out." Finally Reggie says, "Fine, you sick little fuck. Anything to shut you up!" The guys belly laughed, pointing and hooting, as Reggie reached between Drew's legs from behind and cupped his fat hairy balls.

"Now get her done!" he growled, lips close to Drew's ear.

Kind of cool, seeing Reggie's pale blond knuckles over Drew's taut, flushed scrotum.

"See, now that's the difference between a friend and a buddy!" Drew said, laughing. Then his round, boyish face got red and serious as he pinched his dick right behind the head, leaned back with his narrow hips forward, and blew a truly impressive load, rapid shots, so thick they were almost chunky. I counted twelve.

Cline released Drew's sack, then backhanded him hard on the ass, making him jump. The guys laughed even harder. Ruffling Drew's hair, Cline shouted, "You don't even want to know what you owe me."

I look down at Cypress and her eyes are in me like fish hooks. It's my turn, I guess. I suddenly notice now how close to the edge I've been this whole time, barely even stroking my dick at all, just running my palm along the underside.

"C'mon, Doc!" the guys shout. "Hose 'er down!"

Hearing the guys cheering for me gets me even harder. I feel my nipples shrink, harden, strangely cool and tingling in the hot room. I look down into Cypress' pussy and nine loads of cum are welling up in there. The base of my spine starts burning.

The guys are chanting, "Shoot it, Matty! Shoot it, Matty!" and I can't take it anymore. Up on the balls of my sweating feet, I spit heavily into my hand, grab my tool and start stroking tight and squishy.

Cy's mouth opens and her pupils get big. Her tongue is thick, slack with desire. I feel hands on my shoulders, squeezing the nape of my neck, hot male breath in my ears. It's like my whole team's behind me. A hand gently catches my nuts, stops them from pulling up too far as the first--

I wake up.

I feel three things: the head of my dick straining against a thin top sheet, my fingernails biting into my palms, and my heels digging into the mattress. I'm breathing heavy, but not moving. I open my eyes, glance to the left. It's 2:47 a.m.

Blue light through my cracked bedroom door. I can hear Drew snoring in front of the silent television.

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Did this get you off? Let me know at erik.j.sander@gmail.com.