A gay story: Motorhead Our long planned car project didn’t exactly start auspiciously.
The ancient Volkswagen bus sure didn’t look like much when we first saw it, in the backyard of a ranch some ways to the east of Albuquerque, New Mexico, two thousand miles from home. Behind the guy’s out-building, with scrubby weeds growing up around the front end, the heap’s better days were far in the past.
It was a two-tone 1966 model, 6 volts, (“666” I said to myself) white on top, faded red below, with eleven windows, and no engine. Best news was the arid climate in this part of the country meant zero rust, except for a little under the battery, which was something we could deal with later. But if the important parts of the bus checked out, the asking price would work, and my buddy Roger and I would have ourselves a nice little project. I’d found the VW through an online ad and had exchanged emails with the seller, answering my multi-faceted queries.
As Roger stood there, hands on hips, looking at the beaten up bus, I knew he was wondering just how nuts I was to contemplate this “restoration.” His working-man’s clothes were always rumpled, but I enjoyed his rugged good looks, those short strong legs and rounded northern European bones that were part of his heritage. Our last car project had come out fine, and one of the special extra benefits of our current adventure was just the plain exuberance of life on the road.
We’d made the two-day drive down, long ones at that, from Massachusetts in my F-150, the truckbed filled with a jack, a VW engine I’d plucked from my favorite junkyard in Pittsfield, and a pile of tools and spare parts. With the slow, possibly decrepit but hopefully serviceable project bus, I’d figured on at least a three-day drive on the way back.
We’d each taken a week off work, hoping that would be enough time to complete the task with a little time to spare. We’d driven from green leafy New England, across the mountains, through hundreds of miles of cornfields in the heartlands of the US, until things had gotten serious brown, dry and dusty past Oklahoma.
I’d forgotten just how much of America there is out here away from the East Coast and cities. Roger and I had had a grand time on the way, chatting and listening to music, the Grateful Dead always the best road music ever. And of course, the sex had been free, easy and phenomenal, a worthy secondary benefit of the trip.
No wives around to dodge, no need to sneak a quick suck on an illicit afternoon tryst. We even got to sleep in the same bed in motels and make lovely penis music together at night, and then have some hard morning wood right at hand the next morning.
On the first day out, late afternoon, I think we were well past the New York border, farther west than Roger had ever been, of course we had been taking sex for miles, and what we would do with each other when we called it a day and found a motel later in the evening.
Roger’s prick had gotten so aroused with our talk that he’d pulled it free from his jeans, and at 70 mph I looked over at its handsome engorged head, waving there free in the cab. I salivated.
“Better put your gun away there pal, before I get distracted and run us off the road.”
We passed a big rig, and I wondered if the trucker had gotten an eyeful.
“Not sure you got a concealed permit there, Rog.”
His gap toothed grin was wide as the Ohio river. “It’s not concealed Clay, we’re in an open-carry state. Aren’t we?”
We both laughed but I convinced him to save himself for later.
The rancher’s son had bought the VW, technically a kombi, as a teenager, and like a lot of these sorts of “project” endeavors, the fellow gave up midway through the work, or perhaps found he had better things to do now that he’d gone off to college. Maybe his enthusiasm had dropped off the charts after he’d pulled the engine and started a rebuild. Roger and I were here to pick up the carcass and wrestle it back to Massachusetts, hoping to expend as little money and effort as possible in the process.
Roger examined the front of the thing, a good dent on the right side, with some trepidation.
“You sure about this, Clay?”
“We’ll find out.” I was most worried about the front end as I could pretty much guarantee the kingpins were worn, and if they were too far gone to safely drive it, that meant we’d have to rent a trailer and tow it with the truck, which I really didn’t want to do.
The seller, or more accurately the father of the owner, was genial and patient, and amused at our diagnosis procedures as we crawled around underneath the car and reviewed its condition.
The front end checked out barely, with worn king pins, which I had expected, and loose link pins and sway-arm bushings, but I was able to tighten up stuff enough that I figured we would make it home, although highway cross-winds would be an exciting proposition.
We dumped the old fuel and filled the tank with the five gallons of fresh gas we’d brought along, got the spare engine installed, which I had prepped back home, and fired the thing up.
A couple miles of a test drive satisfied me that things would be okay, so we paid the guy, gathered what extra spare parts there were and stuffed them in the back of the truck. We were on the road by late morning, me in front, Roger behind in the truck. I’d made an appointment with the local Big-O tire folks, so we’d start the trip with fresh rubber installed. I’d figured I’d thought of everything, and of course was wrong. Usually on these sorts of adventures, what ends up going wrong is the one thing you didn’t prepare for.
It was the third stop for gas, barely out of Texas, when the VW didn’t start after fueling up. The starter engaged, then bogged down and didn’t turn the engine over fast enough to catch. Roger gave me an ominous look.
“It’s a brand new battery,” I muttered.
I had been peeved to have bought a new one, figuring, correctly, that what we’d find with the car would be junk. The peevishness came since my plan all along had been to covert the thing to 12 volts anyway, and so buying a new 6-volt battery was money down the drain. Yet when compared to the cost of towing, it seemed like a good bit of insurance at the time.
Roger push started me with the front bumper of the truck, and when running I whipped out my voltmeter to check the system out. Barely six volts, it wasn’t charging enough. The belt was tight so it would either be the generator or the voltage regulator.
Seeing the disgusted look on my face, Roger asked me what our options were.
“Finding either a replacement 6-volt generator or voltage regulator? Around here? Or anywhere on our route for that matter, for a car this old? Long odds.”
I thought quickly.
“Battery’s new, the starter was fine this morning, we’re just low on juice. We could buy a trickle charger and charge the battery each night in our motel. It should run on battery voltage alone all day. Long as we don’t have lights on, or hit rain and have to use the wipers, the draw from just running the car will be low.”
For safety reasons I had been driving with the lights on, which certainly had contributed to the drain on the battery. But no longer. I wouldn’t even be using the radio, not even sure if it worked.
It occurred to me that I had neglected to even check the wipers to see whether they were functional or not, and I kicked myself.
Roger looked at me like I was nuts, but since I was driving the heap, and had the so called “expertise” he wasn’t going to argue.
The gas station guy gave us directions to an auto parts store and to my relief I was able to get a trickle charger that would do both 6 and 12 volts. I had one at home, but it still would be worth the forty bucks if we didn’t have to go the “tow-it-home” route.
We drove until it started to get dark, luckily fairly far into the evening at this time of year, and I let Roger do the registration thing at the first motel we found in Weatherford, Oklahoma, keeping the engine running in case we would have to drive off to find a second option. But the place was fine and we parked in such a fashion so that Roger could give me a push in the morning and save that “first thing” cold morning battery drain on the starter.
I disconnected the battery and pulled it into the room, hitched up the trickle charger near an open window, and we called it a day on the mechanical front. Almost five hundred miles closer to home anyway, although the rest of the trip now had the prospect of being moderately nervous.
We’d both taken showers, since the day had meant crawling under vehicles, lifting greasy engines and boxes of spare parts around. Felt good to get the crud off.
I’d gone first and was lying buck-naked on the bed when Roger emerged from the bathroom, wiping his wet hairy chest with a towel. That tangle of crotch hair below his belly looked absolutely alluring, as well as those marvelous balls hanging low underneath my upcoming secret garden of delight. Which I planned to ravish ASAP.
Our preliminaries were rapid that night, which of course was ridiculous, since we had no limits on time. We could have taken forever but threw away that opportunity.
I’d laid him out flat on his back on the bed, and gave his testicles, clean from the shower, the long wet lick-over they deserved. His prick was pointing straight up his body, eyes closed, the little moans he made with his mouth, and the tremors that rippled thorough his hips and the rest of his body letting me know the nerve endings were getting what they wanted.
I sucked him briefly, which felt wonderful, but he was way too hard and the risk of short-cutting his pleasure (what am I saying? my pleasure) was too great to continue.
So I slid myself up his body so that I straddled his chest, and pushed my own cock, excited simply from arousing my bud, into his mouth, across his face, rubbed my balls along his chest, “marked” him good.
Neither of us keeps a fixed attitude on roles, sometimes I’m the big guy on top, sometimes him, but I sure like the look and feel of straddling someone’s chest, male or female. Barb always said it made her “feel like a woman.” I’m not sure that Roger felt any more like a “man” but he clearly didn’t mind me on top, with my erection pointing straight into his face.
I always liked to look down, see my prick on its way to pleasure-heaven, being paid attention to by someone else. On top, pushing, feeling real male and powerful and in charge.
But we swapped, and I had Roger on top now, doing the same thing to me that I had just done to him. Loved his cock sliding over my face, then dropping his balls into my mouth for a good suckling, providing that exquisite smell and tactile sense I so enjoyed.
But he was hot to trot, and arousal had grown so advanced that I had him hump my face, my head propped up on the pillows, while he held on to the bed’s headboard and pushed his crotch into me. I got several good spurts out of him, loving the feel of his ass-cheeks while he heaved, and then I nursed at his serpent as long as he could handle it, before pulling out.
I liked the looks of his depleted prick, he goes soft fast, and it was all wet and spent, all due to me, a lovely sight.
He took his time with me, playing with my balls while he worked my cock, but I didn’t last long, was too excited. I pushed six good spurts of sperm into his mouth while he lay next to me, hands working my ballsac while my ass clenched and my hips rocked. We slept good that night and were up at dawn to hit the road.
The rest of the trip, through all those flat Midwestern fields and then into the low hills of western New York went reasonably well. I had to use the wipers for maybe twenty minutes during a shower in New York, but otherwise our battery, with its fresh charge every night, held out. Our pricks were exhausted by the time we pulled home however. Consecutive daily sperm discharges, sometimes more than once a day. We’re both pretty healthy, but we’re not in our twenties anymore. We turned into my driveway late on a Friday afternoon, before dark.
Barb looked at the van dubiously when we pulled in. Her dark hair, with a couple streaks of silver, was back in a pony tail, blue work shirt and jeans, her hands on her healthy, rounded hips.
“You sure about this, Clay?” Her eyes went from front to back of the beater. “I’m glad you were able to pilot it back in one piece, but seems to me like you got more work to do on this one than the last.”
She squinted at the interior, which was pretty rough, and gave me a questioning look.
“You say you’re going to make a decent vehicle out of this?”
She examined the faded paint and the dent on the front.
“I always feel a little better when a car has dents in the back,” she finally opined. “Means someone else ran into it, that can happen. But in the front? I’ll wager the previous owner wasn’t that careful a driver.”
“Good point. I won’t really worry until we get the front set up and aligned, that’ll tell whether we got serous problems or not. Mark my word, you’ll be surprised how nice we’ll be able to get this thing looking.”
She cocked an eyebrow at me, basically indicating to me, for the hundredth time, “Yeah, sure Clay, whatever you say.” She was indulgent to me on these sorts of things, and I was grateful for this.
“Maybe, but you sure won’t ever see me driving it.”
Fair enough.
“It will take some doing, but we’ll spend half the money we did on the Porsche. Less time too, I reckon.”
She shrugged. “I suppose I should just be happy you two guys have things to do together that bring enjoyment and keep you both occupied.”
She turned and walked back to the house.
Roger smiled broadly.
If she only knew.
****
Roger and I handled the front end first. Luckily, since he worked at a machine shop, it was easy enough to use his shop’s press to get the old bushings out of the king pin knuckles and other front-end parts, put new ones in and then ream everything to the appropriate clearances and grease it all up back in the van.
After an alignment, and with our new tires, I was thrilled at how well it rode. The first time Roger drove it, who wasn’t used to old VWs at all, the experience didn’t exactly bowl him over.
“You’re saying this handles better than it did before?” His eyebrows went up. “You musta had a hellava time for all those miles on the way home. This thing rides like a brick on wheels.”
But the first stage was done, and we tackled the rest of the beast, bit by bit.
I had a great time with the motor, which kept me occupied for a good two months of weekends and evenings. An oversize 90.5 mm set of pistons and cylinders from Mahle, a mildly stroked crank, 74 instead of the stock 69mm, all of which would give us a nice hot, almost two-liter motor. A tuned exhaust system.
Using Roger’s expertise and his shop’s tools, we saved money on all the machining except the specialty stuff—lightening the flywheel and wedgemating it to the crank, some of the case work, clearancing for a stroker crank, all that sort of stuff. It would have new heads bored out with dual valve springs, the whole business. Roger was amused at my uncharacteristic attention to detail: measuring deck height to get compression ratios right, checking all manner of clearances with calipers and feeler gauges.
It was harder to find a set of Weber 42DCNFs than when I last did a modified VW rebuild, but when matched with an Engle 110 cam, the engine would be a runner.
After the van came back from the body shop, all straightened and painted, Roger had constructed a nice custom wooden floor for the mid-section of the van. We’d removed the middle seats, it was never going to be a people carrier so we had a big expanse of clear floor to work with. I’d even gotten Barb to sew some curtains for the windows.
She looked amused with this request, and cocked an eyebrow.
“Curtains for the windows, Clay? You anxious for some privacy or something? Thinking of turning this into a camper RV sort of thing?”
I was able to convince her it was just shade I wanted, all those windows would just heat up the interior something fierce in the summer sun when parked unless there was a way to limit the light pouring in. Luckily, she saw the logic of my reasoning and did a nice job for the three side windows on each side of the van, plus the rear window. Even took some pleasure in picking out the patterned red fabric that went nice with the paint job we’d gotten done.
It was in the garage one day, I forgot what Roger and I were working on, but we took a break and were sitting on the van’s mid-floor, side doors open, when an idea struck me.
“You know what, bud? We could put a full length mirror over there.” I pointed at the side facing across from the two loading doors
Roger gave me a leer.
“And?”
“Well, if we were doing a little horizontal action on the floor of the van, we could see each other going to town.”
Roger shook his head. “You want a rolling boudoir? You want some red velvet cushions to go along?”
I was the one into visuals, not him. He usually kept his eyes shut when I was sucking him, and when he was doing me, he’d only look at my cock, never make eye contact.
But the idea intrigued me, and I bought an old long mirror, one of those cheap ones, at a tag sale and fashioned a little holder for it along side the interior wall, then made a cover for it out of fiberboard and fabric to keep it both protected from getting scratched or damaged, and hide its reflective purposes from anyone seeing it while not in use. I was tickled at the oddness and sheer naughtiness of my letch.
We got to test out the “love bed” two weekends after I had finished the engine and done our first exhilarating test drive. Tight new front end, the motor pulled strong. Roger was impressed.
We’d driven out the old rough McDouglas road, what once had been a logging road up in the hills behind Stockbridge that now nobody ever used. We had a favorite clearing we went to for our trysts sometimes, which on a sunny day was splendid for some outdoor fondling, which felt so deliciously illicit.
But the clouds had arrived soon after we’d pulled clothes off, obscuring the sun, bringing out the mosquitoes, and then it started to rain.
We grabbed our clothes and blanket and ran back to the bus, stiff cocks waving about, closed the doors and windows, and drew the curtains.
It was nice and cozy inside the van, and I pulled out our thin roll-up mattress. This would be our first sex in the van itself. I had Roger’s unit hard in no time, which is when I pulled the cover off the mirror.
He looked great stoked out on the van floor, his penis image doubled in the mirror. I loved seeing his cock go into my mouth from two perspectives: up close in front of me, then just with a sideways glance, I could see my lips travel up and down that glorious penis of his in the mirror, with my own cock bobbing around while I worked him. It almost over-excited me into a premature climax, so I had to leave off, take a break between licking sessions to let things cool down.
I had us sit down facing the mirror, legs spread and we did a little mutual masturbation business, only seeing our lower halves visible in the mirror, so it was sort of disembodied, like we were watching another pair of guys go at it.
Well we had a good half hour or so of fun before getting serious.
I played with him for quite a while, putting him in various positions in front of the mirror, marveling at not two stiff cocks, but four. I had him lie down while I was on all fours on top of him, where I could see him licking my prick, and sometimes my balls when I ground them into his face, while I stroked his penis, sucked it, licked it from root to tip, nuzzled his balls. (Well, I couldn’t see that part, but it didn’t matter.) I got to overload another one of my senses as my nose took in his sweaty ballsy scent, my own cock twitching at the double stimulation of his smell plus Roger’s own efforts on my increasingly insistent penis.
But at this stage of our relationship, we knew we had to take a lot of breaks, otherwise the fun would be over far too soon.
So we went at each other in a variety of ways, sitting next to each other, rummaging under testicles, pulling on each other’s cock without getting too worked up.
But you can’t do this too long, the sperm pressure gets unbearable.
Roger got me off first. I was lying down, while he was on the other side of the mirror, so I could get a good look down at my crotch, with my cock in his mouth, but also glance over to the mirror and get a different view.
He keeps his eyes shut when he sucks me, and I daresay he has learned well the best places to pleasure my anxious bundle of nerve endings.
He licked me from top to bottom, then back to the top of my prick where he tongued my glans ridge. All the time a hand on my balls, often rubbing from just underneath them and moving up, my ass squeezing and hips pushing into the touch to maximize the contact.
Then lips over my head, a tight wet little noose, a few rapid in-and-outs, and I feel the sperm tanks ratcheting towards crisis point. I can’t keep my eyes off the mirror.
My ass clenches, I watch my hips push frantically, and then five good satisfying eruptions of sperm into my buddy’s mouth. He keeps sucking, stroking, he’s learned to do this continuous stimulation business until I can’t take it any longer.
A prolonged nurse at my cock-head, until it dwindles, and finally slops out of his mouth. I am spent.
He holds my limp wet penis in one hand, and I see him take a look at the mirror, which he has mostly avoided. I like the barest flicker of a smile on his face.
Even more, I like that his cock is in ramrod condition, he often gets real worked up while attending to me.
So we reverse positions, and with him on the thin mattress, I go to work on him. He won’t last as along as I did, he’s that aroused, but my job is to take as long as possible.
But not that day. I don’t know if the mirror made any difference to him, or whether it was that we were in the van doing our stuff, or maybe he had just gotten himself so worked up doing me, but he shot his load in no time.
I hadn’t had him in my mouth more than a few minutes before I felt his legs tensing, his hips making those lovely frantic pushes when he is trying to get maximum stimulation to his cock. His cock head got that last little bit larger in my mouth and he erupted. It’s like having a rifle go off in your mouth, the pulse, pulse, pulse as his cock ejected the holy grail semen. I nursed as long as I could, until he could take no more contact and slopped out.
We took our time putting our clothes back on and had a quiet happy drive back home.
****
We were sitting on his backyard porch after lunch one day when Carrie had gone for the afternoon. Hot midsummer lazy air. We’d had a quickie, neither of us had had a chance at each other for a couple weeks and the urgency for relief had been mighty. I’d sucked him sitting on his deck chair and gotten a good pent-up load. He’d done me standing, my back against the side of his porch, while I watched my penis go in and out of his mouth, then lovely hip-thrusting involuntary movements when my sperm took the enchanted path through my penis to a warm, wet welcoming home inside him.
So with that warm glow from my crotch radiating through my sweaty body, and with a decent opportunity for another round, we sat relaxing on the porch chairs over refractory beers, letting the cocks recuperate.
“Roger?”
“Yeah?”
“I think I’m in love with your balls.”
He laughed, long and loud.
“Guess I got something on Barb then.”
We were careful talking about our wives, but sometimes they came into the picture.
“You’re right, no way I can suck her balls. Or her cock for that matter. And she’s never had an erection as far as I know.”
We were so witty sometimes.
I told him how much I got off on seeing his own erection. When it got hard I knew the reason. If we were together, and he was hard, I knew there was sperm boiling away in those testicles waiting to get loose.
Our friendship had taken on this comfortable new dimension. I am not sure we were totally easy being bi, don’t think either one of us was going to go around talking about it, except between ourselves. So I guess it was a secret. Although any time two people share a secret it stands a chance of getting loose.
“So does Carrie like your balls as much as I do?” He’d brought up my spouse, I figured I could do so in reverse.
He looked at me funny.
“Clay, I don’t think anyone has ever liked my nuts as much as you. Carrie liked them well enough early on, I suppose. I still don’t mind when she rubs them, but its mostly just for foreplay, not serious like you. You just plain adore them. There were some other girls way back, but, well things were different before marriage. I am sometimes embarrassed to think back on those days.”
“How naive you were?”
“Yep. And just plain stupid. That was high school all the way on for many years. Fumbling, stupid, awkward. Could never just say what I wanted, just didn’t talk sex very well at all, ever. ‘Til now. I think I can tell you anything.”
I raised my beer. “Fair enough. Here’s to good honest pleasure. Straight up.”
He laughed. “Yeah right, ‘straight up.’ Maybe you’re talking about penises.”
“Speaking of which.” He pointed at my crotch. My favorite piece of anatomy was starting to straighten itself, as it were.
We both watched.
All by itself, no touching or anything physical, but the thing got going, gradually inflating. This is one of those marvelous mysteries of life. Just by our talk, my mind had got engaged and started thinking lovely lecherous thoughts, and the mind/body connection, nerves or chemical or whatever you want to call it, went to work and the thing grew before our eyes. First a little, then more, so the head raised up off my chair, then erected itself into a flag-mast, pointing up, like some sort of mysterious male sundial.
We looked at each other, stupid grins on our faces, and then looked back at the miracle of maleness. I wagged it back and forth, then pointed it at Roger.
“Looks like I been targeted,” he said. He reached over and gave it a squeeze.
“Damn. Second time today, even.”
We had ‘doubles’ about a third of the time together. Certainly we’d had scenes where that’s what be both wanted, but more often than not, once was enough. We’d often gone and divested our spermal energy with such reckless violence there was no way a second time would happen. More than once we’d tried, but couldn’t muster the sexual energy necessary
This wasn’t going to be one of those times.
So we starting talking, luxuriating in the anticipation of what was coming.
“You watch much porn Roger?”
“Funny you should ask. Not as much as since we’ve gotten together. I watched more then.”
“Any gay?”
He wrinkled up his nose. “Since we’ve been doing stuff together I’ve looked at a little. Doesn’t really do much for me. You?”
“Some. What I like the most is a good, hard, healthy stiff cock. A pair of them. One guy excited while he’s getting another guy excited. And of course the pricks in porn are all oversize, some of them almost unbelievable. But they’re gorgeous. I especially like them outdoors, like the kind of things we’ve done.”
Roger was silent. “You ever think about a new cock, Clay?”
I wasn’t sure whether he was developing jealousy feelings or something.
“Not really. But cruising? A different anonymous way of doing things.” I said. “A novel idea. Risky. Dangerous. Probably that gives it some of its allure. That would be one way to see some new meat.”
We talked about it a little. What it would be like to see some other guys indulging their penis playing activities in a public park somewhere. Witness some action, maybe even get involved.
We looked at each other. “Give it a try?” I asked.
Roger was unsure.
I’d heard about a park in Pittsfield that had a reputation.
“But a new penis or two between us? Sound’s risky, Clay. Right now, it’s just us. No danger of health issues. But another random cock? No idea about where else it’s been? Plus the security/identity thing.”
He shook his head. But I could see it had some vague appeal for him, nonetheless, and we made tentative plans to visit a cruising spot some day. While our growing arousal simmered on low, the conversation drifted back to earlier topics.
“You know the porn I really like?” Roger had a hungry look on his face.
“Nope, what’s that?”
“When a girl with a big chest strokes and sucks a guy. When you see her breasts dangling, then jiggling while her head bobs up and down on his cock, or she plays with his shaft.”
I almost brought up Barb, since she used to do this often in the past, and had the kind of body to go with his fantasy, but I somehow didn’t want her intruding into this discussion.
She’s got long, heavy, luscious breasts, but she isn’t that fond of them, finds them annoying, although any hetero-male would view them as gorgeous. They certainly arouse me mightily. The scene Roger had described—jiggling breasts while doing oral or a handjob—would fit her to a “T.” I loved it when she knelt between my legs, stroked me while those beauties moved around, making my mouth water. But I decided not to say anything.
Roger’s Carrie is short, petite, with a haircut short and sensible, almost no chest. About as far from Roger’s lust-description as it was possible to go, but of course, you always want what you don’t have, that’s the perversity of human desire. But our wives we usually kept at a remove. I suddenly got the image in my head of Roger mounting Carrie, plunging his prick into her undoubtedly small opening. That lovely prick I knew so well, launching a spermload into her underneath him. I shuddered.
So I turned the conversation back to porn.
“So here’s my own personal problem, Rog. I think we ought to find some time to watch porn together, we might learn a thing or two from each other. But if I see the kind of scene you described, I’m torn. I want to be the guy with the penis being wanked/sucked by the buxom wench, but then I also want to be the one sucking on that beautiful, hard penis right there on the screen. Want it to be my lips. It is both a double turn-on and frustrating at the same time. I can’t be both. Highlights my own sexual schizophrenia. Does that make sense?”
Roger laughed. “Almost. I get that you enjoy the sucking bit a lot, but when that image is in front of me? I just want the big-tit girl’s lips over my own cock.”
We decided, for the umpteenth time, that sex is totally complex, and that individual variations and quirks to arousals are nearly infinite.
“Look, I’m just grateful I got your sweet penis to play with,” I finally said.
Our talking had gotten us good and worked up.
We started our second round slow, just pulling on each other’s cocks while they began their slow crawl back to hardness. Seconds are often sweet, and we were more leisurely now that the first blast had been handled.
I had Roger stoked out on a beach towel in the yard, air felt good on our bare skin. His eyes were closed, hands clasped behind his head, just enjoying the penis-attention. And my crazy mind got going, which it does sometimes.
“Imagine I’m a big-tit girl, Roger.” I felt underneath his balls, pulled on his shaft. “Pretend it’s a horny wench fondling your big handsome cock.” I gave another lecherous stroke.
“Here’s her hungry lips going over your rigid rod,” I said in a sultry voice. My mouth went over his cock, which felt good and I delighted in its hardening in my mouth.
I pulled off and continued talking. I ran my chest with my own erect nipples over his belly. “Big tits and hard nipples going over your body, you big stud. I’m gonna take your semen into my hot hungry mouth.”
This almost got a laugh out of Roger, who looked up at me.
“Cut it out Clay, you’re no female. Just suck me, okay?”
So that was it, as far as I could take my role-play stuff with him.
Didn’t matter. I got a good load out of him, and he did me back. I love these languorous summer afternoons. We had another beer after we got clothes on, wanting to be prepared if Carrie pulled in early after running her errands.
****
So, due to that one cruising conversation, one day when we’d taken the van out, on a warm sunny afternoon, I convinced Roger to visit the trysting spot I’d heard about in Pittsfield, Greylock Glen it was called, at the west end of town. Roger was nervous, I half expected him to bow out, but we found the place, drove around to the end of the parking area.
It was a warm day. I wondered if the police came around with any regularity.
We found a trail and wandered, all our senses on hyper alert for any sign of illicit behavior. I figured events would take place away from the trail, but of course we didn’t know the area, the customs or anything.
We passed a few other hikers, couples, single men. More than one of the latter “took our measure” you might say. A deliberate stare at our crotches, then a look to our faces to see if there was any sign of interest. Roger would not make eye contact, and his pace usually sped up when we crossed paths.
We spied a couple men away from the trail, partially hidden by some trees. Standing next to each other. We couldn’t quite get a good look, but it seemed like they were groping each other through trousers. I wanted to stop and look, but Roger urged me on.
On our way back, closer to the parking place, we spied another pair of guys some ways off the trail, partially obscured by some underbrush. This time there was no mistaking what was going on. Two bare erect cocks sticking out of jeans, each guy’s hand on the other’s cock. I inhaled. Some public arousal going on. Did these guys know each other? Or just a random hookup? Either way it was exciting.
We edged a bit closer, stopped maybe thirty feet from them and stared. Roger looked around nervously but brought his focus back to the guys.
They had been looking around too, wary, and had noticed us as we got closer. They stood still, probably wondering if we were posing any threat, or maybe had any interest. There was a big guy with a lumberjack shirt, his penis erect and pointing straight out of his jeans, which were unbuttoned. His healthy looking hairy balls similarly hung outside his clothes. I salivated.
The other guy decided to wave his cock in our direction. He was slender but had a good sized cock, uncircumcised, the big head just emerging from its sheath. Looked like an invitation to me. Roger looked at me and shook his head. I was sorely tempted, but wasn’t going to do anything Roger wasn’t game for, so we made our way back to the van.
Coming back to the VW the thought suddenly came to me that our sweet little restoration project made for a highly visible identifier. There just aren’t that many old VW buses around any more, and a nice looking one in a parking lot known for cruising would turn heads, maybe attract attention we didn’t want.
I didn’t like the soundtrack I played in my head. “Hey, isn’t that the van I saw at Greylock last week? Were you guys perving there?”
I’d gotten hard seeing the latest set of cocks, and my own erection had been uncomfortable while walking back to the van.
We drove off, a bit undone. Roger didn’t say a word.
So we drove back towards home, both of us silent, thinking about what we’d seen. About gay guys who would throw caution to the wind, hook up in random encounters, not afraid to wave their erections around in public, get sucked by strangers. Or do some fucking. I think Roger was both intrigued and a bit put off.
So I drove us to one of our favorite outdoor spots, pulled off on a space by the side of the road. It was a nice day so we took a backpack with sandwiches and a couple beers, I carried our rolled up blanket, and we hiked to a clearing we had used before, out of sight from the road. We used it often enough that we’d brought a scythe one time and cleared a good twenty foot square area on the other side of a stone wall fence, so the grasses and plants were cut back some, not so tall in the late summer. Kept the bugs down, less chance of ticks, and made a cozy little spot to spread out our blanket.
Sun felt good, we set out our food and drink, not talking much.
“Nice looking unit on that one guy.” I had the image of that one cock sticking out in public lodged in my mind.
Roger shot me a quizzical look.
“Looked big to me,” I went on. “But those uncircumcised ones often do, they got that extra layer of skin over everything, like an extra thick casing on a sausage.”
“Wouldn’t you like a nice fat one, Roger? Nothing wrong with ours, but surely a big one got to have some appeal?”
“Yeah, maybe. Certainly the ones in porn look good. But you know, what we do to each other is just fine. And there are some risks with a new one too.”
“So I reckon you aren’t up for another cock in our lives, huh?”
Roger’s head went up and down in assent. “We got a good thing going. No need for anything else. Another penis might be nice, but then you gotta consider the guy’s health, the risk of being discovered or however you want to cast it. Nope,” he pointed at my crotch, “that’s good enough for me. Far as I’m going to go. Safe and reliable.”
But there was no doubt he had been excited by what we’d seen.
The clothes came off. A gleam in our eyes, and pretty soon there were two nice sky-pointing erections there in our special little trysting corner of the meadow.
At one point I had Roger on spread knees, arranged so I could run my hand from his ass-crack up past his balls and shaft to the top of his penis. I stroked him over and over, delighting in the change in topography. Smooth taut ass cheeks, along that bulging perineum of his, across the furry mound of his testicles, all drawn up, along his shaft with the sperm tube outlined so nice in the sun. And that cock-head, that fountain of mine that had nourished me so nicely the last two years. Just thinking of the sperm that soon would be up-welling made my own prick twitch.
We had a good satisfying session, both of us excited from seeing the other erections out in public. A good mouthful of sperm from each of us got divested that day.
****
It was late August, in my backyard while Barb was doing errands in Pittsfield and wouldn’t be back until dinner. I craved these longer times Roger and I had together, unrushed, lecherous, languid.
We’d been stroking each other for almost an hour, both cocks had gotten hard, and softened, and hard again, always a bit more each time. We were sitting in deckchairs, taking a break before getting serious.
Roger cleared his throat. “So Carl, you remember those expressions guys used to use in high school? Insults?”
“Like ‘go fuck yourself?'” I laughed. Long time ago.
“Yeah, others too.” Seemed like he was fishing for something.
“In your dreams?” I offered.
He smiled. “Yeah, that’s one.”
I finally got where he was going with this.
“Kiss my ass?”
He got the most sheepish look on his face. It was not like we had been shy with each other the last months.
“Yeah,” he said slowly. “That’s the one.”
He looked at me. This was a request.
“You want me to kiss that ass of yours, big stud?” I laughed. “Yeah, I’ll do that.”
His face broke into a smile. We didn’t do any ass stuff, sort of the understanding we’d developed since the beginning. I was intrigued that something had changed for him.
“You clean?” I asked. His prick had started twitching.
“Yep. Emptied this morning. Took a shower before coming over.”
He really wanted this.
“Will you still respect me in the morning?” I said, a mock worried expression on my face.
He roared.
Of course it was a first for both of us, all around. Lots of stuff you only get to do the first time, then it’s different. I had pushed the palm of my hand a little around his ass before, knew he liked that. I liked having my perineum massaged while he sucked me, he knew I liked that too. This would be different.
In a huge state of excitement, I laid out a towel in the yard and positioned Roger, face down and turned to the side, his ass in the air, legs bent, like a frog maybe. His prick looked lovely, parallel to his belly, all swollen, balls drawn up nice on each side of his sac. I almost wanted to take a picture it looked so sweet.
I rubbed his bobbing shaft a couple minutes, didn’t dare get near the head.
Kissed his balls, took each of them in for a suckle, until they were all wet and slobbery, then paused to admire my work.
An ass, right there in front of me, Roger’s ass. “An ass with an ask,” was the phrase that popped into my head. What are best friends for?
I held his prick in one hand and kissed all around his anus. He was clean, no question, and his body quivered with the touch. I licked, took my time. Round and round, along his perineum. He made nice noises and I could feel his prick twitch in my hand.
All around the anus again, setting myself up for the plunge. His body was tense with desire, I could feel it everywhere I touched.
Tip of my tongue right at the entrance, I had a curious hesitation.
A little probe. He tightened instinctively, and I had to push the tip a bit.
He relaxed a second and I was able to put just the tongue-tip in the slightest amount.
Roger exhaled.
I pushed a little more, just inside and wiggled the tip a bit. He tightened on it, his whole body tense now.
I didn’t play him very long, he was too close to his climax. It was a strange sensation, to be sure.
I retreated to his balls, gave them a good suckle while I pulled on his prick, then sat back, I wanted to see the finish.
So I was pulling on his prick, now using fingers on his cock-head, and I figured I’d put a finger where my tongue had been. He hadn’t mentioned this but I was feeling daring, and didn’t think he’d mind at this point.
He tensed when I tried to push a finger in, but loosened and I went in a good way. He made lovely noises and I felt his whole body begin to tremble.
One part of me wanted to maneuver myself so that he would be spurting into my mouth, but it would have been a bit awkward. Another part of me just wanted to see his sperm jet forth out in the open. I went with that.
My left index finger in his ass, probing around, my right hand traveled up and down his shaft, fingertips tweaking the head on each stroke. His body got rigid and he inhaled.
Off he went. I felt his anus contract on my finger first, while my hand held his cock-head and moved up and down. He exhaled loudly and let loose with a tremendous spurt of sperm, shooting it out with serious velocity into the towel below him. Five good times I felt his cock in one hand, ass squeezing tight on the finger of my other while his prick spasmed. I could even see the pulses of sperm as they routed through his perineum.
It was beautiful. Elemental, potent, a force of nature. All manner of strangled noises came out of him while this was happening, until his body relaxed a bit.
I milked the last bit of semen out of his cock, which shrank quickly, until it hung there limp and lifeless, a little drop of sperm right at his prick-head.
I couldn’t help myself, leaned in fairly awkwardly, and took his cock-head into my mouth to get the last drop, feel the soft rubbery skin of his head.
Roger lay there for a moment and then turned his body and sat down. His eyes looked glazed.
“I think that was the most intense climax I’ve ever had.”
He looked at me hard.
“Ever.”
We had crossed another threshold. I was pleased. I had felt the power myself, through multiple channels, my fingers, my hands, my eyes and ears. All of them witness.
“You want a beer?” I asked.
I guessed right. He nodded gratefully.
“Gonna take a moment to compose myself, hope you don’t mind waiting.”
“Time a plenty.” I waved a hand.
I grabbed a couple bottles from the cooler and we sat down back on the deck chairs, looking at each other.
I had gotten plenty aroused while working Roger, my cock had been impossibly hard, but had relaxed with the aftermath.
Roger kept looking at me, we didn’t talk much.
“Not sure I can reciprocate the same way, Clay. It was tremendous, don’t get me wrong, my ass I don’t think ever felt so good. And the combination of what you were doing? Amazing.”
“But I’m not sure I can bring myself to…” he trailed off, looked uncomfortable.
“That’s fine. You asked, it was fine for me.”
But talking had brought back my erection.
“Not sure I can stand to hold out too long though,” I said.
Roger smiled and drained his beer.
“We’re on. On your back?” He gestured to the towel and I laid down.
Roger had me pull my legs up while he licked my balls. He didn’t do my ass, although came close. Pulling on my prick while licking up and down my perineum, that felt plenty good.
I came with him on my side, my cock in his mouth, his hands cupping my balls. It was good. I had been aroused for over an hour and the built up pressure was something else.
My spurt took him by surprise, this seemed to happen a lot for both us. Even when you knew it was coming, on the receiver’s end it still can catch you off guard.
I saw his face flinch, even with his eyes closed, as my first launch took place, my own ass squeezing good. Two mighty spurts, then four decreasing ones, the last one a halfhearted heave. He nursed for a couple minutes, until I couldn’t take any more contact.
My cock deflated fast, all slobbery wet and exhausted.
Roger got another couple beers.
We were beat. We sat there in the sun looking each other. Two happy, spent pricks lying limp in our laps. I looked at my watch. It was too soon for Barb to return, but I figured we should play it safe, so pulled on my cast aside clothes, then Roger as well. We sat back and looked at each other.
“You know it is just a question of time before we’re found out,” I finally said. I’d been thinking about this.
“Naw. We’ve been careful.” He waved a hand. “I am not worried on that score. Although it will be quite a cataclysm if it ever happens.”
This would prove to be true.
[zilla_likes]