A gay sex stories: Sweet Sabotage Sweet Sabotage
The Pre-Game
“So when was the last time you went bowling?”, I asked Ben.
“I wanna say it was sometime last year,” he said with a smile.
“Oh, so I’d better be careful around you,” I joked. “I haven’t been in a while, but I can still chop some wood.”
Ben glanced sideways at me and smiled. We were on our way to an old-school bowling center for a Friday night date. Somehow the topic came up between us and in short order, we decided to hit the lanes at a place near him.
When I say “old-school”, I do not mean decrepit. Very few bowling centers of the run-down variety still exist. Most modern centers make it almost a glamorous experience for visitors, including automatic scoring on bright HD screens, neon decorations and other fancy lighting, and full bars. The center we were going to was in good repair, but not hypermodernized. Even better, they charged by the line – not by the hour the way new centers do now. Some places’ fees are scandalously high, but I guess they have to pay for all those fancy bells and whistles somehow.
“What’s your lifetime high?” he asked me slyly.
“201,” I said, as I turned the car into the lanes’ parking lot. “I did it in league play our final week. It was enough to get a cash prize and a trophy.”
Ben cooed with approval. “And what was your handicap?”
“The same as it is today…cute guys like you.”
He laughed then playfully punched my upper right arm. “Hey, that’s my bowling arm,” I jokingly chided, “Don’t you touch that.”
Both of us, having bowled in leagues before, still had our own shoes and balls, so we were able to skip shoe rental and go right to the lanes. We got lanes 3 and 4, almost at the far wall. This house had 28 lanes.
For a Friday evening, I was surprised at how empty the place was. It was a spring night when we went, so maybe everyone was outside enjoying the weather. A major musical touring act was also in town, so I’m sure that had to be a draw. The only other customer in the alley was way at the other end, doing what appeared to be practice rolls. His vaguely serious demeanor suggested he was there on business…probably in a league or something.
We got to the computerized scoring console – one of the few luxuries the center bothered to modernize – and I entered our names and pressed the start button.
The Competition
I stepped up, steadied myself, took the few steps toward the foul line and released my 12-pound, black rubber national-brand ball. I watched 7 pins fall.
“Very graceful,” Ben said.
I smiled. Thinking the pickup would be easy, I stepped up and let the ball fly. It missed. An open frame for the first game.
“It’s early,” Ben said, stepping up for his turn.
“Mmm-hmm,” I retorted playfully. “Let’s see you do better.”
Ben’s first shot took all but 2 pins, the 6 and the 10 on the right.
“Okay, you bested me by one there,” I called out.
He took his second shot. I thought he’d nailed it, but the ball arced just to the left, leaving both.
“D’Oh!” I joked.
After that first open frame, I tied together a couple of spares, as did he. By the end of the 4th, he had a 2-pin lead on me.
I wondered when I was going to see my first strike. In league play I’d usually connected at least once or twice in the front four frames.
It turned out I wouldn’t have to wait long. I stepped up with the ball, got really still, and then – perhaps summoning the magic of the bowling gods – took my steps and delivered a near perfect hook shot. With a great crash sound, the pins scattered, leaving the pit empty. I turned, victorious, back to the scoring console.
“Hmmmmm”, Ben cooed with a big smile. “I can see I’ve got my work cut out for me.”
Ben came back with a fill of 7. I now led him by 6.
In the 6th frame, Ben got a strike while I posted a measly 5. But in my 7th, I would connect again. Although I got my stride correct, my release was a bit premature. It didn’t matter, as the ball went for a left-sided “Brooklyn” shot, sweeping all 10 pins down.
“Oh my”, Ben said, watching. I was still behind him by 11 now, but had made it to 100, at least.
By the end of the first game, I’d managed to beat him by about 14 pins.
He strode up to me to hug me warmly. “Not bad, champ. Let’s do another.”
“Sure,” I answered. “That wasn’t even close to my best performance.”
I reset the scoring console to zeroes for game two and, again, I was first. Through five frames, I was holding a slim lead over him, by 5.
Ben knows I have a weakness…his bellybutton. I love his midriff, his thin, dark, vertical innie on his creamy, flat stomach. He often wears crop-tops when we go out or hang out around the house. Ben is also a bit of a scalawag. He’s a bit playful. And he knows he’s cute. All that would play out the rest of the evening.
My sixth frame, I took my steps, bent over, and delivered the ball over the foul line. This was one of those shots where the pins flew funny. But thanks to enough spin I’d put on the ball, only two pins were left wavering before one took out the other.
Ben jumped up to celebrate, throwing his arms up in the air, causing his black tee to fly up and his navel to flash before me. I felt my shaft stiffening a bit. I like peekaboo teases.
“Looks like you’re getting hot…” Ben playfully teased me.
“You have no idea,” I mumbled ironically with a smile and a touch of lechery.
My next shots, I came up with two open frames. Ben was absently sticking his hand under his shirt, like he was scratching himself, absently. Oh, how I love that sight.
By the end of the game, I’d managed to lose by 2. He shot me a mischievious smile then came over and hugged me.
“Let’s do one more before they close,” Ben proposed.
“Okay,” I grinned. “I’m coming back this time, though.”
“We’ll see about that,” Ben said back cheekily. “But I think we should play for something this game, just to make it interesting.”
“I suppose you have a cheeky suggestion.”
“Yeah, actually, I do. The loser has to let the winner masturbate him until he comes.”
I lowered my head slightly and laughed a bit. “You shouldn’t tee the ball up like that, because I’m just gonna swat it off, you know that, don’t you?”
Ben pulled up his black tee, tying it up crop-top style, so his beautiful oval innie and midrirff were completely exposed to the stagnant bowling center air.
“I think I have a chance,” he replied with a wink of mischief.
“Ohhhh-kay,” I chuckled.
The guy bowler at the other end had left. It was just us and the front desk clerk, who was riveted to his smartphone watching some streaming series.
As I started the third game, Ben was leaning against the scoring console bench rather than sitting – the better to ensure I could see the skin show he’d be using as a weapon to defeat me.
I threw my first shot. A 5 followed by a 3. I was weakening. I watched his beautiful midriff as he’d walk up to the lane to deliver his shot, then return, waist swaying with a vibe I clearly found erotic.
The second frame, he threw a strike. As he walked back from the foul line area, he stroked his stomach, dragging his hand across his bellybutton, watching me as he did it. I inwardly cratered with lust from the sight, then got up and on my turn, left another open frame.
The third frame, he came up with a spare, yet another mark. As he walked back this time, he inserted his hand up his shirt as if he was scratching his chest. Oh, was that hot. I was starting to fantasize more about my lips on his navel. Again, I couldn’t manage a mark – I got a 7.
“I’m starting to see a pattern,” I said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he joked.
The fourth frame, he got even more playful. As he emerged from the foul line area, he took my left hand, held it up to his stomach, and pulled it across his bellybutton. I wasn’t about to pull my hand away, even though the competitor in me wanted to win, still. The soft, warm sensation of that oval dimple against my hand and fingers made me tremble a bit. Naturally, I got a 5 followed by a gutter ball that frame.
The fifth frame, he brought his bared midriff up to my face, then gently pulled my face into his stomach and… held… it… there. It felt amazing. For a moment I forgot we were in a bowling center.
Then he let me go. “You’re up, superstar,” he teased.
Another lousy first shot on my part, this one a split, which I couldn’t convert. I had sunken to about half of my score from the previous game. The only part of me winning was my dick.
The final frames, he was just flat-out cruel. For each of his turns, he showed his bared stomach but refused to let me touch him, darting playfully around my attempts to cop a feel, but ensuring I could see his navel every single time he was up.
By the time the game was over, Ben had beaten me. Solidly. By over a hundred pins.
Ben walked up to me, my eyes darting between his handsome face and his bellybutton, which I was
quite lustfully enjoying the sight of, almost to the point of precum. He finally relented, pulling me to his chest in a warm embrace, and I felt his arms around me. I extended my arms around his bared lower back. His warm, soft skin was heaven.
He looked me in the eyes, and then kissed me. On the lips…VERY nice. Long, warm, hard. We didn’t care who saw us, which was pretty much nobody. We had to have been in that embrace for a good five minutes. For a second, I forgot we were in a public establishment. I looked up at the score monitor above the lane. He got a 195. I had only managed an 88, one of my worst personal games ever in recent times.
“I am so going to enjoy collecting on your ‘punishment’,” he said in a near whisper as we were heading to check out and pay.
The Post-Game
We left the center, me feeling slightly “played” and horny. On the way to the car, Ben rolled his black tee back down. “Oh, NOW you’re gonna cover up?” I ribbed him.
He chuckled. “You know you liked it.”
We got to my place. I was sitting on the living room couch, he was leaning against an easy chair, standing. A strip of his belly showing his navel was visible.
“I love that you love my bellybutton,” he told me softly.
“I couldn’t help but notice it. Even if you used it as a weapon tonight.”
“A weapon?” His eyes rose in amusement.
“A sexy, sensuous, erotically beautiful weapon.”
“I know. That’s why I wore this. I was hoping it might…affect the outcome.”
“Oh, well…it did!”
Pause.
He rolled up the edge of the shirt to a couple of inches above his deep, vertical, slit of an innie once again. His smooth, creamy, unblemished stomach complemented it perfectly. He had a midriff nothing short of perfect. With his wavy black hair/locks, his kind face, and his gentle smile, I couldn’t have been hornier. I just gazed at him for several moments.
“I think it’s time for me to…’collect’,” Ben said, arching his eyebrows with a touch of lechery.
“Yeah…a deal’s a deal,” I said. “So how do you want to do this?”
“Lay down on the couch, face up.”
I was happy to do so. As I did, he went to the bedroom and came back with two pink, cotton sashes.
“Put your arms over your head,” he directed me.
I did. He tied my hands up.
“Can you see my bellybutton?” he asked.
“Ohhhh, yeah,” I answered.
“Good. This won’t hurt a bit.”
He unzipped my pants and fished out my shaft which was quite hard now. He directed me once more.
“Keep your eyes on my navel,” he said softly.
“A pleasure,” I said just as softly.
And then he began to masturbate me. He started slowly, with a series of very pleasant, slow and rhythmic strokes, occasionally pausing. His hands are warm and soft and feel fantastic whenever he does this to me.
I kept gazing at his navel, admiring the long, slit of a shape it had, how dark it was at the interior, and recalling all the times I’d ever fingered it, kissed it, licked it, making him moan with pleasure.
He began to increase the cadence of his stroking, touching the soft underside of the head of my penis, a part that sends me to ecstasy when anyone makes contact with it. I began to moan audibly.
Ben looked me in the eyes, half lovingly, half menacingly. It was a pretty hot look. And then he kicked things up a notch.
He brought his bared stomach and navel close to my penis and began to slowly rub the underside of my shaft against it, pressing it into the crevice that was his innie. I felt cum starting to give way. He kept this up for several minutes, almost in a kind of teasing way. I know, though, that this move wasn’t all about me – his bellybutton is erotically sensitive also, to the point where he can ejaculate from having it fingered or touched. My penis pressing against it must have felt fantastic.
But I beat him to coming. As he pulled my penis in one more time, very firmly, I let out a louder moan and then felt my body tremble as a rope of semen spewed out from the fold of his navel into the air, landing on my chest. Another strand escaped, hitting his bared stomach.
Even though it was getting slippery, he managed to keep my penis firmly against his bellybutton, causing glob after glob to erupt from my tip. I grunted and moaned with ecstasy and relief and the last of my semen blasted out.
Spent, I rested, panting gently. He untied my hands then sat on the edge of the couch and looked fondly at me.
“So what do you want to do now?” he asked.
“Well, since you won, I think you deserve more of a prize than what you just got,” I said. “Bring that lovely navel of yours, up to my face.”
Slowly, sensually, he made his way over to me, standing with his stomach in my face, his crotch at
about chin level.
I looked up at him. Both of us were smiling, fondly, at each other.
I leaned forward and pressed my lips to his still-wet navel, feeling the warmth of my semen and his stomach and the gap between its moistened left and right edges of his navel against my face. He let out a soft grunt of pleasure. I began to kiss him softly but more firmly, placing my hands on his hips to steady him in my face, pressing my lips through the semen I had deposited on his body minutes prior.
He ran his fingers through my hair, caressing me, in an almost reassuring manner.
I stuck my tongue out, licking the upper edges of his innie and the cum I’d squirted inside it, bringing about yelps of a slight ticklishness. Then I dragged my tongue complely through the deepest part of it, feeling the sides of it brush against the sides of my tongue. It was so soft, no roughness at all, and certainly had no lint – he knew how to clean his bellybutton, for sure.
After a few moments of this, his innie was moist with a mix of my semen and saliva. He was moaning in an almost mantra-like manner now.
“I love your navel,” I whispered to him.
“I love what your tongue is doing to it, don’t stop,” he said back breathlessly.
Still kissing his stomach, I removed my hands from his hips and used them to unzip his pants, gently drawing his ample penis out of his underwear, left to dangle in the air of the living room. I was still kissing and smooching and making love to his navel, even as I saw precum beginning to form on the tip.
With my right hand I gently stroked the underside of his shaft, making him breathe deeper and harder. After a few moments of teasing him this way, I took my hand away, leaving his penis to dangle helplessly in the air, the tip pointed at my upper chest and neck.
I kept the pressure on, alternating deeper presses of my tongue into his navel with a flutter of light kisses on his stomach. Back and forth for several minutes, on and on, on and on.
Until he exploded. Hard. A very firm jet of gray-white semen hit my chin and upper chest, landing on my shirt. He groaned aloud.
A second load of semen hit my face again, almost as hard as the first. I almost pulled back from the force, but was absolutely dedicated to keeping my mouth on his bellybutton until he was drained.
Then there were two other blasts, hitting my neck, my shirt, the living room carpet. I held him by the hips again as his air thrusts began to slow down.
Finally, a last bit of cum emerged. A thick strand of semen dangled from his tip, defiantly refusing to break off and fall to the floor. I watched it sway in the mild air currents of the living room, mesmerized by how strong semen can be.
“Wow…I really made a mess,” he said quietly, after a few moments’ silence. He was still standing in front of me. I was still seated, my shirt moist with cum stains, with his stomach in my face. I felt his globs of semen on my chin beginning to cool.
“I forgot to tell you,” he whispered to me. “I hate to lose at bowling.”