By the end of the day I was intimately acquainted with a number of cocks, some of which I wouldn’t have minded being even better acquainted with. But I still hadn’t figured out who my jerk-off buddy was. Discouraged, I packed up my briefcase and prepared to head home. As I was waiting for the elevator, I heard the click of a door closing. Making my way to the men’s room, I listened for any sounds from inside.
I couldn’t hear anything through the door, so I pushed lightly against it until a crack of light was visible. Looking in, I had a good view of the urinals. Standing there was Peter McKenna, the head of marketing. His hand was flying along a thick cock that stretched out from the fly of his suit pants. Peter’s eyes were closed, and he was thrusting his prick into his fist as he pumped it. Low groans came from his throat as he squeezed his fat piece in his hand.
I couldn’t believe it was Peter who had been flooding the urinal with his cream all week. A tall, handsome man, Peter was married, and his wife was the envy of every woman in the office. There was a picture of his two kids, a boy and a girl, on his desk, and he frequently spoke about family camping trips and coaching his son’s Little League baseball team. Because he didn’t work on my floor, it had never occurred to me that he would be the man at the center of my obsession.
I watched him jerk off for a few minutes, my own prick stiffening as I stared at his big cock. Peter was a large man, about six-three and well built. His hands were equally large, and the one wrapped around his shaft held it tightly as it moved up and down, the gold wedding band on the ring finger glinting under the harsh fluorescent light. I couldn’t take having the big stud so close to me, and I walked into the bathroom. When Peter heard me come in he whirled around, his hand still grasping his rod.
“Oh, shit,” he said in his husky voice. “I, um, didn’t know anyone was here. I’ll just go.”
He started to tuck his cock back into his pants, but I walked over and put my hand on his arm. He looked at me for a few seconds with his large brown eyes, as if unsure of what to do, and then let his now half-hard prick hang free. The fat head swung in front of me, grazing against the bulge in my pants and causing my cock to jump with excitement.
I dropped to my knees, the coldness of the tile floor soaking through my thin suit pants like damp grass. Peter’s cock loomed above me, the head bending down toward my waiting mouth. I licked gently at the glistening piss slit, pushing my tongue against the tiny opening to taste the juice that had crept up from Peter’s nuts. He must have just finished pissing, and the bitter, masculine taste lingered on his skin. I ran my tongue under the head, into the valley formed where it joined the shaft. As I did, my lips closed around his wide tip and I sucked on his knob firmly, my cheeks pressed tightly around his shaft.
Peter’s cock was warm in my mouth, and I felt it grow fatter and fatter as I sucked him back to complete hardness. Fully erect, his dick was straight and thick, the skin smooth and taut over the engorged flesh. Relaxing my jaw, I worked on the first four or five inches of his massive tool, pushing it into my throat slowly and steadily. I thought about his wife, wondering if she could take all of his massive man meat in her tiny lipsticked mouth, and slid down his prick until my nose was buried in the small patch of his musky bush exposed through his fly.
As I worked on Peter’s prick, my hands were resting on his shoes. They were made of soft brown leather, and by pressing my fingers into the surface I could feel his feet beneath them. There is something about a man in a business suit that drives me wild—the way the clothes hang on his body, the way a tie encircles his wide throat or a watch the big bones of his wrist. Peter was a beautiful man, and in his suit he was a vision of power and strength. I rubbed his shoes slowly while I serviced him, the touch of the highly polished leather matching the sensuous, deliberate movements of my mouth.
Peter’s cock was sunk deep in my hungry throat, my face pressed into his pants so that the zipper of his fly scraped my nose. I moved my hands from his shoes to his ankles, feeling beneath my searching fingers the silk of his dress socks and the way the muscles of his legs moved under them. Further up, the silk gave way to flesh, and I felt rough hair on my skin. Wrapping my hands around his firm calves, I massaged them in time with my sucking, my lips caressing the length of prick between them as my fingers caressed his strong legs.
Peter had his hands on my head, his fingers in my hair. He urged me to suck him more quickly, thrusting his prick into my mouth and pulling me forward urgently. I wanted to be able to touch his skin, so I reached for his belt buckle, undoing it and the button that held his pants closed. Peter’s pants slipped from his waist and into my waiting hands like a sudden fall of snow. To my surprise, he was not wearing underwear. I ran my hands down his solid legs, rubbing the familiar auburn hair that blanketed his thighs and cupping the heavy sac of balls between his legs, each one the size of an egg.
Peter undid his tie and unbuttoned his white shirt, letting it hang open but not removing either one. His broad chest was covered in the same beautiful reddish hair as his legs, swirling in lazy circles over his muscular torso and trickling into the pool of his crotch. He stood in the empty men’s room, looking down at me expectantly. Putting my hands on the rounded cheeks of his ass, I buried my face between his legs, sucking hungrily at his ripe balls, pressing his cock against my neck. His sac was damp with sweat, the skin salty to the taste, the smell of a man thick between his thighs. This only made me hotter for him, and I washed his balls thoroughly, every once in a while giving his cock a deep suck to remind myself of how it felt in my throat.
Peter was grinding against my face, pushing his balls into my mouth. As he did, his fingers were working on his tits, pinching them into full, ripe buds that stuck out from his chest. Rising from the floor, I moved my mouth to one of his nipples, scraping my cheek across the soft fur of his chest. As I closed my lips around his tender flesh, Peter placed his hands on my head, drawing me to him. I sucked at his tit, biting softly and teasing him with my tongue. I could feel his cock pushing up between us as he rubbed his body up and down mine.
Releasing his hold on me, Peter began to undo my shirt as I kissed his neck, my mouth moving into the sweet hollow of his throat. I helped him by undoing my pants and sliding them off. My cock was aching from being confined for so long, and now it stood up straight from my belly, electric with heat and expectation. Peter held my smooth nuts in one big hand and kneaded them as I ran my tongue over the muscles of his neck and kissed his mouth.
I slipped Peter’s shirt off him and we stood completely exposed, our clothes scattered on the floor like puddles of water. I put my hands on Peter’s waist and ran them along the muscles of his back. Wrapping my arms around him, I pulled him close until our pricks were snug against each other, beating hotly. His tongue pressed against my lips and entered me, hungry and demanding. He kissed me roughly, sucking the breath from my throat as he probed deeper and deeper. The hair of his belly rubbed along my smooth skin as he pulled me tight, sending tendrils of pleasure into my balls.
Moving behind me, Peter positioned me so that I was facing the wall with my hands on either side of the urinal and my cock dangling over the gurgling water. Coming up behind me, he pressed the entire length of his fuck piece against the crack of my ass, his balls hanging down against mine. He started to thrust against me, his cock sliding along between my cheeks like a steam engine. He slipped one of his big fingers into my mouth, and I sucked eagerly at it as he slowly fucked my lips, sliding over my teeth and tongue. He put two more fingers in, and I slurped at them like I was sucking his fat cock, the band that circled his finger metallic on my tongue.
He took his hand out of my mouth and started to finger my asshole. I was tight, but my spit helped him slip one finger in so he could loosen me up. Soon I was rocking back and forth over the three fingers that had been in my mouth, the warm rim of his wedding ring once again adding extra pleasure as he slipped it past my sphincter. Peter pulled his fingers out and positioned his cockhead
against the opening to my chute. As he drove in, my cock sprang up and slapped against my stomach from the thrill of being invaded by him. I’d never had anything so thick up me before, and Peter filled me totally. I could feel every twitch of his prick inside my belly, and the sensation of his fat head throbbing deep inside me nearly sent me over the edge.
Peter didn’t waste any time letting me get used to his size. Pulling back, he began to hammer my ass with abandon, bombarding my tender hole with his full arsenal. Grunting with every thrust, he buried his prick in me again and again until thick drops of slime were dripping from my cockhead onto the bathroom floor. My dick bounced up and down, slapping my stomach and brushing against the edge of the urinal as it thrashed around.
I imagined someone walking in on us and seeing the big stud fucking my ass in the middle of the men’s room, and this made me even hornier. I pictured all of the men who had stood in that very spot, and would stand there the next day oblivious to what had happened, and imagined them all jerking off watching us. I pushed back against Peter, driving him even farther in, and he responded by increasing his speed so that his belly slapped painfully against my ass as he pumped his full length in and out of my burning hole.
Still fucking me, Peter wrapped his hand around my cock and began to beat me off in time with his thrusting. He was bent over me now, and his breath was ragged on the back of my neck.
“I’m going to shoot deep inside you,” he growled in my ear. “I’m going to fucking come in your tight hole.”
I was close to shooting myself, and hearing this family man talking dirty to me as he stuffed his tool up my butt filled me with a perverse joy. I wanted Peter to empty his load in me. Clamping my ass muscles around his dick, I began to ride him furiously. He started to moan, and I felt his prick swell painfully inside me just before he let out a low groan of pleasure and a thick blast plastered my shitter with his heat.
Peter came three times, each time emptying a huge load into me. The last spasm sent me over the edge. I looked down and saw a flood of jism shoot from my cock as Peter pumped it. It sprayed a sticky web all over the urinal, covering the sides and dripping from the rim to the floor in long threads. Seeing it there brought another round from my tired nuts, this time coating Peter’s hand with a heavy rain that clung to the hairs of his wrist and hand.
Slipping out of my ass, Peter dressed quickly and left without another word, which was just as I wanted it. If he’d said anything else, it would have shattered the world we’d created there between the white tiled walls of the men’s room. I wanted to remember him as he’d been the moment when his cock was buried in my ass, releasing his need into me.
After that night I couldn’t pass Peter in the hall without my prick getting hard. But we never discussed or repeated our encounter, and there were no more reminders waiting for me in the men’s room. Then, a few months later, I stopped on my way out to wash my hands. There in the water of the urinal a swirl of white broke the clear surface. And sitting on the rim was a hair, golden brown like honey. Looking at it, I felt a familiar stirring in my balls, and my hand went immediately to my zipper.
A Perfect Game
There are only two sports that I can really get into: baseball and hockey. This story came about while I was contemplating the age-old problem of partners who are devoted to different teams. In one of those life-imitating-art moments, my partner and I did in fact move to San Francisco a couple of years ago, much like the characters in the story. Although I have wholeheartedly embraced the Giants, Patrick still insists on rooting for the Anaheim Angels, and the 2002 World Series was a grim affair around here, especially for me.
“Yes!” I heard Mike yell enthusiastically from the bedroom as I opened the front door. “That’s the way to throw the goddamned ball. Stop playing like a bunch of sissies and you just might pull this thing off.” I had just come from the gym, where I’d been so caught up in my workout that I’d lost all track of time. When I suddenly realized that the Series had started twenty minutes earlier, I hadn’t even bothered to shower before coming home, and my skin was damp and sticky with the sweat I’d worked up jogging the twelve blocks to the apartment.
I should explain that in our house, baseball is king. Mike and I both play in a weekend league made up of a bunch of guys in their thirties who should really know better but insist on dragging ourselves out to the park once a week to throw a ball around and tell tall tales about our illustrious careers on Rotary Club teams or high-school squads. While I did play second base on my college team, I enjoy running around the field catching flies and swatting the ball mainly because it’s fun to be with a bunch of other guys playing a game. But Mike played several seasons for an Atlanta farm team before a groin injury (he was screwing the strength coach in the showers and slipped) took him out of big league consideration, and for him it’s like being able to relive those summer days of glory all over again.
Every spring he starts getting all worked up for the season, buying tickets to opening-day games and poring over stats in the morning paper. He even keeps a chart on the refrigerator that he updates daily, tracking the progress of both leagues. I turn into the proverbial baseball widow while he gets a severe case of baseball fever that lasts straight through September, growing worse as the end of the season draws near. Needless to say, the World Series is the highlight of his year. And this year the Braves, Mike’s hometown team, were in the final sweep.
Tossing my gym bag on a chair, I went into the bedroom. Mike was lying on the bed, propped up against the pillows. He was wearing a faded pair of jeans and his Atlanta Braves T-shirt and baseball hat. All he needed was a few stripes of yellow and red war paint on his cheeks and he’d look just like the chanting fans watching the game from the stands. I told him when we moved to San Francisco that he might want to think about picking a new favorite team to root for, but after growing up in the South he was as stubborn as the strong-willed Dixie women who’d met the Yankee soldiers on the road armed with nothing but their parasols and their anger.
“Who’s winning?” I asked as I flopped down on the bed next to him.
He grinned, the muscles of his darkly shadowed jaw sliding into a smile. He never shaves during the Series, and after more than a week he had the beginnings of quite a nice beard coming in. “I’m not telling,” he said teasingly. “If you can’t show up on time, you forfeit your right to know until the next break. Besides,” he added, sniffing loudly, “you really smell. You better hit the showers.”
I rolled over on top of him and pinned him to the bed, straddling his wide chest and holding his arms down with my knees. I was blocking his view of the television, and he was struggling to see around me. “Hey,” he said, “I can’t see the game.”
“Too bad,” I said, licking his neck while he strained to pull away. “You apologize.”
“No way,” he laughed, trying to push me off. “Now let me up.”
“If you won’t apologize, then you’ll have to pay the penalty,” I said. I pressed my crotch forward so that the bulge in my sweats was right in front of his mouth. “Suck it.”
“But it’s game six,” he whined. “The Braves are up three to two. If they win this one, they win the whole damn thing. Do you know how long I’ve waited to see the hometown boys win this thing?”
“I don’t know,” I told him. “You aren’t being particularly good tonight. I’m not sure you should be able to watch any television.” Snatching up the remote control, I clicked off the set. Mike cried out indignantly. “You bastard. Turn that back on right now.”
“Not until you show a little more teamwork,” I growled. Reaching into my bedside table drawer, I pulled out a couple of old ties I keep there for just such emergencies. One at a time, I wrapped the ends around Mike’s wrists and secured them to the rails of the big iron bed frame. He kept trying to buck me off him, but I’m taller and outweigh him by about thirty pounds, and there was no way he was going to move me. The whole time, a steady stream of cursing came f
rom his mouth. “You fucking shit,” he bellowed. “You peckerhead. This is torture, you goddamned cocksucker. You better let me up or you’ll be really sorry.”
I looked down at him, his arms tied helplessly above his head. “For someone in your position you sure do have a big mouth,” I said. “It’s a good thing I have something in mind to fill it with. Now just lie there while Coach goes and gets ready for his boy.”
I climbed off the bed and went into the bathroom, leaving Mike squirming and swearing on the bed. Tying him up had gotten me all worked up, and my prick started to harden as I mentally ran over the scene I was about to play out. In the bathroom, I quickly pulled off my sweats and T-shirt and threw them in the hamper. I really was smelling pretty strong from my workout, and the scent of my own body made me even harder. I snatched up a jock from the pile of dirty laundry and pulled it on, arranging the straps over the full moons of my ass and making a tight basket of my cock and balls. There were old cum and piss stains on the pouch, and since I’d worn it for three weeks without washing it I knew it was ripe with my ball sweat.
Also sitting on the mound of laundry waiting to be washed was the uniform I wore for weekend play. I pulled on the tight-fitting blue pants and drew the drawstring closed. The last time we’d played it had been wet, and there were a couple of really good dirt and grass stains on the legs from where I’d taken a slide into home plate. I put on the loose jersey as well, my number 33 on the back in white with Morgan written over it in block letters.
To complete the outfit I pulled my socks and sneakers back on. Then, grabbing an old batting glove from the hallway table, I went back in to attend to Mike. He had been unable to get out of the firm knots I’d made and was still tied up nice and tight. His face was red from all the exertion, and he looked like he wanted to kill me. He wouldn’t even look at me as I walked to the foot of the bed and stared down at him.
Tangled Sheets Page 23
