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Stanley inched my pants and boxer briefs down low on my thighs. My cock sprung and hit him square in the face.
“Ow,” he said, laughing and taking hold of it in both hands, his mouth following immediately.
“Hey, can I, uh, I want to, you know, go down on you,” I said, hoping I’d finally get a chance.
With a pop, his lips released the tip.
“Mind if we make out first?” Stanley asked.
I nodded, then he leaned back, arching hips up, removing pants and underwear that were tenting over Stanley’s erection.
Stomach flexed, Stanley rose again to his ass, face moving to mine.
When our mouths met, we wrapped our arms around one another. Legs tangled, pulling our chests tight together, our crotches grinding, our lips clicking and popping. I devoured the musk of Stanley’s skin, his cologne with a deep, long breath. With my lips, I attempted to mimic the progression of kisses he performed on my neck on his. Stanley moaned. I drifted further down to his chest and mashed my lips over his nipples. When I looked up, he was biting his lip, eyes closed. Porn taught me that most people loved their nipples licked, pinched, or even bit, but mine were far too sensitive; I didn’t even like to touch them myself. If I wore a tight shirt when I took a run, frequently, they’d bleed and sting.
My tongue flat, I gave him a firm, slow flick over his nip and areola. Stanley gasped and moan. With another kiss, I lightly sucked on it. He whined loudly. A pattern emerged, an inhale, curl of my tongue, and lick. Sometimes I closed my teeth tenderly around his nipple, and Stanley would buck his hips, gasping and whining.
The elicited responses made me rock hard. I wanted to sample Stanley’s cock, blow his mind, taste his pre-cum, feel the pulse of his orgasm, and devour his cum.
My mouth kissed and clicked down his washboard stomach and into his deep trenched V, his body shuttered. Palms on each of his inner thigh, my face hovered over his rod, still mostly covered by underwear, the tip breaching the elastic top. I exhaled deeply, the first drop of pre-cum glistening. My face traveled up, and I pressed a kiss on the bulge two-thirds up and continued. Finally, I reached the bare mushroom head. My mouth watered. I kissed it like I did his lips. With hooked fingers, I pulled the underwear low and closed my lips around his shaft, tugging it from his pelvis. I descend, consuming inch after girthy inch. Partially obscured with foreskin, I estimated he was about seven and a half inches.
I gaged, Stanley laughed and said, “It takes practice, but I volunteer to give you plenty.”
He laughed again.
My eyes watered, and I tried again, then gaged once more, retreating, coughing.
“Be patient,” Stanley reassured, “And it isn’t something everyone enjoys.”
“Is that true?” I asked, questioning his motive.
Despite my lack of experience on both sides, my thoughts coalesced around the image, the experience of having someone swallow my shaft whole. Could someone do it, I wondered? I doubted I could deep-throat a similar shaft no matter how much experience I gained.
“It is; I can enjoy it, but not enough to make you miserable,” he said.
I wrapped a fist around his base and bobbed my head on it. The slurping volume increased, his vocalizations loud in my ears. His bed springs bounced, and his hips thrust with the rhythm of my head, moans boisterous and free, pre-cum generous and sweet.
Through short, heavy breaths, Stanley said, “Put a finger in.”
My free hand moved to the sheet between my knees and his spread legs. I felt for his anus. After prodding, I wiped my index finger through the spit streaming down his shaft and balls and prodded anew.
Stanley’s hole accepted me, his muscles flexing around my finger. He hissed and moaned. I’d done nothing with assholes before, so I immediately just fucked it fast.
“Ow,” Stanley half laughed, “Bret, wait.” He said.
I stopped and looked up at him.
Eyes squinted, his brows crowding his nose, he said, “Go in with your finger slowly, twist your hand so your palm faces up, ok?”
“Ok, now try to touch my dick through the lining.”
A mound lay there. I pushed down and stroked it with the end of my finger.
“Yeah,” Stanley cooed. “That’s the spot, rub that and, you know, keep blowing me.”
He showed me a big, toothy smile.
Still in his ass, I gripped his cock again and slurped it up.
With deep focus, I wavered in and out of a rhythm; like patting my head and rubbing my belly, I’d need more practice.
Still, Stanley gasped and writhed, his anus flexing tight in spasms.
“Oh God, yes,” Stanley cried out. “Yes, fuck me!”
My cock responded with a bobbing flex from its base, wanting to grant his wish.
Stanley repeated, the volume and tone raising with each, “Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God!”
His hips bucked, muscles tightened. He yelled loudly, saying, “Yes! Yes! Yes!”
Stanley’s pulsing cock covered my tongue in his cum, and I gulped. He pumped more; I swallowed again. Inside my mouth and hand, istanbul travesti his shaft twitched. In his ass, he throbbed and tightened.
Stanley’s body relaxed. I freed him and withdrew, collapsing to his side.
“Fuck, Bret,” he said. “That was incredible.”
He turned his head, and we kissed, his taste fresh on my tongue.
“Mmm,” he said. “You’re so sexy.”
I pulled away slowly and looked him up and down. His naked, hard frame next to mine.
“You’re, uh, you’re the fucking sexy one,” I said.
He smiled at me, arching forward, and planted another kiss.
His arms hugged me, and I wrapped mine around him. Stanley gripped tight, my solid cock indenting our stomachs.
“I have an idea.” His eyes popped open, and he rolled onto his back and reached for a bottle on the nightstand.
When he spun back, his neck craned forward, and he pressed a small pool of clear liquid from a KY vial into his cupped palm, snapped it closed with a single hand, and dropped it. He rubbed his palms together, the clear fluid dripping onto his thighs. Then, with slick hands, he grabbed my dick, spreading it.
“Lay back,” he said.
The bottle in hand again, he drizzled more along my urethra and spread it over and around my shaft. I moaned. The slickness, the warmth of his hand, his thick arms flexing and strong hands groping made me ache for relief. Next, he spread the drops that fell on his legs over the inside of his thighs.
He rolled and placed the bottle back on the nightstand, and pushed his back and ass against me. I turned over, spooning him. Stanley opened his thighs and drew my shaft between them and closed around it.
I thrust forward, sliding between his thighs, my pelvis, and his ass crashing. Then I retracted my dick back, my lower back bending backward sharply.
“Fuck,” I said. If fucking ass was better than this, I thought I wasn’t sure I could handle it.
Stanley clutched the head with one hand, the other tight under it. He pulled and pivoted his wrists, winding his hands in opposite directions around the top of my cock, becoming a piston between his legs.
Stanley said, “Yeah, daddy, fuck me. Fuck me hard with your horse cock.”
I went red, my eyeballs bulging. I nearly laughed, but pressed my lips tight together.
All my thoughts needed to focus on blowing my load while Stanley continued the dirty talk. I’d love to fuck him for real, cum inside him, watch his face as my shaft dove into him. But I thought about when he’d be ready; how long would I have to wait, I wondered.
Behind my balls, a tightness wound. The blood drained from my body, cock solid as stone. I imagined the warmth and texture deep inside Stanley. His ass stretched around every inch, his hungry, pleading screams and groans while I fucked him deeper than any other. The tightness was rising fast. Until all at once, it released, taint pulsing, all my semen surged up my shaft. I held him tight and drove as far beyond his legs as I could, growling and groaning. My cum flew onto the bed in front of Stanley, some dripping over his hand. Stanley brought his fingers to his face and licked them, sucking each dry.
“You taste so good,” he said, smacking his lips.
Stanley rolled in place, face-to-face again. He studied me, then pressed his lips tight together. “Muah, ready for a shower?” he asked.
He lept off the bed, his half-hard cock swaying.
“Sure,” I said, lifting myself, avoiding the cold, wet mess on the sheets, and sliding off his bed.
From the bathroom, a pipe squeaked, then a rush of water gushed onto a hard surface. Stanley hummed, his voice echoing.
I poked my head through the ajar door, the shower’s steam muggy on my face.
“Heeeay Yaaaa, Heeeay Yaaaa, Uh oh,” he sang, turning to me. A hand on his dick, peeing into the toilet bowl beyond the edge of a double marble vanity, two large baroque frames housing mirrors above them, a tiled tray funneled shower water to a drain all encased in a clear glass partition and hinged glass door.
Stanley flushed and continued to sing, “Shake it, shake it, shake it. Shake it like a Polaroid picture.” His voice mimicked that of the radio, and danced on the way to the shower. With such a willingness to be silly and naked in front of me, my neck and legs released some tension; my mind focused on just being there with him, lapping up the site of his naked body, his beautiful cock.
We showered, lathering and washing, kissing and groping under the steaming water. The heat and orgasms had wiped me out; I wanted time to relax, rest, or lie down. Stanley handed me a towel, and we dried, his hard body dressed in trimmed body hair that accentuated his muscular legs, and broad chest. I particularly liked the dark happy trail leading to his pubes. He seemed so much more mature than me, further along in confidence, academics, athleticism, and situation.
“Have you seen Mean Girls?” he asked.
“Uh, no, I don’t think so.”
I was sure I hadn’t seen it. I’d seen one movie at the theaters and only partway, “Forrest Gump.” istanbul travestileri My dad got belligerent during the Vietnam scenes, and they kicked all three of us out.
Stanley gasped, “Oh my god, we should watch it tonight; Jake picked it up on Blu-ray today.”
I had only the vaguest idea of what the film was about, most of that derived from the title. My dad usually watched sports when he was conscious and could get reception on our shitty old TV. So watching a movie could be fun if we kept our hands to ourselves.
“Here,” Stanley said. I turned to him as he chucked a pair of shorts at me. “Wear those.”
I studied the silky red underwear. They were loose and short.
Back to the bathroom, I went and picked up the pants, undershirt, and underwear I’d left on the floor, shoving each of my arms into the undershirt’s sleeves.
Stanley poked his head into the bathroom. “Don’t wear those,” he admonished. “They’re dirty.”
“I’m, uh, I’m gonna need some kind of, uh, support, I never,” I said, “I don’t.”
“You don’t free ball? But it’s so nice. Try it with me, huh?” Stanley asked.
“Um, I’m not sh–.”
“Come on, Bret, just try it out. Those shorts are so silky too; it’ll feel great.”
That’s what worried me.
Topless and free-balling, we doubled back down the hall to the kitchen that opened to a spacious living area. Pendulous, my dick swung left and right with each step.
“Sounded like you boys were enjoying your evening,” Jake said. He winked at me. The two dads sat twisted back to see us from the leather sectional. I looked away, my forehead hot, clinging to Stanley, trying to hide my loose dick. But, of course, they could hear us; we hadn’t been quiet, especially Stanley. My cock inflated, thinking about his dads eavesdropping. Their cocks pulled out and stroking to the sounds of us playing.
“Stop it, Papa, you’re embarrassing poor Bret,” Stanley said, opening the tall stainless steel side-by-side fridge and retrieving two beers.
“Please no, Bello,” Paolo chimed in, his accent beautiful and clear. “Great sex is loud, uninhibited.”
Jake smirked, pulling a tumbler of brown liquor to his lips, arm wrapped behind Paolo’s shoulders.
“Here,” Stanley held the cold brown bottle of beer before me.
I took it and drew my face close to his ear. “Your parents let you drink?” I whispered.
“A beer sometimes, yeah,” Stanley said. “Go ahead; you can have one too.”
“Unless your momma wouldn’t approve,” Paolo said, overhearing us easily.
I said, “My dad, uh, only cares if he catches me. And, uh, only if he’s sob–,” I trailed off.
“I, uh, drink beer,” I lied, tone suspect, and accepted the bottle.
I’d tried beer a few times, but didn’t care for it. Chiefly because I didn’t like the idea of being like my dad, he drank enough for both of us.
Around the sectional, I followed Stanley, sitting then leaning on him, my feet on the seat, knees up and against my chest.
The walls flanking the living room featured Stanley framed in pictures at various ages. Beside the boxy large screen TV, one captured the shirtless dads holding the naked Baby Stanley. Paolo cradled Stanley, Jake hugging Paolo around the waist, and his face peering over the Italian Papa’s shoulder. Both gazed affectionately at their boy. Stanley was the spitting image of his papa, similarly defined musculature, fuzzy chest, strong jawline, and scruffy chin. Whereas, behind them both, Jake was taller, skinny, his red hair darker than now.
Stanley reached for the remote and switched to auxiliary.
“Mean Girls, Mijo?”
“Si, Papa,” Stanley said.
“Bret,” his dad said. “Tell me a little about yourself.”
My neck tightened, mouth, and throat dried. I coughed.
“Yes, sir, uh,” I began, my voice scratchy.
Jake giggled, “I’m not your daddy, Bret. Unless that’s something you’re into,” he said, smiling. “Call me, Jake.”
“Ok, uh, Jake. Um. I don’t do anything, uh, worth talking about.” I said, slumping slightly.
“I hear you’ve improved a lot in the pool, and not just your physique,” Jake said.
Heat in my face flared.
“Ah, don’t be embarrassed, a swimmer’s body with a cock like that–“
Stanley interjected, “Ok, Dad. Not everyone is used to you. Be cool, huh?”
I gaped, wishing to crawl into a hole.
“Sorry, Bret, we’re very open and sex-positive in this house,” Stanley’s dad said.
“It’s, uh, It’s ok,” I lied. From head to toe, I was rigid, unable to move, barely able to speak, my prick shy and shrinking.
“I’m just saying, if I had a bulge like that, I’d be flaunting it, soaking up the attention.”
Paolo pushed Jake’s shoulder playfully. “You’d never get to leave da house, Papi. I’d ride it day and night.”
They both giggled, turning to one another, their noses nearly touching.
I tried to recall when they might have gotten a glimpse? While I hurried to the couch? It couldn’t be now; I was hiding everything except my balls behind my legs.
“How big we talkin’?” Jake asked, his gaze below my chest.
My travesti istanbul eyes bugged, I lifted the beer to my lips, and swallowed a bitter mouthful. Then my face collapsed inward in a grimace.
“We wanted to watch a DVD, Dad. Can we cool it on the questions, at least for tonight?” Stanley asked.
Stanley glanced at me, then back at his dad. “This counts as one. You get nine more, and that’s it, ok? He’s at least eleven inches, and thiiiiiiick.”
I choked on my beer, coughing, then wiping my face with my wrist.
They chuckled, all of them watching at me.
“Eleven inches. Wow, I’m surprised you can walk,” Jake’s hand gestured to his son, tumbler in hand.
“We didn’t fuck, Jake, takin’ things slow,” Stanley said, looking over at me.
I couldn’t speak or turn my head to meet his gaze; instead, I took another gulp of my beer, staring forward, not blinking.
“Don’t mind them Stanley, they’re harmless,” he said, rubbing my thigh.
His touch eased my spinning thoughts some. I managed to rotate my eyeballs to his handsome face and forced a jittery smile. Jake rocked to his feet. “I’m headed for a refill. Bret, would you like some bourbon?”
“That counts as two,” Stanley said.
“I, uh,” my voice cracked. “Never tried.”
“Is that so?” Jake said with surprise and excitement. “May I pop your cherry?” A devilish smile spread across his jaw. “Your bourbon cherry, that is,” he added with a quick wink.
I cleared my throat. “Ok,” I said, nodding my head, eyes wet.
“Comin’ right up!” his dad said. A hitch in his step, he opened cabinets, clinked glasses, and pulled a large container from the freezer, loading them on the granite-topped island. “Do you want an old-fashioned, my dear?”
“No grazie, Bello,” Paolo said. “I have wine.” He held the half-full glass over his head.
Stanley called to the kitchen, “I’ll ha–“
“No, none for you, Stanley,” Jake smiled, his head shaking. “You’re no bourbon virgin, and we’ve only room for one bourbon whore under this roof. I’ll make you one for some special occasion. Unless…” he paused, a crystal glass tinkling as he stirred.
“Unless you plan to take that on tonight.”
Paolo spoke, “Che spreco, piccolini can’t handle ben dotato.”
Stanley threw a pillow at his papa, “Stai zitto!”
“What did he say?” My gaze toggled between Paolo and Stanley, neck still too tight to twist.
“He’s just teasing me,” Stanley answered, gaping at his papa with shocked amusement, then patting my thigh.
Paolo said, “Only the sommelier appreciates the finest vino.”
“Listen to you while you sip your two-buck Chuck,” Jake said.
Paolo twisted his hips around to see Jake, scowling, and said, “Eh? Stai zitti.”
The edge of his tongue poked out between his teeth; Jake grinned, jogging back, drinks in hand.
“How many guys… or girls have, um, signed up for, uh, a pole dance?” Jake asked, eyes locked on me, slips sucked tight over his teeth.
“Jake, lame, he’s… he’s a” Stanley glanced over at me and pinched my nipple. I jumped, slapping his hand away, my knees dominoed leaning away from him, now parallel with the cushions.
“Uh, I, uh, none, uh,” I turned to Jake. “No one,” my voice was soft, eyes unable to settle on a focal point.
“Iscrivimi,” said Paulo from behind Jake, his forefinger pointing up, back erect and eyes wide. Stanley and Jake laughed, responding in unison with “Putano!”
Paulo rolled his eyes.
Jake bent forward, arm extended, offering me the cocktail.
With both my hands, I accepted the cup and mouthed a thank you. He nodded, returning to Paolo’s side. Paolo poked his ribs; Jake winced and blocked as he sat. I brought the tumbler close, eyeing the burnt-orange spirit, spherical ice, twist of orange and maraschino cherry inside. Under my nose, I inhaled the refreshing citrus and liquor burn.
“It smells good, and is so pretty,” I said.
They raised their glasses in the air. I copied.
“Saw-loo…” I trailed off. They chuckled and drank.
I took a sip. “It’s sweet,” I said, smacking my lips.
“Yes, a spoon full of sugar and whatnot,” Jake replied.
Another sip; I liked it. Stanley traced a finger from below my arm, down my side, down to the hip. I jolted, it tickled. I turned my head to him; he met my gaze and bit the side of his bottom lip. Then he prompted me to point my knees toward him. After I did, he moved one leg over them and leaned into my chest.
“Back to the subject of cherries; make sure you eat that one,” Jake pointed at my drink. “If you don’t want it, pass it this way.”
Paolo mumbled and whined something, looking at and pinching Jake’s hips.
I felt a wandering hand sliding into my inner thigh.
“Stop it,” Jake said, batting away Paolo. Then, finally, he looked back up at us. “How’s your cherry?”
I directed my forefinger to the content of my glass and raised a brow, “I haven’t –. “
“Not that cherry,” Jake said, hand waving. Stanley and Paolo giggled, both taking a drink.
My cock bobbed under the silky shorts when he touched the tip through them. Audibly, I sucked air through my nose. Stanley and his dad argued over the number of questions he had left. Jake claimed the question the drink cherry didn’t count, Stanley disagreed and won; seven left.
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