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Nifty - Gay - No Sex - Both Ways

 
Date: Sun, 13 Oct 2013 12:05:22 +0100 (BST)
From: Robert Furlong <robert.furlong@rocketmail.com>
Subject: Both Ways

BOTH WAYS
Part of the 'Butt Monkey' series of stories by Robert Furlong
robert.furlong@rocketmail.com
Find my older stories at screeve.org

===

At first I was convinced my ex-wife was in the bed with me.

It was Sunday morning and I was in that half-dreaming half-dozing state I
sometimes end up in when I've slept too long and I really should get up.
I'd opened an eye to check the alarm clock a couple of times and, even
though it was well after nine, I'd kept sinking back into a deep, restful
sleep.

And that was when I started to think someone was lying next to me in the
bed.

Was it Linda? Was she somehow still with me?

I reached out my arm or, at least, it felt like I did and I could
feel the smoothness of her arm. It felt so good to caress the silky skin
of a woman again; to push my hand further towards her, across the gentle
sweep of her neck, the plump rise of her breasts...

It couldn't be Linda... she left me, didn't she?

I cupped one breast and then the other, feeling their soft, yielding
fleshiness and teasing the firmer skin around nipples.

Could it be Debbie? Was I sleeping with Debbie?

I pushed myself forwards, meeting her hip through my pyjamas with the head
of my erection. I ground it against her, leaving gooey trails on her skin
with the ooze from its tip as I hoped she would be growing more discreetly
moist in her readiness to accept me.

I worked my hand across her stomach, marvelling at the softness of her
skin, and then down between her legs, finding her thighs invitingly parted
and her labia deliciously wet.

How was this happening? Who was this?

I pressed a finger gently into her and found her surprisingly tight to
enter. Her hole was small and resistant, its round opening barely yielding
to take even my first knuckle.

I withdrew from her and caressed her gently between her thighs, hoping to
relax her. She seemed unusually hairy down there and I roused slightly
from my sleep, finding the feel of her the defined ridge between her
legs, bristling with hair unexpected and yet familiar.

My barely-conscious mind struggled to make sense of this... had I brought
someone home with me last night?

I felt something soft and saggy against my wrist and reached upwards
towards it. There was something bag-like, with two solid mounds rolling
around inside a large pair of testicles. And above those, the
thickened, veined rod of another man's erection.

Was this a man in my bed?

I struggled to wake up, unsure of what was happening. Who was this?

She he turned towards me, my hand groping at his muscular frame,
his rough, hairy skin, flailing at his chubby buttocks as he pushed himself
towards me. His cock was thrusting against my hip, feeling large and
insistent wetting my skin with its dribbles of excitement.

He wanted to fuck me. He was tugging at my pyjamas in his urgency to mount
me.

And abruptly I awoke and the body I was holding onto dissolved into the
creases and folds in my duvet.

Except for me, sweating and gasping, the bed was empty.

I reached down for my cock, pounding upwards from the front of my fly in
time with my heartbeat, and wanked it quickly and roughly. The dream had
turned the tables on me and, in spite of the shock it had given me, I was
intensely aroused by the imagery it had presented.

The fucker had been on the verge of becoming fucked: mounted himself in the
bed he had, so many times, mounted his wife. It was prophetic: this would
soon be happening. I was about to find I really did have a man next to me
in my bed!

My excitement intensifying, I hitched down my pyjama bottoms with one hand
and licked the middle finger of the other. Taking up a frantic rhythm on
my cock which made the bed creak, I opened my legs as wide as I could and
rammed my spit-moistened finger deep into my hole. Early mornings, I'd
found, weren't an ideal time to finger myself, but I needed to feel
something pumping into me down there.

With a rapid succession of jerks and half a dozen noisy, squelching
thrusts, I squirted a copious climax across my pyjama top.

Then I heard Jake stumble out from his bedroom door and slam into the
bathroom.

===

Before I got into the shower, I bent down and splayed my cheeks apart to
take a look at my arsehole through the bathroom mirror. I'd never looked
at it until I'd started fingering myself, but I imagined that previously it
would have been very much like some of the other 'virgin' holes I'd seen in
the past few months: tiny, pink and tightly clenched.

These days, as I checked it from time to time, I noticed that the furrowed
opening between my cheeks was becoming significantly larger and developing
a redder and more pronounced ring from the constant intrusions of my
finger. It wasn't yet gaping open and didn't form a distended purple 'O'
like the arseholes of some of the guys I'd seen on the internet who were
used to being regularly fucked, but I harboured a secret fantasy that one
day mine would look equally splayed and well-used.

I relaxed my muscles as much as I could and marvelled at how big I could
make my hole open through the mirror. I liked to imagine how much bigger
it would grow once I was in the habit of accommodating a variety of cocks
inside it and fantasized about it stretching so large that it would be
obvious to anyone who happened to see my naked bum when I bent over that I
wasn't quite as straight-laced as I first appeared.

As I showered, I thought about what it would be like to be naked in the
changing rooms with Steve after squash and to innocuously reach down for
something I needed to pick up. Whereas he and the other men around us
would bend down to reveal only the most delicate pink rosebuds nestling
between their cheeks, I was taken with the fantasy that I would splay for
them such a cavernous orifice and plump, puckered sphincter that they would
instantly recognise that I'd developed an unorthodox hobby which had had a
rather profound effect on me back there. Boring, predictable Rob would
show himself to be not quite as homely as they might have assumed and was
flaunting an arsehole that revealed his sex life had a lot more to it than
they might have expected.

In reality, of course, I'm uncomfortable enough just being naked around
other people and would be completely mortified to show my bum off
gaping or otherwise so overtly to them. But in my fantasy, I'd
scrabble around as if searching for something under the bench, spreading my
arse cheeks as wide as I could to parade my well-used and prominently
inflamed arsehole my awe-struck audience.

My hole would be splayed and shocking; its once tiny, puckered
circumference, so recently clamped tightly shut like those of all the other
men in the room, now yawning open with its edges puffed up and scarlet.
I'd let them see how wide it was stretched: not just enough to accommodate
an inquisitive finger in a moment of self-exploration, but so dilated that
it would be clear to even the most unworldly observer exactly what I had so
eagerly been using it to receive.

I'd linger for them, allowing them time to imagine me good old
reliable, harmless Rob having his bowels cleaved open by a succession
of large, thrusting cocks; and to wonder how many men it might have taken
to loosen my once unremarkable anus to such an obscenely commodious state.
They might even imagine themselves coming up behind me to grunt and thrust
and add their own veiny girths to the many that had gone before them.

Then I'd stand back up, smiling innocently at Steve, and ask him something
stupid like what he was doing at the weekend.

And he'd gawk at me, flustered, his own cock hardening between his legs,
unable to stop himself envisaging the two of us rutting together, imagining
his own slick shaft sliding effortlessly into his friend's crudely gaping
and well-practiced entrance.

I smiled as I washed myself, aware of how ridiculous the scenario was but
enjoying it regardless. Having such a broad and distended arsehole would
bring with it obvious impracticalities, but how useful it would be to be
able to show off to other men one's voracious availability without having
to utter a single word.

Next time I had to share a hotel room with another man, whether at a
wedding or a football game or most likely through work, I'd be able to
treat my room-mate to a view of my behind as we got undressed; reaching for
something on the floor while flaunting my stretched hole so blatantly for
him to ogle at.

I'd finger myself beforehand to bestow it with an inviting shade of purple,
and push it out towards him, bloated and swollen and evocative of his
wife's lips. He'd immediately recognise the sort of man he was sharing
with: a man who liked to receive the copious loads of others. And he'd
realise that, along with my talk of my ex-wife and the woman I was dating,
I'd taken up a second interest with my own gender and had become an
unremittingly active recipient of my fellow men's attentions.

He'd find himself musing about adding his own day's accumulation of seed to
the countless gallons I was so clearly used to taking, and might, in the
dead of night, creep over to my bed. In the absence of his wife, I'd let
him use me to pleasure himself, heaving and sweating against my back with
his cock finding my male version of her hole even more accommodating than
hers. I'd soon be on all fours taking it from him, his knees between mine
pushing them apart, grunting together and sniffing at the strong, acrid
odour of our exclusively male variant of sex.

I chuckled as I rinsed my hair. This was a ludicrous idea, completely at
odds with my reserved character, but it was hugely enjoyable to fantasize.

One video I'd seen had shown a guy whose arse was so well-ploughed by
repeated and relentless anal sex, with a ring which was so engorged and
pushed so far outwards, that it would have made a conspicuous and inviting
circle against the seat of his trousers when he bent down. I was hugely
intrigued by the idea of having an arsehole so blatantly distended that I
would be able to bend over fully clothed and have men be able to see from
the swollen prominence of my ring and the sheer scale of my hole that I
would take on all-comers.

I liked the thought of male colleagues coming to my office, as they often
do, to show me their designs or proposals and for me to bend down as if to
pick something up and flaunt the mound of my rear opening, making an
eye-catching circle between my buttocks, to show them how available I was
to my own gender. I'd enjoy seeing their trousers bulge at the prospect of
what was on offer, the prongs of their cocks eager to connect snugly with
the socket of my gratuitously accessible hole.

Or to show myself off in Tesco, bending to reach the groceries on the
bottom shelf, letting other men see how flagrantly dilated and puckered I
was and how willing I am to receive their attentions. A guy would catch my
eye and we'd smile at each other, and then make our way to the store
toilets so he could stretch me a little wider with his cock poking out from
his fly while his wife got on with the shopping.

I knew I would never do any of this stuff, but the prospect of flashing
around a grotesquely widened arsehole was, on some exhibitionistic level,
rather fascinating. I loved the idea of being among other men and to be
the one everyone knew was bending over for just about any cock that
happened to get hard in his company. To be naked in the changing room and
have them all staring at me as I bent so far forwards that a dribble of
white liquid, the merest hint of a copious deposit made in an earlier
encounter, oozed silently from my gaping hole for them all to see.

I got out of the shower and looked at my backside again in front of the
mirror, this time with my buttocks in a more seemly state of togetherness.
I thought I had a nice bum on another man, I'd have certainly found it
attractive and I'd once had a girlfriend who'd said, a touch
enigmatically, that it was my best feature.

There was a heavy banging on the door. "What are you doing in there?" Jake
called in.

Sometimes it was like having my brother in the house.

"What do you think?" I replied.

"Well, hurry up, 'cause I'm going to be late for football practice."

I started drying myself, wondering if a course of driving lessons might
make a good Christmas present for him so he could start driving himself
around.

===

I had an e-mail from Debbie.

I'd logged in quickly as Jake was throwing some kit into his rucksack,
gulping down the last of my coffee while I tied up my shoelaces.

After my last e-mail to her, asking if we could reschedule our second date
(I had a rather cruder encounter planned with an as yet unknown man from my
office although obviously I didn't tell her that), I hadn't heard back
for a few days. I'd been wondering if I'd offended her so much that she
had decided against meeting up with me and I'd been a little worried that
perhaps I should have done the honourable thing and put her first.
However, it had also occurred to me that if she was so easily upset, it was
likely that we weren't particularly well-matched, as my ex-wife had always
claimed I have an innate compulsion to antagonise women. If that were
true, I clearly needed a woman with a rather thicker skin than one who
would be so easily provoked.

I clicked on Debbie's message, which she had sent the previous evening, to
open her e-mail.

Reading through it, its tone was largely one of disappointment that
was fair enough but she seemed remarkably understanding that I would
have prior commitments and said she would see what she could do to change
her own arrangements. She was eager to see me again before Christmas and
the offer of a stopover at her place was still on the cards.

I felt relieved that both my options were still open to me. I still had my
night with whoever it was that Cameron was fixing me up with whichever
man he had in store for me but I also had an evening at Debbie's place
to look forward to.

I clicked "Reply" and thanked her for her understanding. I assured her
that my plans for Friday my God, it was actually this Friday coming!
were unchangeable as it involved work (which it did, kind of) and that I
would have altered things around if I could have done.

I said I hoped we could meet as soon as possible after that even that
same weekend if she could wangle it. Poor Jake would have to have two
nights over his mum's.

The change of scenery would do him good.

===

After driving Jake to football practice, I returned home to see if Debbie
had replied to my e-mail. She hadn't.

Maybe she was sulking. More likely she hadn't yet read it.

I had an hour before I needed to pick Jake up and thought my time could be
productively spent taking another, more languid, look through Andrew
Marter's entertaining website about male rimming. However, I wasn't able
to find the link that I'd brought up previously and instead, having clicked
along a trail which turned out to be misleading, I found myself in an
archive of gay stories written by amateur authors.

With my arrow hovering over the back button, I glanced down the list of
categories and spotted "Asslick" as one of the links.

After reading through a few of the stories, which turned out to be
surprisingly well-written and bracingly explicit, I realised I had stumbled
across quite a find. Here were all sorts of fascinating accounts of men
enjoying my own particular fetish in an imaginative array of beguiling
scenarios.

In 'Chilean Bore Holes' a group of trapped miners were forced to commit
unthinkable acts of camaraderie together, coupling up in the dark,
claustrophobic tunnels as their only means of solace. Chapter one, in
which the men discovered the inner yearnings they had harboured for one
another, was highly enjoyable but the fun really got going in chapter two.
In this, following a landslide in one of the tunnels, two of the men were
pinned one on top of the other; one man's face pressed firm against his
compatriot's bottom. Their fellow workers struggled to pull them free but
were only able to tear the rags of their clothes away from their immovable
bodies. In time, the man whose face was so fortuitously positioned
realised that every cloud has a silver lining and told the others of his
chance discovery. By the time a shaft from the surface had been drilled
into their tunnel, the miners were requesting that only food and water be
sent down to them; rescue, they unanimously decided, was not necessary.

Several stories involved sex with celebrities, usually beginning with
disclaimers about the works being fictional. My favourite was 'Warm Front
from the South', in which one of the BBC weathermen, the rather sturdy
Yorkshireman Darren Bett, was portrayed as becoming friendly with one of
his followers at a meteorologists' conference (I wasn't aware that
weathermen were attended by fans, but for the sake of the story I accepted
the premise). After dinner at the event, it transpired there had been an
unfortunate double-booking at the hotel an organisational blunder
which one would assume to be widespread from the number of stories it
recurred in and the two men were forced to bunk up together. Needless
to say, Mr Bett took advantage of the attentions of his admirer and
demanded that he prove his adoration by using his mouth to do the "one
thing that his wife wouldn't". The weather enthusiast was keen to comply
and Mr Bett performed well; an earlier forecast of wind proved to be
happily unfounded.

Most of the stories, though, developed commonplace situations into sexual
opportunities and it was these that I liked most. One of them, 'Son Burn',
was written from the perspective a young doctor who was on holiday in Gran
Canaria with his wife and their young daughter. The couple in the room
next door were accompanied by their son and his friend, both of whom were
in their late teens, and on the first day of the holiday the son Jamie
went off with his friend and overdid it somewhat with the
skinny-dipping. Being laid up in bed with sunburn the next day while the
rest of the gang were out sightseeing, our good doctor offered to check in
on the scorched patient and rub lotion on the parts he wasn't able to reach
himself. Within a surprisingly short number of paragraphs, the
doctor-patient relationship had taken a somewhat steamy turn and the lad
was proving himself eager to have the doctor give him an especially
thorough examination with the soothing probing of his tongue.

The only let-down with many such stories, for me at least, was that the
authors were often reluctant scared, even to describe what it was
like to rim a guy with anything approaching realistic language. It was as
if the tastes and smells of rimming a man were too offensive to be clearly
expressed.

A guy would home in on another's splayed buttocks, only to find within "a
salty, damp hole exuding a uniquely human taste of manliness and strength".
What was that supposed to mean?

Another might grapple the muscled hips of his wily co-conspirator, pushing
his face between the cheeks in front of him, only to take in "the raw
essence of his pent-up virility deep inside."

"Long, lapping licks into the balmy crevice" would yield only "a seasoned
festival of flavours"; while someone who "drove his nose with all the force
he could muster between the abundant globes before him" was left with
merely "a delicate suggestion of the most natural of scents".

It was all too vague; too sanitary. How did it really smell to have your
face pressed into a guy's arse? What was the actual taste when your tongue
was licking his most secretive hole? Without knowing such details, the
whole scene fell flat for me; the two guys might as well have been on a
picnic together.

Sometimes there was no description of smells or tastes at all, as if the
author was too afraid to upset his readers with the reality of what was
lurking between a guy's arse-cheeks. One man would press his face close to
his friend's rear only to notice "the burgeoning hairiness down there" or
the "warm, moistness of the tight, pink entry" with his tongue.

And? Anything else?

It was like reading 'Dracula' with all references to blood, fangs and
anything else too unsavoury for polite company cut out.

The whole point of rimming a guy, as far as I was concerned, was to enjoy
the powerful intimacy of having erotic contact in the most private and
personal way possible. Such an experience demanded a whole swathe of
striking, vivid and unambiguous adjectives. These guys were going to be
having sex together passionate, expressive sex using each other's bums
and words like 'aromatic' and 'fragrant' simply wouldn't cut it for
me.

Having said that, I came across an occasional story which went too far in
the other direction, and an author could sometimes find himself, for my
tastes at least, overstepping the fine line between eroticism and
distastefulness. For me, there would be no appeal whatsoever in putting my
face near a guy's unwiped backside and so any descriptions of rimming which
included faecal associations in any of their variants was an immediate
turn-off. From what Cameron had told me, I knew that some men must enjoy
that level of seediness, but not me.

I didn't expect a guy to scrub away all traces of his own scent back there
and smear himself in perfume after all, if I wanted to smell flowers,
that would be a pretty unlikely place to start sniffing but nor did I
want to discover when I pressed my face to him that he smelled like a
toilet.

There had to be a happy medium between the two extremes, but very few of
the stories I was reading through were willing to commit themselves to
where exactly that was.

"His hole had a funky, nutty smell to it," was the closest I could get, in
a story about a college student whose curiosity got the better of him when
he was undressing his drunken roommate. "It tasted bitter, like dirt would
taste," the story went on, "but the fact I was licking his arsehole was
such a turn-on that I didn't really care."

"When Steven pushed his tongue into Nathan," another author related in a
story about two guys who had met in a subway station, "he found his
companion tasted musty and metallic." Metallic? I wasn't sure about that.
On both occasions I'd done it, I hadn't noticed any similarity to sniffing
a handful of coins.

"His butthole smelled rich, ripe and cheesy," was the description in
another story. That didn't sound right, either. Too fungal to be erotic.

"When I pulled his briefs down, a delicious waft hit me, as if straight
from the sewer." No, no, no. Mark well and truly overstepped.

The computer made a pinging sound. A reply had come in from Debbie. That
was encouraging.

She'd have to wait, though. These stories were far too interesting.

I clicked the back button a few times to see what other categories the
archive had on offer.

Rejecting 'Ass to mouth' (I'd followed such links before when looking for
rimming movies and found the content wasn't at all what I'd expected it to
be), I clicked on 'Bisexual'. I wondered if any of the stories in this
section would touch upon my own predicament of being faced with meeting up
with both a woman and a man.

I found that most of them, however, revolved around guys getting together
for sex with both a woman and a man at the same time. While the idea was
intriguing I wondered, actually, why it hadn't occurred to me before
I was looking for something that related more directly to my own situation.

After a few minutes, I found a story about a young guy called Declan who
worked in a bank and who had always dated girls. He went to gay clubs
because he preferred the music (yeah, right) and there he had met up with a
friendly young man called Reece. Reece started coming back to Declan's
flat after clubbing and the two of them would chat into the night about the
many bands, TV shows and films which they both liked. Soon Reece was
staying over on the settee, and Declan would take lingering looks at his
friend the next morning as he slept, wondering whether Reece was interested
in him sexually and curious about what it would be like if they experienced
intimacy together.

He thought back to some of his girlfriends especially a girl called
Charlene who had been special to him and found himself musing, with
Reece splayed out on his couch wearing just a t-shirt and his briefs, how a
night with this gay man would play out.

"I wondered how Reece would differ in his expectations of me," Declan
pondered in the story. "With most of my girlfriends, what I call 'full
sex' (but what the books would probably call penetration) was pretty much a
given. With Reece, would it be the same? Women, especially Charlene, like
to be the more submissive partner during sex. Would Reece be more
assertive; would he try to take a more dominant role with me?"

It was an interesting question and one which I had been wondering about
myself.

"Perhaps Reece would, during foreplay, expect me to do the same things with
him that I like to do with a woman. He might want me to finger him the way
I sometimes start out by masturbating a woman. But with Reece, without a
pussy down there, I was faced with having to work a finger in and out of
his backside."

Declan didn't disclose whether the prospect of fingering his friend's arse
appealed to him; I suspected for many straight men, the idea would fill
them with revulsion. For my part, I was very attracted to the idea of
masturbating a man anally during the early stages of our sex, although how
I would pleasure him down there without a clitoris to guide me was
something I'd have to figure out by trial and error.

"Would he pump himself against my hand, the way that a woman would?" Declan
wondered. "Or would the rhythm be left to me, to choose how quickly to
work my fingers back and forth in and out of him? Perhaps he'd want to
finger me at the same time; maybe that's what two guys do together."

Plausible idea, Declan, I thought, but it doesn't seem likely. After all,
it's not something you see men doing together in porn movies. I remembered
the librarian telling me that I shouldn't base my expectations of what men
do together on what I see in porn which was good advice, albeit
haughtily given but in this case I felt porn was likely to be a pretty
reliable mirror.

Declan ultimately decided that Reece would prefer his attention to be
directed towards his penis. "That is, after all, where men get their
sexual sensations from and the part that we mostly link with feelings of
pleasure. Our hands will probably be drawn to each other's erections, and
we'll stimulate each other the way we enjoy doing it to ourselves."

He seemed relieved that his and Reece's bottoms would probably take a
secondary role, being used as an occasional diversion rather than being
solely responsible for their joint excitement.

He and I would have to differ on that point: for me, a large part of the
fun of having sex with another man would be getting face-deep in his
butt-crack and having him do the same to me. The appeal of that seemed
rather lost on Declan, who would prefer to keep his dealings with Reece
very much on the level of the penile.

"Perhaps we might kneel close together so we could work both of our organs
as one; one or other of us grabbing both our erections side by side and
pumping them together in one outstretched fist. Grinding our hips towards
each other; feeling our balls slapping together. Yes, I was sure I would
enjoy that."

That's when that fingering idea might prove felicitous, I thought,
envisioning one guy wanking at their twinned cocks and the other using both
hands underneath their balls to seek out both of their hot, moist holes.
But no, Declan's heterosexual leanings directed his imagination almost
completely towards how he could pleasure his erection.

"I wondered if we could rub our organs against each other's chests, the way
I enjoy doing to a woman between her breasts? Would our pecs be big enough
to stimulate each other's shafts? Would our chest hair get in the way?"

So Declan was hairy, was he? I wondered how he knew about what Reece had
under his shirt.

"But of course," it suddenly dawned on Declan, "we wouldn't need the valley
between a pair of breasts to do such things: gay guys probably do the same
thing along the cracks of each other's butts. We could hump each other's
from behind, taking it in turns to rub ourselves between each other's
arse-cheeks."

I liked Declan's idea and could picture the two of them taking turns on
each other: the bank clerk rubbing his cock so cheerfully between his gay
friend's buttocks and then turning, dutifully, to let Reece pleasure
himself in the same way. Declan might stay hard while the other man
grunted and grinded behind him but his thoughts, I was sure, would be on
how long it would be before his own turn came again.

I would love to work myself between another guy's splayed buttocks; seeing
my cock-head thrusting upwards from his tight, hairy crack. In some ways
it would be better than doing the same thing with a woman's breasts: with a
man, you'd be able to sniff the scent of his rear as you humped him; the
whiff of his backside giving an alluring preview of the stronger, earthier
odours you'd enjoy when you were buggering him properly.

For my part, though, I would relish with almost the same excitement the
feel of his cock sweeping up and down between my buttocks; having him
humping my arse crack as we squatted together with his knees pushed between
mine. Not least, I would enjoy smelling my own musky anal scent and to
know that he too could not be unaware of the unique flavour my own backside
was exuding as he thrust his swollen manhood back and forth inside my hot,
hairy crack.

And then, when he was panting with excitement and his shaft was slick with
the pungent wetness from my hairy cleft, he'd stand up and I'd turn to lick
his girth; to devour the thick, earthy stink of my own sweaty bum from his
cock like I was rimming my own arsehole.

Declan didn't touch on such inelegant matters but instead chose to consider
how far he would go with Reece in the way of what he called 'full sex'.
While he was happy to allow the other man to use his buttocks as a
masturbatory aid, he was adamant that his banker's vault between them would
remain secure.

"I cannot see myself doing that," he wrote. "While I am sure that Reece
and I will be able to have a lot of fun together in my bed, to submit to
him in that way would be out of the question."

That seemed rather a shame.

For me, rubbing our cocks between each other's arse-cheeks would like an
unspoken aperitif before we committed to anal sex, the two of us trying
each other out to see which way around we most enjoyed it. Declan was very
particular, though, that if Reece was under any confusion about which of
their sausages would end up in the stuffing, the whole thing would be off
as far as he was concerned.

I glanced at the clock on the computer and saw that I should have been
picking Jake up twenty minutes ago. I wasn't overly concerned: after
having the misfortune to see on Facebook the way he and his mates messed
around in the changing rooms after football practice, there was no point in
rushing.

Feeling some disappointment that I wouldn't get to read about how things
transpired between Declan and Reece, I quickly deleted my browser history.

After closing down all the programs and almost on the point of switching
off the computer, I remembered to check Debbie's e-mail.

It turned out that she could meet me the following night for a meal in a
restaurant she knew in Cranford if I was available. That sounded pretty
good.

Even better, she had managed to swap things around and was free, as she put
it 'the whole of Thursday night'. That sounded a lot more promising.

So, if all worked out as I hoped, it seemed that I'd be staying over with
Debbie on Thursday and then might finally get to have a man in my bed on
Friday. I might even get a kiss the following evening after our meal.

As I grabbed my car keys and headed for the front door, I thought, 'Who
says you can't have it both ways?'

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Next story: Stain Devils

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Nifty - Gay - No Sex - Both Ways