In retrospect, I should have taken into account the number of loads he’d already put in or on me in the 50-some hours we had been together. At least one on my face, one in my ass, a couple down my throat. Yet here we were again, going for another.
His hands were on both sides of my head holding it in place while his big cock pistoned in and out of my mouth. All I could hear was the wet slurpy sounds of his thick tool pulling spit out of me and shoving it and some air back in. The kind of attention one in his position gives to a willing hole ready to receive his release. Not me. Not his friend of nearly 40 years. We’d both been reduced to just a hot wet hole and a big thick cock and millions of years of evolutionary imperative to deposit seed.
And I was ready for it. Craved it. Hungered.
But it wasn’t coming. No matter how hard and fast he skull-fucked me. We were going to the well one too many times. He let go of my head and pulled his cock out of it. I gulped air in its absence and stretched my aching jaw as he pulled me up and laid me next to him in the bed. We were ourselves again. The evolutionary fire had receded.
He suggested he needed to rest. I wondered. He had been asleep for hours already. Would a few more minutes make a difference? But we laid there, he embracing me, my head under his chin, my hand on his wide, flat, hair-covered chest. Soon I was dozing. Flitting in and out of early, ephemeral dreams. Then a brief snorting little snore woke me. His, not mine.
I laid there, motionless. Not wanting to disturb him, but also now wide awake. And thinking about his cock. And wanting to grab it. But not grabbing it because he didn’t say I could and I didn’t want to wake him up. But the more I laid there the more I thought about how perfectly I was arranged to stroke him and that caused the persistent snugness inside my metal tube to transition into insistent tightness.
So I laid there. And waited.
Eventually, he woke up. He said something about seeking coffee and breakfast. I don’t know for sure because I had a mission.
“There’s that bottle of lube right over there,” I said as I caressed his stiff nipple. “I could…” Pausing as if this was a sudden idea and not the thing taking up all my imagination for the last 15 minutes “…jack you off.”
“Mmm,” he said. “You could.” And he lifted the covers off his thickness. He’s a shower and a grower.
I whipped to the nightstand and squeezed some of the silicone lube into my hand. Then a bit more. No such thing as too much lube when jacking off. I left it in my hand for a bit to warm up, not wanting to shock him. By the time I wrapped my hand around his cock, it had already come back from its slumber.
Jesus Christ. Jeeesus Christ. It felt so good. So natural in my hand. I stroked it the way I knew…remembered…felt good. At once a familiar feeling, but also not. His was so much thicker than I had been. The stroke was longer, too, because he was. And so, so hard. Figurative steel opposed to my literal.
Jesus. A man’s cock. In my hand. My lubed-up hand. And I was stroking it like I used to stroke mine. Back when I had one. If that’s what you could call it, even then. Compared to this?
I pressed the length of my body into his. My left arm behind his shoulders, my right leg over his, my incredibly tight tube pressing into his hip. He was moaning. I was moaning.
“Sounds like you’re stroking yourself,” commented.
All I could do was grunt and whimper into his neck.
I was persistent in my attention, but not overbearing. Not letting my pent up denial cause me to lose my cool.
The pace of his breathing picked up. My breathing picked up. He was flexing his hips sympathetically into my stokes. My hips were grinding into his at the same pace. He was making sounds like he was going to come. I could feel my own orgasm building.
My mind grew fuzzy. I was confused. Overcome by hormones. I wanted to feel his cock flex and pump in my hand. Not wanted. NEEDED. As if my life depended on it. When he came, there was a real chance I would, too. I could feel it right…there. But…is that allowed? I’m not supposed to come unless she gives me permission. And she had not done so. But I couldn’t stop now! Not here. Not with him. I was trapped in the swirling gravity well of his impending orgasm. What would happen? I felt no option but to find out. I was in a barrel riding over his falls, come what (or who) may.
And then…nothing. Nothing at all. He sounded like he was coming. A little. Tricked me for a second as I waited to feel the inevitable surging of his iron-hard tool. Then to see what would happen in my tube. But it didn’t happen. Couldn’t happen. The well was still dry.
The moan I made came from the depth of my being. It was there! Right there!
“Sorry,” he said.
“It’s OK,” I replied (of course), “It’s been…what? Four times? Five? That’s a lot in such a short period.” Meanwhile, the meat in my tube was pounding and pinching and as tight as it could possibly get. Not an atom between meat and metal. A shiny second skin.
“And zero for you,” he said. “None for Thumper. Not now. Not ever.”
“Denied your own orgasm,” he continued, “And now denied mine.”
I died. This is me, writing from the Great Beyond. Dead.