The Haunted Box

I’d been fossicking around a favourite antique market, not having much luck, when my eye fell on an oddly shaped item sitting almost shyly at the back of a shelf, hiding behind a riot of porcelain and pottery odds and ends. 

Moving this detritus out of the way I reached in and brought out what was unmistakably an old cricketer’s box. It was an unusual mottled brown colour, similar to the old bakelite radios that have become so popular recently, and it was in remarkably good condition considering its age and possible use; the only sign of wear being the somewhat ragged cloth padding around its edge and the frayed canvas straps used to secure it in place. A very evocative piece of kit.

Its condition and look told me that it hailed from the 1920s/30s, and I instantly imagined a sporting gentleman in cricketer’s whites securing it over his genitals before donning his finely ironed pants and heading out of the change-room and onto the green, bat in hand. 

Maybe I was particularly horny (not unusual for me), but the idea that this item had held and protected the genitals of who knows how many lads over the years overwhelmed me, and I was filled with an urgent desire to put it on, have it close to my skin, my cock, my balls. 

With that urgent thought in mind I made my way to the counter and presented the odd purchase to the highly amused staff member, who looked at me knowingly while wrapping it in brown paper and presenting me with the receipt. 

“Find me another!” I remarked, as I tucked it into my shopping bag and strode out of the shop. He laughed good naturedly as I made my way onto the busy street, my mind already obsessed with the thought of examining it more closely, feeling its smoothness, smelling it, trying it on. What stories could it tell?

My small apartment wasn’t too far from the shop, but I felt as if I couldn’t get there fast enough, my heart beating and a strange heat coursing through my veins, despite the relative coolness of the day. I had no idea what had come over me, but it felt good, exciting, and I fumbled with the keys as I hurriedly let myself into the flat and locked the door behind me.

Placing the precious parcel on my small dining table I shed my clothes as if in a panic, letting them lie wherever they fell, until only my socks remained. I could feel the chill air cool my sweat soaked body and wondered, momentarily, if I was coming down with some winter lurgy, but knew instinctively that the cause lay in the brown paper bundle waiting to be unwrapped.

Savouring my nakedness for a few moments, I gulped in lungfuls of air while I scratched my hairy balls and played meaninglessly with my limp cock, stretching my foreskin back and forth a few times the way you do.

Calmer, I picked up the package and tore off the paper, holding the smooth hard object in my hand, examining it more closely now that I had more privacy. My fingers ran over the slightly ribbed inside surface, causing my thoughts to once again imagine the genitals that might have rested there. I held it up to my nose, inhaling deeply, trying to capture a scent of times and men long since past. Foolish I know after so many years, but I thought I might catch something, just a hint maybe.

Holding it over my groin I managed my cock and balls into it and did up the straps, happy with how comfortably my tackle seemed to fit, chuckling at the way my untamed pubes spilled out from all sides. I wondered if men from the day trimmed their pubes, or if that was deemed effeminate and frowned upon. I hoped so.

Strangely enough, given the erotic nature of my thoughts, my cock remained resolutely soft inside its protective case. It felt comfortable and secure and I looked admiringly at myself in the mirror, wondering if I should take some photos to send to more intimate friends. Maybe later, right now I just wanted to lie on the bed and enjoy the sense of connection with a man (or men) from another time.

Taking myself off to the bedroom I settled myself comfortably on top of the doona, my right hand resting on the cup, stroking it as if it were a living thing. A gentle heat seemed to emanate from it, seeping into my scrotum, warming my balls, travelling along my slowly stiffening shaft and engulfing the head like a warm, soft mouth. The effect was at one and the same time stimulating and soporific, and I could barely keep my eyes open as a wave of drowsiness swept over me, sending me over the edge into a strangely deep sleep.

I don’t know how long I slept but when I opened my eyes I was lying on my back in a field of soft grass, my bed, my room, my apartment had all vanished and I was lying beneath a clear blue sky, the occasional cottonwool cloud drifting lazily overhead. A gentle breeze rustled the surrounding green, like fingers ever so softly playing against my exposed skin. I was naked and unconcerned.

A shadow passed over my eyes and looking up I saw a tall figure standing over me, slowly unbuttoning first his shirt and then his trousers, cricket flannels startlingly white in the glare of the sun. His pants dropped to the ground and he was wearing my old bakelite box, only it wasn’t old, it looked freshly minted and pulsing with life.

I could only dimly discern his features with the light behind him, but I knew that he was handsome, thirty-something with a hairy, subtly defined body which spoke of a natural, unforced athleticism. 

He looked about furtively, as if double-checking our privacy, before unstrapping the cup and bending down to cover my nose and mouth with it. I inhaled deeply, as he intended, and consumed the smell of his cock, balls, piss, sweat, precum.

I held it tightly to my face, desperate for his stink as he knelt between my legs, lifting them up and positioning his hard cock against my arsehole. One push and he was inside, his slippery shaft piercing my sphincter, burying itself deep with only a grunt from me to mark the occasion. 

“You know how much I like a good fuck before batting” he said matter-of-factly, as if that explained everything. And I did infact know, even though I’d never seen him before, had never been fucked by him before, didn’t even know precisely where I was, beside definitely not being in my bedroom that is.

“Turn around” he suddenly commanded, withdrawing his cock from my arse and slapping my right buttock hard (which I liked), “let me see that delectable bum of yours.” I knew this routine too, as if I’d done it a million times before. Rolling over I got on all fours and presented him with my arse, eager to please him and feel his long, slender shaft pierce me again.

“Good doggy” he purred as a finger caressed my crack before disappearing into my hole, then another and another as he opened me up, chuckling at the sight of my stretched anus, enjoying my mild discomfort as he twisted inside me. 

“You’d like my cock to be thicker, wouldn’t you?” he remarked, four fingers in now. “Oh well, what I lack in width I make up for in length.” To prove the point he quickly withdrew his fingers and rammed his stiff cock in so far that I could feel his full bush press against my butt cheeks.  

He did indeed have length, and my arse was on fire with the heat of his shaft as it filled my tunnel and rubbed up against that special place deep within. I pressed back as he pushed into me, keeping his dick fully buried inside me while moving it around, massaging my passage and bringing himself closer to the edge. 

He groaned, a long low sound, and started pounding my hole with increasing force, all the while slapping first one buttock and then the other with loud resounding whacks that echoed around the surrounding trees and shrubs. I was cumming without touching myself, thick ropes of jizz leaking out of my painfully hard tool, as if in slow motion.

And then I felt his whole body jerk and spasm behind me as with a stifled cry his orgasm overtook him, his thrusting hips almost pushing me to the ground as he forced spurt after spurt into me. I could feel his spunk filling up my passage, hot and thick as he kept on pushing against me, wringing every last drop from his throbbing shaft. 

The power of my own release had exhausted me and I lay with my head resting on my arms, my bum still in the air while he completed his own exertions. I felt his thrusts finally ease away and stop. He remained leaning against me, his hands on my lower back, his cock still inside. Neither of us dared move and I could feel his jizz leaking out of my puckered hole as he softened slowly, his dick finally slipping out with a warm liquid sound. It was silent all around, I could hear his breathing, heavy and laboured. 

“If I can’t make a ton after a fuck like that I’ll chuck it in” he declared boisterously. He took me by surprise as he kissed both of my butt cheeks before staggering to his feet and stretching his limbs. 

I flattened out on the grass and rolled over to watch him, the sun behind still making him hard to see clearly, but I knew he was beautiful and told him so. He laughed and bent down to pick up his discarded clothing, finding the box in the grass beside me. Picking it up he held it against his slimey cock and wiped the dribbles of cum into it before handing it to me, a present which I accepted gratefully. 

I watched as he dressed, his white shirt and pants not quite as crisp as before. Picking up his bat which had been lying in the grass, he tucked it under his arm and with a final wave headed off to where I supposed the cricket pitch was. 

I lay there in the dappled sunlight, naked and with no idea where I was, or where my clothes might be. I held the slippery box to my face once again, wanting his smell to invade me, and woke up back in my bed, alone and spent, my jizz nestling in the hair of my chest and stomach, tangled in my unruly pubes.

The box was still in my hand, although I had no recollection of unstrapping it. My erotic dream (and surely that’s all it had been?) did not recede with wakefulness, as my dreams normally do, but infact seemed more intensely real than reality itself.

I lifted the cup to my face and was overwhelmed by his smell, a potent mix of spunk and sweat and desire. I left it resting there as I drifted in and out of sleep in my silent room, wondering if he’d made his century.