We were sitting on his couch watching nothing in particular on TV. The weather had been oppressively hot all day and he was wearing a pair of old shorts and a threadbare cotton singlet, his right arm resting along the back of the sofa, almost (but not quite) touching my neck; so close I could feel it.
I confess I wasn’t paying much attention to whatever was playing on the screen, being far more interested in the riot of armpit hair glistening moist and fragrant just a few inches from my face. I inhaled as deeply as I could without drawing attention to myself, revelling in the citrus scent of whatever deodorant he was wearing combined with his own earthy, faintly sharp smell, rich and woody. Enough to make my senses reel in the thick warmth.
We’d known each other for more years than either of us cared to remember, and I suppose you could say we were now in the process of growing old together, just good friends; dammit! Whether he was aware of my erotic fixation I couldn’t say, although he’d never shown any sign of it and certainly harboured no such feelings towards me.
He made no bones of his interest in younger men and was still handsome enough and bold enough to reel in more than his fair share of thirty/forty-somethings, his rugged yet casual masculinity and easygoing charm more than enough to keep his active libido happy. In the meantime I fed my own proclivities with private moments such as this, his close proximity enough to remind me that my own libido was still alive and kicking.
I probably shouldn’t have had the beer he’d brought out, but the heat of the day and the pleasure of being alone with him in his apartment lowered my defences, and made me bolder than I perhaps should have been.
“You smell nice.” I was looking at him after a wave of his scent had wafted across and collapsed my usual reticence. He turned to me and surprised me by smiling, not even a hint of disdain or mock confusion on his face.
“Thanks” he replied, turning his face inwards to sniff his armpit, “I really like my own smell sometimes. Have another go if you like.”
I was dreaming, of course, but decided that since it was my dream I might as well run with it and see where it led. So accepting his invitation I leant further in and buried my face in his fragrant pit, the damp sweat soaked hair soft against my skin, the smell of his odour powerful in my nostrils, reaching down to my cock, my balls, my taint, my arsehole, filling me with warmth and desire.
He chuckled softly as I nuzzled my way into his pit, sniffing and licking and sucking on the forest of hair, his hand on the back of my head holding my face in place until I was gasping for breath.
Out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of his nipple peeking out from the arm of his singlet, the brown disc framed by smooth ginger fur, the tip hard and erect, as if aware of my lascivious thoughts. My dream led me on and moved my attention away from his wet armpit across to that succulent teat which tasted of salt and sweat and (strangely) cinnamon. I sucked it between my lips and allowed my teeth to ever so gently hold the hard tip, forcing a shudder to pass through his body.
I was aware now that my dream had taken firm hold of the scenario, and looking up from my feast I could see the tip of his cock poking out of the rucked up leg of his shorts, clearly growing erect and needing room to move. I’d only ever seen his dick once before, many years ago when we’d shared a shower at the local pool, and had dreamt about its heavy fleshiness ever since, the untidy circumcision scar a ragged dark ring circling his thick shaft. Watching it now, enchanted, it jerked lazily once or twice as it grew harder, revealing more of its beautiful length.
Resting my head on his warm chest I watched as he reached down and took hold of his cock, holding it up proudly before slowly beginning to pull on it, rubbing the underside of his purple knob and eliciting a dribble of juice from the wide open piss slit which he smeared around the crown and down the shaft. He exhaled a long low sigh, and looking up I could see that his head was resting against the back of the couch, his eyes partially closed as if he too was asleep, or at least lost in his own reverie.
“You can touch my anus” he said softly out of the blue, as my hand slid inside the leg of his shorts, a central moment in all of my fantasies about him. I found something oddly sexy about the way he used “anus” rather than arsehole, and suddenly desperately wanted to do just that.
Working my fingers inside his loose jocks (an old pair, I mused) I gently cradled his warm fleshy balls for a few precious moments before travelling back and following the solid line of his taint, squeezing the hard enclosed length of his perineum before delicately allowing my fingertips to lightly brush against the warm tight flesh of his hole, his hairy crack slick with sweat.
“Taste it” he suggested, and I did as I was told, withdrawing my wet fingers and holding them up to my nose, inhaling his musk as deeply as I could before putting them in my mouth and tasting his salt and sex.
“Is it good?”
I murmured something positive and withdrew my fingers from my lips, holding them up to his nose so that he could enjoy his own stink before brushing his lips with them and feeling his warm wet tongue lick them clean.
“Again” he sighed, and this time my dream allowed me to reach down and push his shorts to his knees, making sure I kept his old loose undies in place, the elastic all but gone from the leg holes and the pale blue fabric threadbare and stained with sweat, and other juices.
His cock, semi hard, flopped lazily from one leg hole while his hairy balls fell from the other, fleshy and heavy. How many years had he been wearing those jocks, I wondered? Too many and not enough. I coveted them.
Cradling his soft balls in my hand for a few seconds I watched as his cock stiffened again and another dribble of clear fluid escaped from the eye, travelling ever so slowly down the meaty shaft and nestling in his wiry bush, partially hidden by those redolent undies.
Slipping my hand behind his balls, I massaged his firm sweaty taint once more, this time grasping the bony muscle more firmly between my fingers, pulling on it as if it were his cock, feeling it harden under the skin. He raised his knees and parted his legs, shucking off his shorts which fell to the floor, leaving me in no doubt as to his willing participation in my dream.
My fingers found his anus again, but this time my intention was clear as I pushed into its tight smooth surface and felt my fingers encased in his warm flesh, a grunt of pleasure (and pain?) escaping his lips as he pushed back against my hand, forcing me in still deeper.
Inside his passage was wet and smooth and warm. He began moaning, a long low moan, continuous, rising in pitch as I pushed harder inside him, lowering to a soft purr as I withdrew and stroked the pouting ring of his anus. I looked up at his handsome face, his lips slightly parted, his eyelids fluttering, adrift in a sea of sensations.
As was I. My cock was hard, painful inside my shorts and I shifted position slightly so that I could release my scrunched foreskin and rub myself up against his leg. He didn’t mind or didn’t notice, and I couldn’t have stopped anyway. I was leaking and knew that I was already too far gone, the steady flow of precum becoming something more as I felt my orgasm build in a series of short violent spurts.
My fingers were still deep in his passage and I could feel the nut of his prostate as he too started to let go, a stream of creamy white juice dribbling from his engorged knob, seeping out of his cock onto the frayed and stained front of his delectable undies in a slow controlled release.
He squeezed and kneaded his swollen knob with exquisite care, holding himself back from a full orgasm, allowing the jizz to dribble out in a thick viscous flow, pooling on his jocks until he could no longer hold himself back.
At which point his sphincter tightened around my fingers as his cock jerked and released what remained of his sprog, a thick opaque trail of semen shooting into the air, hitting his mouth and chin before leaving a ribbon across his chest which quickly seeped into his sweaty singlet.
I looked up at him and saw that his eyes were closed, his breathing rapid and deep, a lengthening strand of jizz hanging from his chin, which I was sorely tempted to catch on my tongue, but didn’t.
I slowly slid my fingers from his arsehole, which was clenching and loosening in sync with his rapid breathing. He farted, almost inaudibly, as my fingers slipped out and his anus tightened and closed, his eyelids fluttering as if halfway between wakefulness and sleep.
I could feel my own release in my undies, the dampness spreading and threatening to seep through into my loose shorts. But I didn’t care, my dream had done its work and I could lie back now and let it fade into a hazy waking memory. I closed my eyes and gave myself up to sleep, my friend’s breathing and the indeterminate sound of the television lulled me into comfortable unconsciousness.
I don’t know how long I slept but was woken by the sound of him coming back into the room. Opening my eyes I was stretched out on his sofa and watched as he dried his wet hair with a towel, having taken himself off to have a shower while I dozed.
“Awake at last” he observed, laughing at my grogginess. “I know you’re not a great fan of rugby, but you were out like a light!”
He’d changed out of his shorts and singlet into a tee shirt and pair of Levi’s and I was momentarily saddened by their loss. He didn’t appear in the least self-conscious (as I was sure he would if my dream had been reality) and asked if I wanted to freshen up before going out for a coffee.
I hastily looked down at the front of my shorts, afraid that the mess I could feel inside would be visible, and was relieved to see that my undies had successfully kept the flood at bay. Dragging myself off the couch I headed for the bathroom, keen to wash away the evidence of my inappropriate dream, and wondering if he knew what I’d been up to while I dozed.
When I entered the bathroom I saw that he’d rinsed out his undies and singlet which were now hanging damp and limp on the towel rack. I took his frayed jocks in my hand and held them up to my face, inhaling deeply in an attempt to extract whatever scent they might have contained, but could smell only the dampness and soap. Pushing down my shorts and soiled undies (a real mess!) I used them to clean myself up, wiping away all of the jizz and precum that was nestling in my pubes and all over my cock and balls. I liked the idea of my semen against his skin, my spunk now part of the story of his favourite pair of undies, albeit secretly.
Back in the living room he was ready to head off, never one to laze around for too long, even on a hot summer afternoon. I was following close behind, always happy to admire his solid back and firm buttocks, when he farted loudly. He laughed and turned around, a huge grin on his face.
“I don’t know why” he observed, ”but I’m farting like a trooper this afternoon.”
I blushed, and looked guiltily at my fingers.
