The idea was so stupid. Not surprising. Put ten bored eighteen year old boys together and something stupid will eventually happen. It was the beginning of August and we were only a couple weeks away from leaving for college – a time filled with both beginnings and endings. We’re all guys, though, so we’re not all sentimental about it or anything, but our time as a group was almost up.
There are groups within the group, and Cam and Stu are definitely my best friends. It wasn’t any of the three of us who had the stupid idea of what to do that Friday night, but when I thought that maybe we should bow out, it was Cam who wouldn’t let us, playing the “end of an era” card.
The stupid idea was that we would wait until dark, then head to the high school campus and spray paint our goodbyes all over the façade of the building. Like I said – stupid. So, as dusk turned to dark, we piled into two cars, both Honda Civics, five guys each. One of the cars was Cam’s, so I took the front passenger seat, as usual. I’ve always been the shyest of the group. Beyond Cam and Stu, I – Kyle – quietly keep to myself. That’s why I would prefer to not be sandwiched between two guys I hardly know in the backseat. I tend to stick close to Cam and Stu and generally just follow along with the group consensus.
We park in the student parking lot next to the other Honda Civic from which five more dudes spill out as if from a clown car. Seemingly everyone else is hooting and hollering as they shake their cans of paint and I’m just feeling like a spectator. I don’t even have my own can. That’s fine. I’m not really into vandalism anyway. We cross the grassy courtyard and make it to the targeted front wall and the guys start spraying. I take a few steps back, like I’m both with them and not. Spectating, rather than participating.
My mind starts to wonder as I nervously wait for this stupidity to come to an end. My reverie is broken when one of the guys yells, “Book it!”
That’s when I realize there are police sirens in the distance. With the few steps back I’d taken combined with having been lost in random thought, I am already several steps behind before I even realize everyone else is running. Running back to our cars. In full panic mode, the guys scramble and clamber to get in a car. Somehow, some way, Cam, Stu and one other guy make it into Cam’s car first, and the three of them peel away. By the time I make it across the field, the other six guys are already in the remaining car – the expected two up front and four more taking up every inch of the backseat. Fortunately, they did not drive away without me. They were waiting, but not patiently.
They shout at me to jump in, but the problem is, there’s no where to jump. The shouts get angrier and suddenly I worry that they will drive away and leave me there. Kyle! Jump in! So, that’s exactly what I do. I dive in across four laps – eight knees, eight thighs…four boys. The door slams behind me and we’re off, before the police lights ever make it into view.
I have what my mom calls a wild mop of curly dark brown hair piled atop my head. Most every boy my age in town has the same haircut – flipping through my yearbook, it’s almost comical. It makes me look six feet tall. I’m actually five foot ten, which is not the tallest of the seven guys in this car, but not the shortest either. With the doors on both sides closed, I’m contorted into a pretzel. I attempt sitting upright, but on the laps of others, my curls are flattened as my head is pressed into the ceiling. I shove my feet down into the footwell, and balance my butt between a few of the thighs beneath me. One guy, I think his name is Pete, says, “Dude, Kyle, your crushing my grapes!”
The others laugh. Then two hands, I have no idea whose hands they are, grab me by the ribcage and reposition me. The grabbing makes me flinch and jerk. But then two other hands grab me below the ribs and on the soft flesh above my hips. Another voice yowls, “Now he’s squashing my nads!” as the hands squeeze my sides and move me back to where I just came from. My body has been shifted, but the hands remain in place. Actually, somehow, the hands end up under my short cropped t-shirt and on bare skin. I can’t help it. I begin to twist and giggle.
I say, “Careful, guys. I’m a little ticklish.”
“Where? Here?”
I get poked in the ribs again on both sides and I jump and yelp.
“I’d say that’s a good spot,” one of the voices says.
The hands go back to my sides and squeeze again. I bounce, flounce, flail and laugh out loud.
“He obviously likes it. He’s laughing,” says another voice.
“Maybe there are other spots he likes even more,” a third voice suggests.
The hands move up to my armpits where they relentlessly drill into my hollows. I flop around on their knees as I gasp and giggle. “Seriously, please.”
“Please what? Please keep going? He’s asking for more!” says the fourth voice.
“He asked so nicely. How could we deny such a polite request?” the first voice asks.
“We can’t,” two voices say in unison.
Suddenly, it’s not two hands on me, it’s eight hands. Two in my armpits, two in my ribs, two on my sides and two on my hips. It’s an all-out attack on my body that involves pokes, jabs, pinches, squeezes, strokes and swipes. I am pretty much screaming at this point as my body thrashes about. More of the hands have found there way under my shirt and onto bare skin. Tears of torturous laughter are streaming down my cheeks. I can’t see my assailants’ faces, but it’s all eight hands that are going at me. I make eye contact with the guy in the passenger seat and while his eyes are apologetic, he’s helpless to do anything. I think his name is Erik. Since he’s powerless to rescue me, it’s humiliating having a witness to my feeble, defenseless predicament.
Because I can barely suck in breaths of air between the screams of laughter, I can’t reason with them to make the tickle attack stop. I can’t fight them off because I’m outnumbered four to one. And if I started elbowing and punching wildly behind me, then I’d get punched back, and getting beat up would be worse than the tickling. They’ll surely get bored with attacking me before we make it to someone’s house and I can make my escape. Won’t they?
But they don’t get bored. I continue to get poked, prodded, squeezed and generally tickled until finally, the driver – I don’t know his name – says, “Guys! Hold up! The police are stopping traffic ahead. It looks like they’re checking every car.”
“Is it because of us?” asks Pete. “From the spray paint at the school?”
“No way,” says another voice. “Maybe it’s an escaped prisoner at large!”
“Idiot!”
“Maybe it’s a sobriety checkpoint. They’ve done those before.”
“We don’t have alcohol in the car and none of us have been drinking.”
The driver speaks again, “But there has to be a law about how many people can safely fit in one car. We’re surely breaking it.”
“It’s Cam’s fault for peeling away so fast, that chicken shit.”
It’s the driver again – the voice of reason. “Just have Kyle duck down, out of sight. I think the six of us will be okay. If they see seven, they’ll start asking questions that we won’t want to answer.”
“Dude, there’s no room for ducking down. We’re a wall of human flesh back here. What exactly do you think we can do?”
“I don’t know.” The driver is getting worried, “Kyle, just lay down as low as you can and stay there. It’s all we can do.”
At least the tickling has come to a merciful end. I remove my feet from the footwells and attempt to lay down across a bed of eight thighs. I think things are working out okay until the guy on the end down by my feet shouts, “Ouch! Dude, your big high tops are digging into me. And they’re muddy from running across the field. Gross! You’re getting me all dirty.”
“Guys, you need to figure it out,” says the driver. “There’s no way around this checkpoint and the line is moving really slow. We’re stuck here for a while.”
The guy on the end says, “Well, not with these high tops on. No way.” And then I can tell that he’s untying my shoes.
Oh no. This is going to be bad. Really bad. They already know I’m ticklish above the waist, but I am now seconds away from my shoes being pulled off. My feet are even worse. Is there any chance that stays a secret? Probably not. Apparently, we’re stuck here in this long line for the foreseeable future. They’re gonna get bored and I am a convenient toy. Something to explore. An instrument to play.
The whole situation is more than awkward; my feet are in one guy’s lap while my head is in another’s. The guys in the middle have to deal with the bulk of my 150 pound weight. I have to remember that the other guys aren’t much more comfortable than I am. At least the ones who aren’t in the front seat.
My left high top is now untied and off while the arduous procedure starts over on my right. Meanwhile, a guy in the middle shifts his body and scolds me, “Kyle, your butt is so damn bony! How can you be so skinny and so heavy at the same time?” and I get nudged further down his thighs. The nudge is another jab in the side and I flinch and giggle. It doesn’t help that the nudge landed on bare skin; my shirt is still bunched up from the tickling. He might be free from my bony butt, but now I have his bony knees in my back.
My second high top is now off too. The other middle guy says, “Dude, his feet stink! Oh my god! Seriously! Kyle! Jesus! Are you kidding me? Whoa!”
I say nothing. My face flushes in more humiliation. While my feet surely don’t smell like roses, these guys are exaggerating.
They guy with my head in his lap says, “Maybe it’s not his feet. Maybe it’s the shoes that smell so bad. If we get rid of the shoes, maybe we get rid of the odor.”
Get rid of? What does that mean? These are my favorite sneakers. $200 Nike high tops purchased from the Nike Store just a couple months ago. My mom took me, agreeing that I needed a new pair for college. The base color is a turquoise green, accented with blue and purple. I’ve been told several times, by both girls and guys, that my blue-green eyes perfectly match the blue and green in my shoes. In fact, the Nike guy who sold them to me was the first to say it. I’ve always enjoyed getting compliments from guys, but this was different. At the time, I just thought he was trying to be a good salesman or maybe he was working on commission, but there was more to it than that.
The Nike Store wasn’t a full-service shoe store, but this guy insisted on taking what he called “professional measurements” himself. He slowly took my old sneakers off for me, examining wear patterns and checking the size in case I was wrong. His groping hands removed my socks to ensure an exact measurement, which he checked and rechecked multiple times for accuracy. As he handled my feet for a ridiculously long time, there were more than a few “accidental” thumb and finger swipes that made me flinch and giggle. Mom thought it was funny; she knew I was always extra ticklish. The guy would apologize with a little massaging rub. I told him from the start that I wore size ten, but he said that a proper fit was important for health and safety reasons and he had a responsibility to do his job. The whole thing took forever while all the other customers were left to fend for themselves. My mom, who was only there so she could pay, just sat there patiently the whole time, watching and smiling. In the end, I had been right. The size ten multicolored high-tops I’d initially picked were what I left with. I could have been in and out in five minutes. Instead, we were there for two hours.
He proceeded to undress and redress my feet with each style and size I tried on, which included – at his insistence – several pairs I didn’t even like. When we finally got to the high tops, he made the comment about how they matched my eyes, but it was the grip he held on my foot along with the intense way he stared at me that made me blush. He also made me begin to stiffen in my pants.
Later that night, I heard my mom on her phone with her friend, telling her that the twenty-something Nike guy was shamelessly flirting with her naïve, clueless, young son right in front of her. Then she listened while her friend asked her a question. She replied, “Kyle? Yes, absolutely he is. But I’m not sure he realizes it himself yet.” She went on to say that while she thought the flirting was funny, she also said she was glad my dad wasn’t there.
Was the Nike Guy really flirting? I guess I am clueless. Whenever I think about that trip to the Nike Store, I feel a little thrill.
Back in the present, my feet are being handled by someone else again, but this time without praise for my taste in color and style. Suddenly, a blast of summer heat and humidity fills the car as a window rolls down and my shoes get tossed out. Nooooo! Not my shoes! The window rolls back up and as the air conditioning once again cools the car, the subtle scent of my feet slowly returns. Pete is the first to notice. He says, “It could still be from the high tops. The smell could be in his socks too. We were running around outside on a hot, humid night.”
Without another word, the guy on the end strips off my socks and those go out the window too. Once again, the smell reemerges. It’s not fair. We were all running around outside in the damp heat. We’re all eighteen year old boys. We’re all a jumble of hormones. If any of these other six guys were forced to strip their feet naked, they wouldn’t exactly smell like cherry blossoms either.
The guy with my feet in his lap says, “He’s punishing us… We need to punish him back.”
And then it’s back on. Two hands grip and hold my ankles still while two more go at my newly stripped feet. My feet are even more ticklish than the rest of me. I uncontrollably buck and thrash all around the backseat, propelling the other two guys back into action. The guy at my head pins my arms down, giving full access to Pete, who shoves my shirt up into my armpits before going at my stomach with both hands.
I’m back to howling and shrieking. Tears flow from my eyes and I might even be drooling.
Pete says, “Look at his belly button. It’s weird. It’s like half innie, half outie.”
Seeing it every day, I’m used to my belly button, but I’ve always been told it’s weird. My mom calls it Undecided. She says it started out wanting to be an innie, then changed its mind half way through. It ended up being neither thing and both things at the same time. It’s a hybrid. An independent. Either way, it’s different and I keep my shirt on a lot. My friends had never seen it before now.
Pete inserts his finger and swirls it around and around. The dizzying sensation is beyond explosive. My whole body jolts and I gasp for air. I might pass out.
The middle guy next to Pete seems to decide that I’m helpless enough and unable to fight against my predicament, so he releases my ankles and joins in on the tickle attack. Now there are four hands going at my feet all at once. That’s twenty fingertips and fingernails that swipe and glide up and down my arches, under my toes and around my soles. It’s sensory overload at this point. It’s all too much.
But then something new begins to happen that steals my attention. As my feet get relentlessly punished, the middle guy’s forearm is rubbing against my crotch. It’s unintentionally rubbing me, but repeatedly rubbing me. Between the humiliation, the stimulation and the intense sensations, I had already been chubbing up some. Now, with an arm rubbing nonstop along my cock, I’m cruising way past chubbed. The thin basketball shorts I’m wearing sort of show my dick print even when things are relaxed. Things are about to be very unrelaxed and the emerging situation will soon be obvious to everyone.
It’s Pete, while he’s molesting my belly button who notices first. “Dude! Guys? Kyle popped a boner! Holy shit! It’s a monster! Check it out.”
So, they do. They all stop what they’re doing and investigate. A couple pokes and prods through the thin fabric of my shorts validate Pete’s claim. There’s laughter all around. “Yeah, he did. Damn! Kyle, it’s crowded enough already! Your massive hardon is hogging all the space.”
Someone says, “Wow! Lucky boy! Look at the size of that thing! It’s massive! I’ve seen smaller baseball bats.”
Pete says, “It really is raging. Jesus! What the hell did you all do to the poor guy?”
“Us? It was your examination of his belly button that did the trick and woke up his dick.”
They laugh at the rhyme.
“I think he just really likes being tickled. A lot. Here’s about nine inches of proof.”
“And he’s no ‘poor guy, either.’ With that colossal tool? He’s got nothing to be ashamed of. He might be closer to ten inches.”
I did know I had a big dick until I overheard my mom talking to my dad. She was laughing, telling him that he’s taller than me, stronger than me, has bigger feet than me... But I’m bigger than him where it matters. “By a few inches!” she laughed. She said that I must have inherited my size from her side of the family. He insisted that he’s not small and she agreed, but she countered with, “But your son is huge!” She was only teasing my dad, but I could tell it was making him a little mad. Maybe a lot mad.
Eventually, the guys lose interest in my erection and everything becomes a jumble of arms and hands again. Eight hands and forty fingers roam over every square inch of my body and now that I have it, my boner shows no signs of dissipating. In fact, it has tented the fabric of my shorts creating an easy access gap. Someone’s hand in fact decides to work its way up my thigh and toward the jackpot. I get goosebumps as fingertips trail lightly across my skin. Fingernails graze my ball sack and I shriek and shudder as my scrotum shrivels and contracts as my dick surges. Six or seven other hands are still relentlessly tickling me, but not one of those matters anymore. Only one hand is commanding my attention.
Those devilish fingers fondle my balls a few more times before gliding up and wrapping around my steel rod. I see skyrockets. The sensation is insane. My whole body is buzzing. The hand begins an up and down stroke, skin to skin, no fabric. I suspect it’s Pete, but I’m not sure. I can’t get enough air to form words; all I can do is half laugh, half scream.
I am still over-stimulated, but with unimaginable pleasure. I find myself thrusting in his hand…helping. It’s involuntary. It just feels so good, I can’t help it. I know it’s wrong, but I don’t want it to stop. Wait. Is this really what I want my first sexual experience to be? Right here in front of six other dudes and in the laps of four of them? But there’s no time to think as the hand keeps gliding up and down my towering rod. It feels amazing. Too amazing. Soon, unstoppably the ultimate amazing. Should I be able to stop what I fear will soon happen? I have no strength at this point. I’m just too weak. I’m completely at their mercy.
It’s dark in the car and I don’t think the other guys know that the one rogue hand is doing what it’s doing. They all got a kick out of the fact that they gave me an erection, but three of them went back to general tickling. Only one of them is engaged in a grappling match with my lead pipe. And he’s indisputably winning the match. I will soon be conquered and defeated. It feels too good and I’m powerless to stop the impending explosion.
The hand begins to twist side to side as it slides up and down. I have never been harder in my life. My face is flushed and sweating. The curls of my floppy hair are weighted down with sweat. Then Pete’s thumb begins a swirling motion under my mushroom cap. Like any other young man my age, I jerk off. A lot. But no one else has ever done the jerking for me. No one else has ever touched me in any sexual way, ever. This feeling cannot compare to anything I was ever able to do to myself. Pete has some techniques that I have never considered. And he doesn’t give me a break. He plays me like an instrument. He is a master at his craft.
He returns to strokes and tightens his grip. There’s no turning back. My fuse has been lit. My toes curl, my skin goes clammy, my back arches and my screaming laughter turns into moans and growls. The other guys can’t tell the difference in my response; they just think it’s from the tickle attack. Pete continues to pump me up and down through the duration of a minute-long orgasm that shakes me to my core. A sheen of sweat covers my body, I arch my back and yowl like an animal as my underwear catches and absorbs a full load of my cum. My convulsions slowly subside and Pete’s hand finally makes its withdrawal.
The driver says, “Guys! Cut it out now. You’ve had enough fun.”
He truly has no idea.
“We’re almost at the head of the line,” he continues. “Keep him down low, out of sight and no more tickling. Just look straight ahead. Keep still and be quiet.
~~
We make it through the checkpoint with no problems. If four guys in the backseat is some type of violation, the cops don’t seem to care. We aren’t drunk or high or, from their perspective, doing anything wrong. Once we cross to the other side, the tickling does not resume. Maybe they’re bored with me; I can’t say for sure. I pull my shirt down and sit up on Pete’s lap like an obedient child.
The first house we get to is Erik’s. With Erik out of the passenger seat, Pete calls shotgun. We all tumble out of the car. My house is only three blocks away, so I start walking. The guys call after me, saying they don’t mind driving me home, but I wave them off and keep walking. The walk is uncomfortable to say the least. In addition to walking across the pavement barefoot, I still have a full load of ejaculate in my shorts. It’s a cold, sticky mess.
Along the way, I contemplate the events of the night. I brought it all on myself. Those first couple tickles weren’t really tickles. I was being held in place to avoid crushing someone’s nuts – understandable under the crowded circumstances. When I told them to be careful because I was ticklish, it wasn’t a mistake with unintended consequences. I knew – even hoped – that it would have the effect it did. I wanted something to happen. I wanted to find out what it would feel like to be tickled. To be gang tickled.
I guess my curiosity began after that experience in the Nike Store. Or, at least after overhearing my mom talking about it with her friend. She had been right; I was naïve and dumb. I didn’t realize in the moment that the sales guy had a thing for me. I was an idiot who thought this was just his level of customer service. Once I realized it later, I thought back on the whole experience. I found that I had enjoyed being the object of another guy’s attention. Maybe of his fantasy. I enjoyed being in his hands, being admired, being somewhat at his mercy and generally being handled.
What would he have done with me (or to me) if he had the opportunity? What if we were alone, in a private room without my mom or other customers? What if my hands were tied together? Would he suck my toes? Would he rip off my shirt? Would he appreciate my unique belly button? Would he be intimidated by the size of my dick? Or would he dive down and take me in his mouth? I’ve jerked off to these fantasies most nights these last two months.
So, yeah, I wanted to know what would happen in that backseat, on the laps of four guys. Could I subtly instigate an incident with a not-so-innocent comment? What would it be like if not one guy, but a group of guys were focused on me? Handling me? Having their way with me? Dominating me? Yes, I was curious.
Of course, the police checkpoint was an unexpected change to the script. I could not have predicted that complication. While I was hoping for some innocent groping and tickling, I never anticipated having to lie down and hide from view. I never imagined my shoes and socks getting stripped off. My fantasy was confined to above the waist fooling around. Not the feet. That’s more than I would have wanted. More than I could take. Foot tickling is a different animal and that was not on my BINGO card for the night. Neither was the forearm incidentally rubbing against my cock and causing a massive erection. Or Pete sneakily in the dark grabbing ahold of said erection and jerking me to toe-curling orgasm. Did things go way further than I ever imagined? Yes. Was I still the one who started it all? Yes. Did it feel incredible? Yes. Does that make it okay? I’m not sure.
I’ve been friends with Cam and Stu my whole life. Guys sometimes wrestle and fight and generally mess around. Sometimes guys even tickle each other, right? It’s happened with Cam and Stu once or twice before – innocent goofing around – but it never lasted as long. I was curious. I wanted a little more. Tonight, I got a lot more.
And as for the other guys, it was just a case of boys being boys. It meant nothing to them. Should it mean nothing to me too? Should I be bothered by the fact that it went farther than I imagined it would? I undeniably enjoyed it, but I wasn’t asked. I didn’t give consent to that one rogue hand that basically took my virginity. Was it a violation? Did I not want that to happen? Would I be wrong to be upset? Would they be surprised if I was? I don’t think I feel violated. I need time to think and figure things out. I’m a confused young man sorting through a mess of feelings and emotions.
I don’t even know if I feel embarrassed. Again, surely the others aren’t giving it a second thought. They’ve moved on. And in two weeks, I’ll never see these guys again anyway. I bet what happened is so insignificant to them that they never even mention it to Cam and Stu. It’s probably already like it never even happened at all. And as far as five of them know, nothing too crazy did happen; it was just some innocent, fun tickling. Some pokes and prods, no big deal. Only one of them jerked me off. The other five guys in the car were completely oblivious.
It’s hindsight to say I should have trusted my gut and not gone along in the first place. Honestly, I’d rather have had the experience than not. The problem is that my shoes are gone. My favorite and expensive shoes. Eventually my parents will realize they’re missing. How can they not? They were my new shoes for college. What will I say? How will I explain their disappearance? What exactly has to be happening inside of a car full of teenaged boys that causes a pair of sneakers to fly out of the car window? I’ll need a replacement pair before I leave for college in a couple weeks. $200 is a big deal. And maybe the new ones won’t match my eyes.
~~
The next night, Saturday, Cam and Stu want me to go to a party with them. I decline the offer. They go on and on about that end of an era shit, but I stick to my guns. My parents are out for the evening and I just want to stay home alone. I’m still sorting through my thoughts and feelings. I never enjoy parties much anyway. I’m too shy and usually end up alone on a couch or in a corner.
It’s about 8:00 when my doorbell rings. I figure it’s Cam and Stu, ignoring my wishes, as usual, ready to kidnap me. It’s not. I’m surprised to find Erik on my doorstep. I don’t really know Erik well; I may have had a class or two with him at some point. He was an innocent bystander last night, quietly occupying the front passenger seat. I look out at the street beyond him and I’m glad to see that he’s alone. There’s no clown car full of guys, waiting for him to drag me out of my house, drag me to a party and find a whole new batch of trouble.
He smiles and it’s disarming. I can tell he wants me to know that he means no harm. Reading my expression, he says, “I’m not much of a party guy. I thought I’d take a chance that maybe you weren’t either.” He’s holding something behind his back. “I have something for you. May I come in?”
I’m only slightly wary. I allow him to enter. I always thought of him as a nice guy. Hopefully he’s not here to prove me wrong.
He reveals what he’s been hiding and it’s a brown paper grocery bag. I take it from him and find my high tops inside. My suspicion and trepidation are replaced by a flood of relief. “How did you—”
He waves a hand. “After the guys left, I borrowed my dad’s car and drove around until I found them. The checkpoint traffic had been all cleared up. It was no big deal. It didn’t take too long.”
“Thank you, Erik.”
“You’re welcome, Kyle.” He holds my eye, “They looked too expensive to just leave to rot in the gutter. They’re really cute shoes too. I mean, I like them. Or, I like them on you. I noticed you wearing them at the school while the other guys were spray painting the wall.”
I guess I wasn’t the only one not participating in the vandalism.
He says, “Has anyone ever told you that these shoes really bring out your eyes?”
Yes, several times, but a thrill runs through me and I say, “No. I’ve never heard that before.” Sure enough, my cheeks flush and I chub up a little. Compliments from guys always have that effect, and Erik is a particularly cute guy.
I examine my shoes, and really, they’re no worse for wear. They’re in as good of shape as they were before they flew out of a car window. They even seem cleaner than before. Then I notice that my socks are stuffed inside my shoes. Erik bothered to tracked down my socks too.
Erik says, “I ran the socks through the laundry and I cleaned up the high tops for you a little. It was no big deal. I washed off the mud and buffed out a few scuffs. I have some sneaker cleaner stuff at home. I’m a bit of a sneakerhead myself.”
I glance down and notice that he’s in an expensive looking pair of DCs. I say, “Cool kicks. I’ve always wanted a pair of DCs, but I never seem to like the ones in the store as much as the ones I see on guys’ feet.”
Erik nods, “They have a better selection online.”
I motion him to the couch and we both sit. “Can I get you something to drink.”
“Maybe later,” he says. “If you like these, you should try them on. While I was cleaning up your Nikes, I couldn’t help but notice that you wear size 10. So do I.”
“You don’t have to…”
“It’s fine.”
He reaches down and grabs my left foot, placing it in his lap. I have a flash of panic as memories of last night rush back at me. Is Erik going to pin down my leg and start tickling me? I’ve given him a head start as my feet are only in socks.
But he slips out of his left shoe and slides my foot inside. The shoe is still warm from his own foot. It feels oddly comforting. He puts his right shoe on me too and makes me stand and model. He smiles and winks at me, “You’re a perfect ten. If I couldn’t find your shoes, I was going to give you a pair of mine. I felt guilty about last night.”
“Why? You didn’t do anything,” I say.
“Right. Including stop them.”
“No one could have stopped them. The whole thing took on a life of its own.”
Erik looks me in the eyes, “I felt a little left out of the fun.”
I take a step backwards.
“No.” He grabs my arm and pulls me back down. “I mean, I would have done things differently.”
He places my feet in his lap again and flips off the shoes. Then he begins a gentle massage. Both hands, both feet. It feels nice. Real nice. After a few minutes, his hands work their way up my legs, but he doesn’t tickle. His hands make their way under my shirt and his fingertips graze my lower abdomen. I shiver, but I decide to trust him and keep still.
Erik says, “Here’s what I would have done.” He pushes my shirt up to my armpits and gives my stomach a long look. “I think your belly button has character. It’s certainly unique. I’ve never seen one quite like it before. I like it. It’s an innie and an outie. It’s inclusive.”
His fingers trail all along my skin and my whole body is instantly covered in goosebumps. He drops to his knees and kisses my stomach, inching lower and lower until his tongue finds my navel. He swirls. It’s an intense sensation, but unlike last night, its not at all torturous. In fact, it’s amazing. And as he keeps at it, I begin to sprout another erection. By the time I’m practically stabbing him in the throat with my growth, he notices. He looks up at me and smiles. “I was jealous last night because I wanted to be the one who did that to you. Not because you were forced. I wanted you to want it.
I want it now. I nod. “Well, look at what you did. That’s all you.”
He kneels between my legs. My shorts are elastic waist basketball shorts and he pulls at the drawstring with his teeth. Next thing I know, my shorts and underwear are around one ankle and my dick is pointing toward the ceiling fan. Erik takes a long minute and just stares. “The guys weren’t kidding. You’ve got quite the Louisville Slugger there.” He grabs at my foot and says, “You’re cute.” He pokes my belly and says, “You’re adorable.” He glides one fingertip along the lengthy journey of my iron rod and says, “You’re a beautiful man.” And then he swallows me.
My eyes roll back into my head as he licks, sucks and lavishes my cock with love. The soft, wet, warmth of his lips and tongue feel like ecstasy. He pulls off and gasps, “Oh my god! I didn’t even ask. Are your parents home?”
I laugh, “They’ll be out for hours. We’re alone.”
“Phew.” He takes me in again and my whole body elevates. He grabs my ass cheeks with his hands and goes down deeper than I could have imagined possible. I feel myself poking at the back of his throat and it feels amazing. Then he starts kissing my pole all up and down each side, the front and the back. His mouth is absolutely worshipping me. When he takes me in again, he does so with a new tongue swirl that is reminiscent of Pete’s thumb from last night, but way better. He keeps it going and I’m too turned on to force myself to hold out any longer.
Unsure if Erik wants to spit, swallow or switch to hands, I feel like I owe him a warning. With absolutely zero cool, I slap at the couch cushions and growl, “I’m gonna cum!”
He does not switch to his hands. He props my legs up on his shoulders, grabs my ass harder and pushes me in deeper. I entangle my fingers in his hair, curl my toes and pump several hot ropes of my seed down his throat while I gasp and pant for breath. He continues to suck me, but gently. He keeps going until I’m literally deflated.
He flops on the couch next to me and says, “Just for the record, that’s what I would have done.”
My whole body is buzzing and I can’t speak.
Erik smiles at me, “I guess I needed a drink after all.”
We both crack up.
Finally recovered, I kneel on the floor, pick up his right foot and examine it, “Cute,” I say and I bury my face in the sole and blow a raspberry. Erik giggles. I push up his shirt and reveal a perfectly round innie belly button, “Adorable,” I say. I burry my face in his belly and blow another raspberry. He laughs harder. I undo his fly and pull his jeans down around his ankles. His soldier is standing tall and proud at full attention. It’s sizable, but manageable. And incredibly beautiful. I grab it, squeeze it and say, “Amazing.”
And then I go to battle with his soldier. It takes ten minutes, but I win. And in the process, I drain him of all ammunition. I guess I was thirsty too.
~~
As we’re getting dressed, Erik says, “I’ve been wanting to get to know you one on one for a while, Kyle.”
“Mission accomplished. I’d say we know each other pretty well now,” I say and he giggles. He has the same curly mop haircut that I have – not shocking. His hazel eyes are a perfect fit with the rest of him. He really is cute, adorable and amazing.
Erik slips into my Nikes instead of his DCs. He says, “Let’s trade for a day. I’ll come by tomorrow and we can switch back. Or not. Your call.”
“Yes. Come by tomorrow. Please. Wait until after six o’clock and we’ll have the house to ourselves again.”
He grins.
I’d been looking forward to leaving for college all summer, but for the first time, I wish there was more summer left.
Erik asks, “You’re going to Boston U, right?”
I nod.
“Me too,” he smiles.
I had no idea.
“I might have overheard you talking to Cam about it a few months ago. Anyway, when I registered, there’s an option to request a specific roommate. I hope you don’t mind. I put in your name. If that’s not what you—”
He’s not talking anymore because I’m kissing him. When I pull off, I say, “It’s what I want.” I’d recently received move in information from the school and my assigned roommate’s name was listed as Erik Davis. The world is full of Eriks and I guess I never knew this Erik’s last name.
He grins, “You can borrow any of my dozens of sneakers any time, roomy.” He models my Nikes, still on his feet, “And I just might need to steal these from time to time myself.”
I like seeing my high tops on his feet. It gives me a little thrill. I’m so happy, I can’t stop smiling.
He says, “I’m so relieved. Who your roommate ends up being is a huge factor in the overall college experience. I personally can only focus in class on days after a good night’s sleep. I only get a good night’s sleep after having a mind blowing orgasm. My own hands are too boring for the job. I’m counting on you, Kyle. As my roommate, my academic future is in your hands. In your hands, in your mouth…”
I snort.
“We’re gonna need a year’s worth of supplies – oils, lotions, lubes, condoms, a flesh light, a vibrating wand, a prostate stimulator…”
My eyes bug out in shock.
Erik places a gentle hand on my shoulder, “It’s a long schoolyear, Kyle. We can’t have either of us getting bored. We’ll need a variety of ways to knock each other’s socks off. We’ll play follow the leader. Every day, all year, we’ll alternate setting the program for the night. We’ll make it an official roommate agreement. A binding contract between just the two of us.”
I grin, “Sign me up.”
Fortunately, we’ve finished getting dressed because way sooner than expected, my parents walk through the door. I introduce Erik and my dad grunts out a “Hi” before stalking away.
My mom looks Erik over and I don’t think I’ve ever seen her smile so wide. “Nice to meet you, Erik.” I can see that she notices my shoes on Erik’s feet and an unknown pair of DCs on mine. Her smile gets even wider, but she says nothing.
I say, “Erik is also going to Boston U. We’re gonna be roommates.”
She gets a tear in her eye and she says, “I see it. I’m really happy for you both.” She reaches in her purse, digs out some cash and hands it to me. “For more school supplies,” she says. Then she leans in and whispers, “Condoms, lube and toys are more expensive than you think.” She winks.
