Last year, in my freshman year of college, I was given two pre-selected partners for my Art Final. I hardly knew either Chris or John - except for casual generalities floating around the University and sort of, kind of, knowing them because we're in the same class. But other than a few vague facts, I didn't know them from atom. It made our first few meetings to discuss our project reserved, cordial, and possibly a little restrained. Yet, about the third meeting, where we were really concentrating on hammering out specifics of our project in John's frathouse 'suite', is where we began to relax around one another, having gotten through the rigid rigmarole of the 'how-do-you-do's and 'so-what-are-your-hobbies.'
I'd come to find out that John, the stocky Italian, twenty, was a party-lover. Pretty much a given being that he was the only one of us three who belonged to a rambunctious frathouse. When he opened up to us, I could definitely see the rowdy maniac he was. He wasn't one of those rude, vulgar types, just a person who was naturally loud-voiced, said what came to his mind, and loved to party. All three of us joked about wondering why John even bothered coming to /class/; his grades weren't faring too well.
At five feet nine inches, he was the shortest of our group, though the breadwinner between us of muscle. John was compact, built to the ground, but seemed very balanced and alert. He revealed that he had trained in the Martial Arts since the age of nine. He had a great sense of humor too, even if his immaturity did rear its head often. I guess you could say he had typical Italian American features: slightly wavy black hair trimmed short, but unkempt, grinning dark brown eyes, and a dash of olive tint to his skin.
He wasn't really what society would label as 'attractive' - I don't think. But I assumed that where he got his endless supply of girls to turn inside out was from his build than anything else. And maybe his somewhat naive, immature, and nonchalant attitude.
Twenty-two years old Chris, on the other hand, was vastly different from John and I. He wasn't the studious one, like me, but he did take his art studies seriously. Only when it came down to art. I originally pegged him as a surfer or skater type because of his sun-highlighted hair, fluid tan, and lanky six-foot frame. Really he was a sun-worshipping artist - or tried his best to be since there's hardly any sun in Washington. Chris lived a decent ways away from campus, down by one of the beaches in his van. Very classic... I teased him about it.
Unlike John, who seemed ever to be joking and laughing at my wisecracks, Chris didn't seem to have much of a sense of humor... Melancholic starving-artist, I figured. 'The Artist' - my coined nickname for him - never failed to maintain his serious set expression, hazel eyes appearing to see right through whatever or whomever he was watching. Almost like he were seeing into the object or person at hand and finding something that no one else did. Unnerving when you first met the guy. However, he had an air about him that was gentle, if not a splash pitiful. Softspoken and self-aware.
It was late that Sunday night and we all had art class early the next morning. We had to turn in a draft of our project idea by then, or /else/. So we were pressed for time, obviously, and really needed to get down to work. Chris seemed edgy and anxious, too. Probably because art was his life and he wanted to keep his self from failing this somewhat simplistic term. I tried not to encourage John's humor and ability to be easily sidetracked too much since we truly needed to accomplish /something/.
All three of us mutually agreed that we should aim for an artistic nude stance on the project, akin to the ancient Grecian and Renaissance sculptures/portraits. Chris and I came up with the time frames. John had it in his mind to do something like David by Michaelangelo. Most likely because it was the /only/ piece of art he knew of that fit into what we'd mutually agreed upon. Poor guy.
Chris wanted to do an elaborate piece like the Aphrodite, Madonna, or the friggen Sistine Chapel for crying out loud. I pointed out that we didn't have enough time allotted for that. He stuck to his guns, so I backed off. I, myself, wanted to do a simple piece like Athena Parthanos. I don't remember how we endeavored into doing our own sketches/ideas to be critiqued by the others in our group, but that's essentially what we did. Each of us worked on the pieces that we found appealing, then would put it up for the group to scrutinize. The one we favored would be fleshed out and turned in the following morning.
A few hours passed before both John and I were both done, which surprised me since we had goofed off on the side. So while we patiently waited another forty-five minutes for Chris to finish, we decided to play a few hands of poker.
"Argh!" Came the angst-filled growl from the usually quiet Artist, making both John and I turn our heads to see what was up. His tanned hands busied themselves with furiously tearing his artwork into tiny scraps. A definite starving artist, I remember thinking.
"Something wrong?" John smirked, his tone improperly teasing. Good thing it was wasted on Chris.
"Fucking project." I frowned at hearing Chris grumble this under his breath, seeming to ignore the rest of us in the room.
"Come on, Chris. Take a look at what we got. Maybe you'll like it, or get inspiration." It wasn't meant as a joke, really, but I think John found it satirical. A promoted laugh bubbled out, then shut itself abruptly as I gave him a subdued look. Thankfully he could take hints.
Nevertheless, Christopher did stand and mope on over to us two sitting on the bed with the deck of cards and drawings. Neither John nor I had seen each other's work, as per the pre-arrangement. So when our mournful Artist sat on the edge of the bed, we both flipped over our works. I'll be truthful and say mine was far from any of my 'better' work. I just couldn't concentrate with the pressure, time, and work habits we adopted. And, I guess goofing with Mister Italian didn't help either.
What surprised me and maybe Chris too was John's sketch. It was of David, which wasn't something we could turn in, but looked decent in the angle and artistic direction that he'd captured the sculpture in. It was a striking paragon of Grecian slash Renaissance times. Granted the drawing itself wasn't so great... lacking anatomically correct lines here, or misshapen bulges there, etc. But at least Chris seemed interested in his usual far-off way.
"That's pretty good." I remember saying, Chris just giving me a look that said I was understating the entire 'masterpiece'.
"It's perfect, dude." If a mad scientist from the Valley were creating Frankeinstein... he'd had said it to the same effect as Chris did.
"I dunno... He kinda looks like he's David's deformed twin brother." The stocky Italian seemed to be vainly suppressing a grin.
I smirked. "Mutant David." Lame, I know, but it rolled off my lips. John nodded.
"No, we can redraw it with another less known model, but keep the position and angle the same." In other words, Chris would redraw the model to make it 'perfect'. I knew what his 'we's meant.
"Okay." I enthused.
"That sounds good." John trailed after. Chris took the paper and went over to sit at the desk, really hunching over it to begin work on transforming Mutant David into Neo David.
John and I pissed about, shooting the breeze about the lack of girlfriends, kinky sex experiences, and general joking with one another. An hour and then another hour passed by. While anteing up for the current hand, I glanced at the clock. In all its red-digital glory it blared 2:50 am. We'd been working since 6pm that night, and I was getting overdue on boredom with this project. There's only so much studying and concentrating one could do.
"Rrgh! Fuck it all!" Another vocal, angry yell from Chris, ripping the latest several tries he'd painstakingly toiled at. This wasn't looking good for any of us...
"What's up?" I nonsensically asked, my best attempt at being ever so casual.
"This fucking project, dude, that's what's up." He darkly snapped back, dropping his head into the cradle of his arms atop the desk.
"Well... we'll just try again. Right?" John, his best attempt at being ever so diplomatic...
"Tsshh." Came the chiding sound from Chris' lips, not even bothering to lift his head. I could sense he was more upset with himself than the project itself. Maybe he'd never run across an artist's 'bad day' or maybe this was just another one. I'd always been pleasantly surprised at Chris' artwork when displayed in class. He had his own style, but could adapt to nearly any artist. Perhaps our timeframe was wrong for him... I hadn't seen him try any Grecian/Renaissance stuff before...
"We can change from Grecian to-" I solemnly began, though suddenly found my words cut by The Artist's explanation.
"It's not that, dude. It's these damn books. I'm used to live models." Oh, so /that/ was part of his artistic secret. I never knew that, but I never actually asked and he never straightforwardly offered.
"We can find a model." I matter-of-factly assured him. I could feel the seeping delirium of sleep deprivation setting in.
"Where? At this time of night?" John chimed in, playing devil's advocate for me - which irritated me until I realize he was right. I forgot it was past 3:00am.
"Dude, I don't even got a dime on me to pay for dinner let alone a model." Chris stacked another argument up on the piling list. I felt rather bleak by then. However... feeling rather stupid and moronic, I unlocked a secret key factor in all this.
"Uhm, duh?" I apprehensively intoned, rather pointedly too, as I waved my hand around the room at each of us. John immediately understood the jest and fell backwards on the mattress, laughing in his contagious way. Chris, expectedly, didn't get it, and his chiseled face tensed up in an annoyed expression.
"We've got guy models right here." I quickly elaborated for his benefit. His face and body slackened in a mix of relief and understanding, I think. Even a small smile appeared on his face!
"Unless you're not telling us something, Sam." John adopted a sickly sweet singsong voice, batting his eyes at me. Likely indicating, in jocular demeanor, that I somehow might /not/ be a guy.
"Oh, shut up." I chastised with a grin, shaking my head. Chris seemed to be so relieved that he even chuckled. Or so I think. At least he was smiling somewhat.
"So, who's it gonna be?" The dark-mopped martial artist quipped. I hadn't thought of that part yet... I definitely would feel odd and inadequate stepping up to be the nude model for our group. More so since the entire class, and possibly school, would be seeing my nude frame posted wherever the Professor chose. All three of us kind of lapsed into a silence. I wasn't ashamed of my body, really. Yoga and tennis were great in keeping me feeling good. I just didn't really know these guys that well... and I wasn't the showy type to go about flashing my bits to everyone. I did have standard morals... somewhat.
"I know. We all need a break, right?" I interjected before anyone could nominate or pressure another into being the model. My chin nodded to the deck of cards I was shuffling. "Play you guys poker. Loser models."
"But, dude, I'm the best artist here, no offense." Chris projected. I wasn't sure if he was trying to weasel out of the deal, or was serving a point.
"Yeah, but you look like you need a muse tonight." I countered in camaraderie, a helpful reminder. He slowly nodded, wordlessly agreeing with me.
John grinned from ear to ear, flashing his slightly crooked but peal white teeth. I wondered how he ever got them that white without bleaching them. Chris somewhat reluctantly or carelessly agreed. However, I could tell that John had something else in mind, taking note of his fixated mischievous smile.
"What?" I chuckled out, cutting the deck and eyeing him curiously.
"How 'bout strip poker?" He blurted out, no show of shame or uneasiness anyplace on his person. I guess he was self-confident.
"What do you mean, dude?" Chris cautiously drawled out, blinking at the developed Italian.
"You lose a hand, you lose a shirt." John took the cards from me, making himself an accent of a round-'em-up cardshark. "The one nekkid first is our model." Everyone understood the rules now. I felt rather intrigued and... giddy (?) at this prospect. I think it had to deal heavily with the early morning and lack of sleep. I was game for anything, and not thinking things coherently.
We each had about the same amount of clothes on. Pretty fair, I guess. The Artist had his two layered shirts (gray and white), gray shorts, socks and shoes. John had his black sweatshirt, jeans, socks, and shoes. I had my Levi's, socks, tennis shoes, briefs, undershirt, and v-neck pullover. Or a t-shirt... I can't remember too clearly.
John dealt the first round to us. Simple five-card draw, nothing special since Chris didn't know any 'fanfare' rules. As lady luck would have it our Artist won the first hand.
"Beginner's luck." The low-built Italian scoffed, pulling his sweatshirt over his head. He had a short-sleeved white undershirt on. I just grinned at the comment, untying me shoes and pulling them off one by one. Shoes and socks counted as one item, I found out.
Christopher was rewarded dealership of the next round, and after a quick shuffle, he laid them out face down atop the bed. I threw away four cards, hoping my lonely Ace would get a few friends... But no such luck; I only had an Ace high. John uncovered two pair, and I thought he was going to win this hand, but we were both beat again by Chris, with three of a kind.
"Well, shit." Mumbled the wavy-haired twenty-year old, tugging at his combat-like boots.
"Did you shuffle?" I teased, to which Chris nodded stoically. Oh, well. I tugged off my socks this time. John noticed.
"Pussy." He grinned impishly. I raised my hand, giving him 'the bird'. His laugh ensued.
Thankfully the next deal let up on myself, since I beat my other two art partners with a simple pair of Kings. Chris seemed confused on whether to take a shirt off or his shoes. Finally he settled on the gray short-sleeved shirt, leaving the white psychedelic one on underneath. I nodded at the shirt. It looked like he had done it himself.
"Trippy shirt." My eyes kept coming back to study the blending, bleeding color patches, and I could just make out something subliminal in the fray.
"Thanks, dude." The sufer-like artist appreciatively responded with, conceding the deck of cards over to me. I dealt the next hand, and while we were studying our cards I noticed that John had chose to take off his under t-shirt. He certainly had the muscles I pegged him to have. Not over abundant, of course. More like stocky/bulky muscle with faint definition trails, nothing overtly defined.
It made me think of when you put objects underneath a thick blanket. Muscle underneath thick skin. Hairless too, which surprised me. I though that given his Italian descent, he'd be... well, hairy. Heck, I had more hair than his chest or arms, and that wasn't saying too much since I'm considered fairly hairy.
John raked a hand through his hair, sighing. "Shit." He drew out in disappointed length. I knew he must have had a useless hand. I couldn't read Chris' face - never could. I felt pretty proud since I was holding three aces. Pretty cocky. Needless to say I won the hand. Chris had a pair of sevens, John held a Jack high.
It finally was Christopher's turn to tug off his ratty shoes, while John begrudgingly ripped off his socks. Prior to this game of cards the bawdy Italian had been putting the hurt on me in poker. Luck has to run out sometime. Again I got to deal for us, our conversation dying down into competitive sport - well, at least with John and I. Chris was always low-key.
This time, however, the lackluster Italian perked up as he triumphantly displayed his flush.
"Yesss! I am King! Rah-hah-ah!" Or something to that degree. He flexed his biceps in show of jungle-man Tarzan drama, then curled his arms beneath his chest to flex off his muscles with another light growl. I could see he was lightly sweating. Chris looked disinterested and slightly annoyed with John's abundant display of testosterone. I thought it was funny. I shrugged at John.
"Dude. You dealing or what?" The Artist impatiently weighed in. At least we weren't the only ones who were feeling competitive. Good to know Chris had it in him. With the spell broken, John grimaced at Chris and shuffled the deck. Meanwhile, I began yanking off my overshirt and the sun-lover had already pulled off his socks. His feet were - the only way I can term this - like sticks. Big feet but looked bony. I had never had any qualms about my feet. I thought they were 'cute'. Not 'veiny', nor pudgy, rounded toes, not any too long or too short. Of course it's my opinion. My feet and my legs. Those are probably the only assets I'm satisfied with on my six foot one, one hundred and ninety-pound swimmer's body.
John unfortunately lost the next hand. To which he yelled out an obscenity. "Do belts count as one item?" Another of his jokes. I grinned with mock sympathy and shook my head.
"Oh, alright. ...Bitch." He chuckled to himself, and I had to laugh at that. It was just the right-timed way he posed it. He stood on the bed, undoing his belt, throwing it to the side, then unbuttoning and unzipping his deep blue jeans. I had been victor this time, so I just nonchalantly watched as John wretched down his jeans, kicked them over to the other side of the room, and then flopped back down. Chris had chosen to take his shorts off as well, leaving his distracting shirt and stripped boxers on. John had y-front briefs like I usually wore. Joe Boxer or Fruit of the Loom -- something of the type. I always wore my white Hanes.
I assumed that Mister Italian here shaved his chest hair because his legs were really quite hairy. Messy hairy. Chris didn't appear to have any leg hair as it was sun-bleached golden blonde. He really must have found someplace lost to Washington State in order to get that much ultraviolet light.
As I was dealing the next hand, I couldn't help take note of how compact and full John's lopsided briefs were. I mean, it just looked like he was going to burst at any second just sitting there. But good things come to an end, and I wound up losing with Chris that round. John just laughed eagerly, or with relief. One of those, since he wasn't the true loser.
I decided to take off my jeans as well, shimming out of them while standing on the bed to show off my fairly hairy legs. Chris ultimately yanked off his shirt. The tanned flat chest and tight abs came into view. It was an odd marriage. No real pecs, but chiseled abs. He had a mixed hybrid of light brown and blonde chest and arm hair. It was kind of neat.
I sat myself cross-legged down on the bed once again, pulling idly at my briefs' pouch to get them from riding up on my balls. Silently, John began to dish this next game. We all had our poker faces on now. And if it were possible, not that I was going out of my way to look, John's bulge seemed to have grown since the last card hand. I nearly laughed aloud when I had a - deprivation induced - image of his Loom briefs ripping at the seams. The fifty foot dick. I knew then that I was getting really out of it. The clock glared 4:00am across its screen. We only had approximately four more hours until class began.
I knew I lost. I actually gave into that fact since I knew if I lost this round it wouldn't matter as either John or Chris would wind up being the inevitable Model.
"I fold." I copped out, feeling as if my head were beginning to swim.
"Chicken bitch." John prodded half-teasingly, his dark eyes intently aware of what his cards read. The Artist tossed his cards down. Three of a kind again. John grinned, then puffed out a bored, monotone sigh. His face crinkled into disdain. It was obvious he had lost the game. I didn't bother with taking my tank top off since we'd found our model, and the game came to an end.
"Guess I'm modeling, eh?" He questioned in defeated rhetoric, climbing unsteadily to his feet. The springs in the mattress squeaked. Though the downtrodden mood didn't last. Another one of his mischievously cheshire-cat-like grins surfaced on his face. It brought a smirk to my own. Cheesy, he turned around so that the bubble of his tightly briefed butt stuck out at us, placing his hands on his minutely side-to-side swaying hips. Then came the self-made 'stripper' music, broken from time to time with chuckles. He teased by lowering his waistband a quarter of the way down his ass, letting some of his crack flash for us. His near-white colored cheeks were amusing when compared to his general light-olive skin tone elsewhere.
I could feel my grin growing, finding this drawn out joke to be extremely humorous in the wee morning hours. He then pulled the briefs back up after flashing the whole of his ass to us, turning around with the largest grin I'd seen on him that night. His cheeks were slightly flushed, and his sheen of sweat had worked up over the duration of our gameplay. With three guys locked away in one moderate-sized room for several hours? Well, it was a given that the temperature would have raised.
This time, though, continuing his 70s porno mouth-music and hip swaying, he hooked his thumbs into the dark blue waistband and tugged them down smidgen by smidgen. Hidden beneath the top of the briefs was where his Italian ancestry shown. His dense pubic forest surpassed that of mine. But it looked somewhat tapered so as not to get too overly wild. With a slap the waistband came back to its previous position. I whistled for effect, he laughed and moved his hands to his even larger than before pouch, pulling aside the right leg-hole to flash his hairless ballsack at his captured audience.
I don't know if it was the time, or what.. but as I watched the spastic John do his 'big number' I could feel my cock begin to lengthen down the front of my own briefs. Not too much, just an inch amount or so in intrigue of this 'free show'. I didn't remember Chris being there until I caught him out of the corner of my eye. He seemed normal: disinterested and annoyed at this prolonged episode of antics. Not that I cared, I was getting a hoot out of it. As I turned my attention on bemused John again, I could clearly tell that my mind hadn't imagined his basket's growth spurts. Obviously, now, his prick had begun to stiffen during our last hands of poker. You easily discern this fact now.
Having had his fun, I guess, John's melodramatic music reached a climax as he steadily slipped his briefs off his waist, and down his thighs. Popping up and then bouncing around was his incredibly thick dick. I think my eyes widened at the sight of his bare genitals. It hadn't been his balls that filled out his pouch - they were average you could say - it was his thick-as-a-coke-can prick. I'm probably overtly dramatizing it now, though I swear it looked thicker than a lead pipe in its semi-erect state. The size, however, wasn't that big; I was longer than him when erect. He looked like he could be about five inches total, whereas mine is some over six inches. I guess everything about John was compact and stocky.
The room got deathly quiet, and I felt my cock surge forward another inch or so as I kind of studied this martial artist's cock. I tried my best not to stare, and kept a friendly smirk on my face to show no weirdness now that he had disrobed to full Monty. I did feel insecure and odd that my cock was inflating so much at seeing this foreign sideshow. John then sort of scratched at his balls, making his heavy prick bounce slowly.
"This is a bit weird.." He murmured loud enough for us to hear though I could detect the mirth in his tone. Plus he this half-smirk plastered on his face. "Well? You gonna draw me or what?"
The comment got our Artist going, sliding off the bed to retrieve the pad of expensive artist paper and special pencils. I noticed in the interim that ever so slowly John's continued its journey to full, raging erection. Going from semi to three fourths, to almost running parallel to his flat stomach. My own dick that had lost some of its interest twitched at this and began to rise as well. I wasn't too embarrassed. I still had on some clothes, at least.
"Can't you get it down, dude?" Irritated, Chris sighed at the olive-toned Italian - as if it were something you could turn on or off. By now John had reached engorged mast. No room for argument, it was as large around as a coke can.
"No!" He protested with careless frivolity, turning his body sidelong to us. With this angle you could really see the subtle veins standing out on his cock's girth. I belatedly noticed that the skin around and on his shaft was a few shades darker than his faint overall olive tone. Briefly did I wonder how he managed to have intercourse... or anything else for that matter. On his face lay the slickest knowing expression I'd seen to grace any face before. It felt practiced and calculated, actually.
"Doesn't look like you can either." A smug smirk peeled back his lips, his brown spheres staring at something. As I turned my head to look at Chris, I caught him shifting his position a few seconds too late. He was aroused! And making a flagpole of a tent in his boxers. His cheeks - and especially around his ears - took on a reddened, denser color than his brown-gold tan. He didn't say anything.
After another few minutes of The Artist's trial and error on the paper, he resigned with a heavy sigh. At first I thought it came from another crisis in inspiration or lack thereof.
"Fuck it. I can't get the proportions right, dude, with that big-assed dick in the way." John dropped his David-esque pose with a line of irritation crossing his face. I guess Chris' attitude was finally rubbing him the wrong way. However, he was polite about it and ignored it.
"I haven't gotten laid in two weeks; I can't help it if I'm /horny/." The biting comment was masked in the form of an indifferent witty retort. Shaking his head, our 'beloved' Artist left the room, tented boxers leading the way, in favor of relieving himself in the bathroom down the hall. I could tell by John's face that he remained a mite miffed at Chris' continual redirection to his erect member.
"Art's the only thing he's got going for him." I offhandedly initiated, taking the drawing pad to give the started sketch the once-over. It wasn't half-bad: the torso definitely resembled John's rounded one. I decided to take up the pencil in hopes of finishing the legs for Chris so that maybe he could just fill in the arms and head - then we'd be done. Finally.
"I know. I think he's in more need of a fuck than I am." He chuckled softly to himself, and I joined in, filling in the next leg. We returned to silence once again, John to his pose and me to the title of head artist now. Several minutes passed by, his popped boner not once taking a break from its stiffened state. My own had deflated into pseudo-semi. The post-erection and post-semi drooping. My next glance caused me to do a double take as I saw John's squatty-thick prick begin to ooze pre-cum, the clear-sticky fluid just rolling down the purple tip of his cut cockhead. If I remember right he was biting his bottom lip nervously too.
I smiled to show that it was no big deal. Just a guy thing.
"Shit, I need to tug one out. I'm achin'." John sort of blabbed out, making me understand that it wasn't nervousness that had been his expression but desperation. I didn't really know what to say to that, so I tried joking with him.
"Maybe Chris should too." My smile turned into a grin. He relaxed his pose, letting his shoulders and arms drop to his sides.
Laughing, John quirked out, "What about you, Sam?"
Being forced on the spot put undeniable pressure on me... However, with my head the way it was at 5:00am in the morning, I could care less. I shrugged.
"Yeah. I guess I do too." Talk about admitting something to yourself before noticing. As I glanced at John's left hand covertly rubbing/scratching the edge of his shaft with finger, causing another push of fluid spilling across his cockhead, I felt my own erection speedily returning. I guess the prospect of seeing how exactly he managed to successfully pull his pud turned me on. Which made me feel awkward.
"Well? Come on!" John rather excitedly affirmed, bouncing his rear down on the bed and spreading his hairy legs out in a sort of open display of his meaty cock. Now I've masturbated with some close friends before and it never bothered me, but this situation just struck me as hysterical. So hysterical that I found myself crawling to his left side to sit next to him, not coming to terms with what I was actually complying with. My new friend patted my thigh a few times.
The toilet flushed. "Come on what? What are you dudes doing now? We have a-" Chris began speaking before even opening the bedroom door. When he did, his words trailed off to curiously look at us.
"John's forcing me to masturbate with him." I casually explained, likening it to the weather forecast. Our returned Artist cocked his head, trying to see if I was putting him on again. Both John and I grinned.
"Dude. We have a proj-" Chris began with a pinched expression. The kind adults usually adopt when they're around screaming children who never listen at family reunions. You know the one, where they want to say something but don't because they're related and 'above it'. Thankfully John interjected - our Artist was losing Brownie points with me.
"Do you want to draw me without a hard-on or not?" Chris seemed to think about this for a moment, sort of combing his sun-bleached hair.
"Pff. Whatever." Shrugging his narrow shoulders.
"Why not join us?" I smiled sweetly, trying my hand at an English accent. I held the image of inviting him over for tea in my mind as I said it.
"Yeah. When in Rome..." John echoed, making a play on our time period choice. I had to laugh a bit at that. It was pretty good, at the time. Chris didn't really elect to say anything, but he did sit himself on the other side of the stocky Italian. Brooding, I guess.
"Porn?" I wondered aloud, forming something of a recognizable question. John, however, just shrugged it off while rubbing his hands together.
"Nope. Afraid you just gotta use your imagination, boys." This followed with him cracking his knuckles. To say that the monster pointing between his legs ceased drizzling would be lying.
"Oh, no." I replied with a mock horror. Halfhearted. The time for goofing off drifted away as John began to smear the copious drainage of pre around the cloudy-purple head and dark olive shaft of his cock. Surprising, to me, he used one hand to begin stroking his overweight prick. Sort of holding it like you would a bottle or a coke can, only moving it up and down its length. And he didn't have much length to go. I averaged right - about five inches total.
And I guess he caught me staring or acting hesitant because he pulled down his dick with his tumb so that the tip was staring at me like an one-eyed demon. A chuckle rolled around in his chest as he used his other hand to squeeze his balls - dramatically in show for me. I rolled my eyes, trying not to blush at my rudeness. The veil of silence rang nosily in the room as I fished my own erect six-inch tool from my briefs' accessible y-hole. With one hand flat against the material, hooking my base in the nook between my forefinger and thumb, I grappled my organ with my free hand and slowly began to massage the peach- white shaft.
I didn't look back at John, but I could feel his eyes watching and investigating my movements, and my cock. But I kind of kept my face straightforward for the next minute or so, becoming more uninhibited and comfortable with each tug. The bed springs groaned and the bed jostled more than it should have, so I glanced over to find that our reserved friend had shed his striped boxers.
I couldn't say for sure but maybe it was close to eight inches? Or seven. My vision was disturbed as it were: double vision from lack of sleep. His pubic bush, however, was nonexistent. I guess he liked to shave himself smooth. I hadn't seen that before in person. It made him look... younger. His callused hand grappled the tanned stem of his member, beginning to take slow, pressured strokes using an 'o' made with his fingers.
"Nice of you to join us." John wisecracked, though it came out as a croak. I didn't join in this time. I was too busy comparing how different both John and Chris' balls and ballsacks were from mine. They were hairless, where I had some renegade hairs on mine. Mine were pretty average-nice - like John's. And The Artist's were a size smaller, though he had a supply of sack-skin to spare.
"Damn. Yours is big." I complimented Christopher, not meaning anything more by it. I guess every male wishes for a longer, thicker dick, and I was kind of living through Chris' at the moment. This brought about the Italian between us to really take scrutiny of the sun-worshipper's genitals.
"Woah. That is /huge/." Without even asking he reached an olive-skinned hand over to engulf the circumference of our Artist's cock. I think I was more shocked than Chris was. He just seemed uncomfortable, shy, but at the same time proud of what he had. I could see John's hand gently begin squeezing the guy's tanned manhood. That probably was what prompted Christopher to lightly pull himself away from the dark-mopped man's grip. By now I had began secreting my own slick fluid from the manual stimulation.
"Wanna feel mine? Go on, feel it." Unabashedly John urged Chris to touch his own cock in return. An eye for an eye; a grope for a grope? Whatever it was, the offer was sort of declined in the non-verbal sense. But the nagging voice in the back of my head persuaded me to accept the offer. I wanted to know what it felt like to have so much girth in your hand. If it felt more 'manly' or if it worked the same way mine did...
"Sure. Don't mind if I do." I chimed in jovially. Although I could hear the rattled nerves in my own voice. Maybe John didn't want me touching him? Would I be ridiculed or labeled something I wasn't? Thoughts like that passed through my mind, but I still reached over to grab a hold of the coke-thick girth of cock. It felt hotter than my own, and pulsed with an undercurrent that matched with John's heartbeat. I could feel his prominent veins throbbing, something very different than my own. He moved his hands clear away to give me free reign, just kind of watching.
I started to squeeze around a bit, an effort to try and get my whole hand wrapped around this creature. His warm, leaking pre-cum didn't bother me - in fact, I didn't even notice it until my fingers had gotten pretty slimy. It wasn't too long - maybe thirty seconds after - that John noticed my protruding balls.
"Woah!" Such a little boy expression from him, his face lighting up. "You've got hairy nuts." He reported it like it was news to me, like I hadn't grown up seeing these hairs sprout. Again, in his usual nonconsensual manner, he cupped my sack in his hand, beginning to feel around at the hairs. Now, I have to admit that I did receive perverse pleasure from having someone else's hand fondle and compliment my balls. This took my mind away from the fact that I guess I absently began to stroke off John's short shaft. My hand was lubed enough as it were; it needed only to move an inch or so down and an inch or so back up.
"Weird." My Italian friend murmured with interest as he now started to roll one of my testicles around in the malleable skin for a few seconds, then traded off to do the same with the other. He repeated this, as well as squeezing my entire cupped sack in his hand, for the next minute or two. And I, meanwhile, still worked on his behemoth and my own cock, aided by the tiny quivers of pleasure his massaging hand afforded. Heavy breathing filled the silence 'problem'. And I noticed that Chris was watching our mutual manipulation closely.
I felt insecure now, surveying the situation and what it might look like. So I disentangled myself from John, who didn't seem effect whatsoever, and we both resumed our own masturbation techniques. However, I found that my dominant hand had been the hand that was drenched by John's oozed fluids... I didn't want to make a big deal or seem like something was wrong, so I gently eased my coated hand onto my cock, finding the added slip to be... more enjoyable. Lube was lube, I tell myself to this day. It all came from the same sources. I even got a small rush of having his pre-cum on my cock. I stupidly thought that maybe it'd promote girth-growth in my own cock. It was late, what can I say?
The wet sounds of smacking, clicking, and rubbing became prominent to my eardrums. It was as if all three of us had kicked our speeds up a few notches. John made soft moans to himself, rolling his head from side to side on his shoulders. I could feel the blood rushing to my face and head, my entire body feeling hot and damp as I concentrated on my approaching orgasm welling up inside the depths of my stomach. Light "mms," occasionally escaped my lips. Yet Chris remained non-vocal in his deed, much like his personality.
But it was none other than the Artist who didn't want to masturbate that erupted in his orgasm first. Only a few strangled grunts worked its way from his throat. I glanced over to spy his brilliantly white spooge purge itself in a sort of overflowing gust. Each twitch sent another added smear of cum to run down the front part of his shaft, pooling around its base. He didn't amass much... At least not as much as I usually did, though I considered my quantity average at best.
Now that Chris had his finale, I felt obligated to add my own. I closed my eyes, feeling my brow narrow in that creasing way that tells me I'm getting close to the edge. I heard our Artist mutter something about cleaning up, the bed shake, and then the room-door close. A few strokes after my toes curled, and a soft groan, I began to shoot volley after volley of gratification across my stomach and hips. Several in total. Then sensitive, sensual waves of superficial orgasm died down, lingering mere seconds at best. It still felt good, no doubt about that.
I slowly opened my eyes to see John flash me a broad smile. He had watched me spurt, I could tell since I saw his brown eyes flicker up from my cock when my eyelids opened. Reminiscent of catching someone looking at you, then they jerkily turn their attention away. It made me smirk. I didn't mind. What I did sort of mind and felt alienated about was how my new friend stared at my spent, softening prick. Just because of the fierce intensity, his face turned downward in focused attention, both of his hands rapidly flicking across the meager length of his ballooned pillar. I don't know... it just seemed as if he was paying too much sole visual attention on me. Now that I'd cum, I didn't really want anything to do with anything sexual. So that might have been a factor too... Maybe I was just overreacting? I mean, I was pulling on his prick for over a solid minute there...
So I his use of me as whatever mental aid he thought I provided, endeavoring to lay back and relax. However, it then got even more uncomfortable... I watched as John took a cautious glance toward the door, as if gauging whether or not Chris would come back. His eyes then turned to me, flashing a reassuring or friendly grin. He might have even winked, but I think it was more of a spasm from his nearing orgasm.
A hand parted from his avid masturbation to once again cup my exhausted balls in his hand, feeling the hairs and pulling on it gently. I thought that this was crossing the personal line a little too far... but I let him, for lack of anything else thought to do. I didn't want to lose him as a friend - he was pretty cool. And I thought that reprimanding him for what he was doing might ruin any hopes of maintaining our friendship because of how awkward it would be after...
This time, though, his massaging hand brought emptiness with it. A degree of neutrality like being examined for a physical at the Doctor's office. My ears picked up on his light moans becoming deeper, his tightened pectorals clenching hard, and the vibrant, lonely sound of his mammoth being serviced by his formed hand. I looked over to him still in deep absorb over my shrinking genitals, feeling fingers prodding up into my sack, past my balls, across my balls, around my balls... as if he were mapping them, or exploring them like he'd never heard nor seen them before. Then I saw his face contort violently, bearing down hard on his jaw, brow becoming a multitude of squished lines.
"Yeah... yeah... Yeeaaaahhhh...!!" He drew out his last profession of ecstasy, squeezing my nuts harder than I would have liked, while shot after shot after shot sprayed his torso. I had preconceived opinions that his massive prick would somehow donate more ejaculate than four men combined, but I was wrong. His four approximate watery-clear explosions drooled across his body, another thing I'd never seen before. I thought all cum was somewhat thick and gooey. Seems I was wrong.
He removed his hand from my pouch and I quickly stuffed my cock and sack back into the hole of my jockeys. An attempt to keep them from molestation, you could say. I think John sensed something now that his orgasm had been released because he gave me this sheepish, apologetic smile. It kind of made up for what he did, in my mind, so I half-smiled back. A show of no negative feelings... not too many, anyway.
"That was cool." He timidly confessed to me, laying in one spot for a few more seconds and catching his breath. I just nodded like it wasn't a big deal. He smiled at me.
Then Chris returned and found the leftover mess on John. "Clean up, dude. Class starts in two hours." He threw a washrag to which the stocky Italian used to dab and wipe at his body's cum-stains.
Not once did John's cock rise while modeling after the session us three had, which even appeared to be beneficial for our Artist. No more crises. We were able to finish our rough drafted project with time to spare.
It goes without saying that we three got an 'A' on the final product.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- [Author's Note: I understand this may not be as 'good' as my first story, but it's real.] ----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Questions, commentary, complaints? Please feel free to send them to me at sammy_johnston@yahoo.com