Cooling Off on a Hot Night It was hot. Real hot.
Sweat poured down my pits, my chest was wet. It had been a long day and I wanted a cold one. Real bad.
On the way home, I stopped at the store. A rack of cold ones sounded nice.
The beer cooler in the back was nice, cold. Felt good against my soaked shirt, my sweaty back and chest. I wasn't alone. There was a guy next to me, grabbing his rack of cold ones. I first noticed his big, hard biceps, nice shoulder, the thick patch of hair on his chest, his open shirt, sleeved hacked off, showing me a nice, fat nipple, as he bent over. A thick forest of fur covered his pits, wet, hot.
His jeans were tight, warm, worn over the zipper, over his cock. There was a nice bulge there, showing me a bit of his long tube, his thick balls, behind the threatbare cloth. His ass was tight, hard. Just enough to leave a bit for the imagination. I imagined a lot. It had been a long time, too long. Now, I was heating up. Wanting more than a beer.
I made small talk, beer pickin' talk. He talked back. We talked about the weather, about work, about the evening ahead. I said I was headed home, alone, to the back porch, to the air conditioner. He said his apartment was hot, steamy, and lonely. He had no A/C. I offered mine, and a pizza we could bake, from the deli in the store.
He thought that was fine. So did I. The part about him on my back porch, tossing back a cold beer, me taking another look at the fur on his chest, the scruffy stubble on his chin. That was fine. Fine with me. Real fine.
Later on, the beer was good, cold. The back porch was cool. The shirts were off, and the second beer was opened. We talked about sports, lifting weights, getting laid, not getting laid. He kept eyeing my chest, my crotch. I did the same, admiring him. Telling him he had a nice shape. He thought I did, too.
The pizza was good. Didn't last long. We were both starved. We opened a third beer, feeling a bit buzzed. And, he put his hand on my shoulder, testing my strength, my muscle tone. I did the same with him. He smelled good, sweaty, a bit ripe. Like a workin' man.
His hand moved to my thigh, telling me he liked what shape I was in. Said he was still hot, hot now, for me, wanting me. I'd known that. I could tell. So could he. He said he'd known, known since I asked him over.
Me too, I said. Still hot. The beer not enough. I wanted more, wanted him.
His hand on my cock now, feeling me nearly hard, full of cum, wanting him, wanting his mouth down on me, down to my root, down to my balls. Feeling his stubble on my balls, against my cock, wet, licking me, just a bit, before he took me in all the way.
His jeans got lost on the floor somewhere, next to the pizza crusts, and the empty beers. So did mine. I didn't miss 'em. I had other stuff to cover. With my mouth, my chest, my hand. He felt good, hard, hungry. The way I like 'em. Oh, yeah.
We took it all the way, all evening long. Him tasting a bit salty, a bit gritty, real fine. I took him down all the way, too. Listened to him moan, and cry and, with a big thrust, he came. Hard, thick. Ropey cum splattering against my chest, my face, dripping off my beard, down his furry, hard chest.
Again. More. We both wanted more. More of each other. Into the night. Letting the rest of the beer warm a bit, in the evening air. We'd found something else to drink, something better than beer. All night long.