Nifty Archivist, Can you please add this to my new series Cyrill in the gay adult friendships section? Thanks!
Cyrill Part 2
Usual disclaimers apply. This is pure fiction. I welcome your comments.
chubbyboyinbama@yahoo.com
From the day you moved in, I always did your laundry whenever I found a basket of your dirty clothes in the laundry room. You commented how nice this was of me and how I really didn't need to do that. I didn't mind, I said. No big deal. But what you didn't know was my ulterior motive. Long before you came into my room while I slept and woke me up with your cock in my throat, your laundry was the closest I could get to your cock.
Each time I would delight to discover your dirty laundry waiting to be cleaned. As I sorted your laundry into the machine, each pair of ratty boxer shorts or tight boxer briefs would be inspected thoroughly. I would find the sweet spot, rubbing my fingers over the bulge in the fabric where your cock and balls had left their mark. I would inhale deeply. Not so much a sniff as a huff. Breathing in your musk. Letting it give me life.
If you were home at the time, I would only smell them for a moment, peeking all the while at the foot of the stairs in case you were to catch me. Each pair received the same thorough inspection and inhalation. Your smell intoxicates me. My reward for a good deed.
Then one day, I was too wrapped up in my rapture when you descended the stairs. You walked quickly past the laundry room and when you didn't say anything, I convinced myself that you had not seen me. You didn't know about my dirty little proclivities. I convinced myself that I was safe. I was ok. Surely a one-way thrill didn't do anyone any harm.
The next week when I went through your laundry, I was shocked and delighted by what I discovered. There, in the faded and ratty boxer shorts bearing little yellow ducks. Your dried essence made the worn fabric stiff. I stared at it for a long time (luckily you weren't home and I could take my time). I sniffed. The same familiar ball musk mixed with the familiar bitter of cum. There was a part of me that wanted to stick my tongue out and eagerly taste it. But I resisted. Whether is was too gross or too personal or seemed like somehow more of a violation than merely smelling, I looked at them a long time before casting them into the washing machine.
It was only later that night, as I lay furiously masturbating in my bed, thinking of your stained shorts and that musk still in my nose, I realized that this might have been on purpose. You had never left jizzed undies for me before. Even if you hadn't seem me sniffing them, you knew I would probably be the one doing your laundry. Maybe this was a gift. I dare not dream it was a pass. For a second, I wondered if I should have tasted it. It would be only a few days later that you would emerge from the darkness to fill my throat. In retrospect, I am glad I waited for the fresh stuff.
Now I just hope you won't waste anymore loads in your underwear. Not when I am here.