From Part 4:
George offered, "I"m guessing his ass will be juicy enough even if your dick isn't wet."
"I don't fuck guys in the ass!" Blond guy announced. Then, "But I never turn down the chance to fuck a whore's cunt."
I froze. I didn't know if his intent was malice, or whether he was just looking to dip that beautiful, huge wick of his. I looked to George, silently, for help in this.
"Yeah, buddy, I'm pretty sure he's been whoring already today."
I shot daggers at George, but now he was rubbing the matted-down fur on his pecs, catching his nips with his thumbs.
The blond guy reached over to George's lap and wrapped his hand around George's stiff prick, surprising us both. "We both need this whore on our cocks."
"So who's first?"
PART 5
"Fucking GEORGE," I thought.
But first a confession: I kinda lied when I told you I'd never seen his dick before. I'd seen it--and other-verbed it as well. It's kind of an autopilot thing for me to say because, well, you'll see.
See, George and I had been buddies for a long time. Not fuck buddies or FWB, just buddies. Well, mostly. Well, until recently. He lived just down the street: married dude with a beautiful (if cold) wife and a couple of daughters.
It was afternoon when met George. I was taking the dog out for a walk. We always took the same route, she and I, otherwise she'd take forever to do her business. For a couple of weeks I'd seen a For Sale sign on the house. I didn't know who'd lived there before, but living in San Francisco in this housing market, even people not in the market (like me) pay attention to these things.
The For Sale sign had gained a "SOLD" badge just the day before, and as the dog and I walked by it on the opposite side of the street, I saw the garage door open and the afternoon sun had illuminated a good portion of it: stacked moving boxes and the occasional piece of furniture. Didn't see anyone in there, though. I figured I'd get a closer look on the way back towards my house with the dog.
I wondered who might have moved in. Would they become neighbors that I was acquainted with or genuine friends? For that matter, was it a single person or an entire family that had moved in?
Walking the dog is time I get to not think: I just soak in the near-universal beauty of San Francisco, as well as the peculiar beauty of my neighborhood. Once I'd noticed there are tethering loops on both ends of a leash, I realized the dog was leading and I was just following.
Lost in thought, I'd nearly forgotten about the new house, the potential of new neighbors and the open garage door, but the dog had stopped in a new place, that place, peeking into the garage. I'm nosy, but this time I could blame the dog for lingering, looking.
There was a workbench at the back of the garage, and just one box opened. Fastidious for an unpacking job.
"Hello."
I jumped, the dog yipped. I blushed, "Oh, hello."
"Walking the dog?"
"Yessir, walking the dog."
"Name's George. We just moved here."
"I figured that part," knuckling my head. "Smart that way."
Was I flirting?
"And you are?"
Aaaaaand there went the confidence. I blushed again, "Joe. I'm Joe."
We helloed and shook hands.
"I'd meant we just moved to San Francisco. Or at least I have. The wife and kids don't get here for a couple of weeks."
Well, that answered that.
"Not to sound like a chauvinist, but doesn't the wife usually arrive first?"
"She does with me."
"OK THEN!"
"I'm sorry, reflex. I had a work start date at my new job that couldn't be moved, and the girls only have three more weeks of school so we figured we'd let them finish out the year."
"Makes sense."
"Well, welcome to the neighborhood, and to the City. I should get her back home. Routine, y'know."
"You want a beer, neighbor?"
"I would love a beer, but let me get her home first. I live right"--we walked out of the garage together--"up there. The yellow cottage. The back gate is the one at the Norwegian Christmas Tree."
"The what? You know what, go. Take your dog home and then come right back. I'm not drinking alone."
I'd wanted to pick up the damned dog and run home, and run right back. I knew he was straight and married but something made me want to be back as soon as possible. But of course the dog stopped where she liked, and my mind wandered again: George. A rather tall dude. Wearing an old beat up t-shirt. Cleanshaven, but unshaven at the moment. Nearly black hair cut short. All basically normal, but his eyes: so blue it was almost unfair to my own blue eyes. Blue eyes, the kind of blue that seems to glow when the light is low.
We stopped again right outside my back gate and I was thinking about his t-shirt: so old and worn that I could tell he had a hairy chest. Very dark hair on his chest. A lot of it.
I tugged on the leash to hurry the dog. We needed to get back to my house quickly. I also had a chub in my jeans. "Jesus," I said out loud. The dog ignored me.
At home I gave her a treat and made sure she had fresh water, and I decided to change my shirt. Well, I took off the overshirt I was wearing and kept the white v-neck undershirt on and headed out the door. There was plenty of "V" in the shirt to show my chest hair, too: Light brown, but plenty of it. "What am I doing?" I said aloud. The dog couldn't be bothered to answer.
From just outside the back gate, I had a vantage point from which to see most of his house and all of the short driveway and sidewalk in front of it. George was on his way back inside. Was he anxious for me to be there, too?
When I arrived (like 20 seconds later) he was right there in the same place, but there were two beers on the workbench.
"Changed your shirt?"
"I, uhh, just got rid of the overshirt. I, uhhh, it got wet--the sleeve got wet--when I watered the dog."
Then I added, "Plus, it's a helluva nice day out, warm enough for just this."
"Do you always talk this much?" George laughed, handing me one of the beers.
"God."
"Just joking. It's how I get over the lingering shyness from when I was a kid."
"I was the same way, but I do it--"
"--by talking?"
We both laughed, I toasted: "Welcome, neighbor." The bottles clinked together and he watched me intently as I took my first sip.
George spoke next. "So is it true there are a lot of gay guys here?"
"Here in San Francisco or here in this garage?" Then added, "Just joking."
"So are there?" Those glowing blue eyes could have burned a hole in me he was staring so intensely.
"Well, yes, and yes. 50% in this garage, but probably a significantly lower percentage in San Francisco. Where did you say you moved here from?"
"Sorry for being so forward. Gay isn't supposed to be a stigma anyway, right?"
"Right. Where did you say you were from again?"
"Atlanta."
"No accent though?"
"My wife does. Me, I'm a yank."
I took a long draught from the beer. "Yank?"
"Yank," he and his blue eyes answered.
"Me, too. Upstate New York, born and bred."
"Brooklyn."
In order to avoid the oncoming lull in the conversation, George moved to unpack while talking. He grabbed a rake, of all things, from the floor, and while he reached upward to hang it on the side wall, a small gap appeared between his jeans and the ancient t-shirt as it rode up. One of the hottest things in the world to me, that little gap. And the hair that was confined to the center of his abdomen was as dark-dark as I'd guessed it would be.
I was captivated enough that I hadn't noticed he'd been looking back at me even before he'd hung the rake. When his arm was back down at his side, the t-shirt was still riding up, the friction of his body hair keeping it in place.
When he started pulling the shirt back down, I quickly looked up at his face.
"Sorry about that," I said. "It happens."
"Even though this garage is only 50% gay?"
I was fully hard now, and the white briefs I had on weren't enough to cover the fact. But he never looked down at my package.
"50% straight, too," I mumbled.
"What was that?"
I decided to ignore him as I looked away, anywhere, everywhere but into those eyes of his. "What is THAT? Is that a ping-pong table?" Spotted it behind the stacked boxes.
"You play?"
"Ping pong? Sure. Not often, though. Maybe that'll change."
"That'd be awesome. I don't have the room and I've always loved--"
"How are you at giving head?" And then, before I could recover from my stupor, "Because I've been living here. And my wife is a continent away. Almost a month now, and the ol' left hand isn't quite cutting it anymore."
I remained nonplussed.
"You know what? I'm sorry. Just because you're, y'know, doesn't mean you'd just--"
"I am a guy, though. And getting off is getting off, right?"
He walked towards me, but then stepped around me and hit the button on the wall. The garage door began its descent.
He turned, facing away from the door, and undid his jeans.
Before the door had completely closed, he pushed his jeans down just far enough: no underwear.
His cock pointed straight (ha ha) out from a full bush. The head of it was enormous. The shaft thicker than most that I've seen in person.
"Whoa," I said, polishing off the rest of my beer. "How's this going to work?"
"Hey, you're the cocksucker."
"Among other things," I replied, letting my slight indignation show.
"Sorry, no offense. I just really need a blowjob. Besides, it doesn't exactly look like you hate the idea. He nodded downward at my own crotch a few times to make sure I understood what he meant.
Oh, so now he looks at my package, I thought.
He reached down and started stroking his cock with his left hand. I could see the gold wedding band on his hand moving up and down that long shaft in slow, deliberate movements.
"So maybe it's just a bad idea," George offered half-heartedly, but that was enough for me.
"No, not a bad idea at ALL."
"So you'll--"
"--yessir, I'll suck your dick."
"You'll be my cocksucker?"
"I--yes."
He didn't move, other than to lean backward and let his shoulders rest against the inside of the garage door. His t-shirt rode up again.
I walked most of the way to him, slowly, hoping he'd, y'know, meet me half way, but gay or straight, men know "how it is".
I moved the rest of the way, right up to him. I reached out and felt his pecs--much harder than I expected, and much bigger. Damned loose shirt hid a lot. He didn't break eye contact with me.
"Suck my fucking dick!" He was getting very heated.
"I'm going to suck your dick. I'm going to suck you OFF. You know what? I'm even going to swallow your cum. You want a swallower, don't you? Just one rule: you never ever call me 'faggot'. Not just right now...NEVER.
"Deal. Suck my cock. NOW."
I pushed my face into his chest, and let the extreme softness of his ancient tshirt slip against my cheek as I dropped down to my knees.
I looked up at him, and was happy to see him looking back. I opened my mouth and put my tongue out, still looking up.
He slapped his big meat against my tongue several times. He was leaking precum like he was pissing.
"NOW." He repeated.
I closed my mouth around his cock just past the head. My lips made contact with the shaft and I just continued down on it. I'm not the greatest cocksucker in the world, but eagerness was making up for it this time and I managed to get my lips around the root of this married man's cock.
"Jesus FUCK!" He said, barely above a whisper. Translation: it's been so long since I got deepthroated.
I pushed his right arm away, to stop him from cupping his balls. I wrapped my hands around his ball sac instead and started to tug while I went up and down on his cock, keeping my lips tight around his dick on the way up, and making sure that my tongue was pressed flat against the underside of his shaft on the way back down.
I looked up again and saw that he was rubbing his hand, fingers spread, back and forth across his pecs through the t-shirt.
I had a rhythm established and so did he. And slowly, smoothly, it went from me sucking on his dick to him fucking my face. "Fuckin' throat pussy," he mumbled.
One hand was on the back of my head and he started getting rougher in his movements, more brutal.
My hands were free to undo my jeans pull out my cock. I was leaking all over the place, too, and he harder he fucked my mouth the harder my dick got. This wasn't like me at all.
"Can't believe I'm getting my meat sucked by a dude," he said to no one in particular: he was no longer looking down at me. He had his head back and eyes closed.
When he opened them again, he looked down and saw me stroking my cock. "Get your hands off that. I don't wanna see that."
In a total surprise to myself, I did as he told. But then I reached around to grab his furry asscheeks with both hands. He allowed it.
"Holy fuck, dude. I'm gonna cum. And it's going in your mouth and you're going to swallow it like a good...whore."
My cock started shooting all on its own and George noticed. "You fuckin' DO love my meat, don't you? Feels so fucking--oh fuck, I'm gonna shoot!"
He held onto my head and pulled back a little as he started shooting. I know why you pull back a little when you start to cum: so your cocksucker tastes your cum. But I almost gagged on it for how forcefully it was shooting and for how goddamn much of it there was.
I gulped and gulped, managing to not lose a drop.
I began slowly sucking it again, but he put a stop to that. He pulled his cock out of my mouth and all he could manage was "too sensitive after".
I knew what he meant. My cock is the same way and I said so. That was an odd thing to say when George's cock was the only one that got any attention.
Still looking up at him, I smiled and opened my mouth.
"Attaboy, swallowed it all, huh?"
"Yessir, told you I would."
He grabbed me under my arms and pulled me up to my feet.
"Put that thing away, man," he said, indicating my cock. Then he started laughing.
"You fucker, DON'T put yours away."
He did anyway. Then, "So, want another beer?"
TO BE CONTINUED