How Do You Like It?

At that point she'd pulled away, repelled once again.

"I'm sorry," she gasped, still breathless from her exertions. "It's just that your helmet's so big when you expose it like that... it smells so sharp... like a gents toilet."

I pulled back, trying to hide how upset and annoyed I was starting to feel.

"I'm sorry," she said again. "It's just that my last boyfriend was really small down there and his foreskin wouldn't pull back. You must be like four times his size. I just... I dunno... I must have forgotten how overpowering a man can smell."

I sat back down on the bed, my cock softening once more.

"So is size really important for you?" I asked.

"Yes. I'm sorry... but it is."

I nodded. "It's funny, because a guy's size makes no difference to me."

She'd laughed at that. "Well, it wouldn't, would it? It's not like you're going to be doing anything with what he's got down there!"

I'd smiled back. "No, I suppose not."

Perhaps aware that things weren't going too well from my perspective, she'd suggested that I masturbate for her and had even offered to play with my balls as did so. It wasn't my favourite activity with a woman -- there were, after all, a few other things belonging to her that we could be having fun with -- but, eager to please her by doing anything she might enjoy, I'd complied.

She'd seemed to enjoy seeing me when I was stimulating myself, and smiled over at me as my hand pumped up and down my shaft. I worked up a fast, steady rhythm for her and smiled back at her, aroused once more; this time by the fact that she liked seeing a man wanking himself.

I pushed myself up so I was squatting in front of her, my fat hairy bollocks bobbing about in time with the rhythm of my hand. Again, she seemed to like seeing me pleasuring myself in that way, although she kept a safe distance from the slick, fattened head as my foreskin slid back and forth across it.

"Did you masturbate like this when you were a boy?" she asked.

I smiled. "Sometimes. But there was rather less to play with when I first started."

I was beginning to enjoy the performance I was giving her and pumped my organ more quickly as if showing off for her what I've done to myself since puberty. I craned my neck downwards so my face was just above the head of my cock as a dribble of clear ooze seeped from my slit. I sniffed hungrily at the smell of my own sex. It had a subtle but undeniably sour tang and went well with the more odorous smell of sweat from my pubic hair and balls. I enjoyed the flavour and smiled at her as I sniffed at it to try and demonstrate its idiosyncratic appeal: it was a celebration of my maleness which at least one of us was able to appreciate.

Perhaps encouraged by seeing me like that, she reached forwards and put her hand on my swollen balls, steadying them as they bobbed up and down in time with my rhythm. She rubbed them gently and I quickened my wrist, pleased she was at last showing some interest in my genitals.

I pushed my free hand between her legs again and worked a few fingers back into her. I wanted her to enjoy this; to feel pleasure as she touched me, to try and rouse her to go further. She gasped at the sensation and then worked herself against onto my fingers, matching her speed and rhythm with the more dominant pacing of my hand beating up and down the thick shaft of my cock.

I think we both enjoyed that: harmonizing the very different elements of male and female masturbation. The delicate sliding of my fingers in and out of her contrasting spectacularly with the powerful thumping of my swollen erection. The fragrant balm of her wettening pussy mixing so beautifully with the sharp bite from my cock being wanked.

I thought I would surprise her in the middle of us fondling one another, by straining my neck further downwards and licking the oozing purple helmet of my erection. At first she'd been shocked -- I'd expected her to be as most women are -- but after the initial surprise, I thought she would laugh and marvel at my unusual gift. I knew well -- after developing the confidence to reveal my talent to a few of my early girlfriends -- that it's something most men can't do and that most women have never seen anything like it.

But Debbie didn't even smile but instead had stared at me, incredulous, as I'd gently tongued my own organ by making circles back and forth across its throbbing and straining head.

After a few moments, she'd quietly commanded, "Don't do that, Rob," and I'd withdrawn my face sheepishly, feeling like a teenager who had been caught by his mother doing something improper.

I concealed the discomfort I felt at her reaction, and had instead kept masturbating the two of us while she fondled my balls, yanking my foreskin up and down and sliding my fingers back and forth between her legs.

Still squatting there, pumping my shaft in front of her, I suddenly knew what would really arouse me. I wanted to grab her wrist and push her hand behind my balls; to shove her fingers along the hairy, sweaty ridge between my splayed legs and then to force them up towards my areshole. I wanted to make her feel my sticky opening and see her shock as I grabbed a couple of her fingers to thrust them upwards through its delicate ring; I'd drive them deep into my hot, squalid bowels as I squatted there, bobbing up and down on her squelching hand.

How would that be for a contrast? Male and female penetration in stark opposition: her gently sliding herself back and forth against my fingers; me roughly slamming my own less refined orifice up and down onto her hand.

If she was so offended by the smell of my cock, I wondered how she would react to have her fingers slurping in and out of my arse; how appalled she would be when she sniffed my strongest and brashest odours. If she was so appalled by my genitals, how would she feel to watch me anally pleasuring myself, holding her hand steady as I frantically rode it, jerking my cock wildly in my unbridled excitement?

But of course I didn't do such a thing: I would never be so inconsiderate or sexually aggressive.

I did try gently to guide her hand between my legs but she misinterpreted my motives and briefly touched my inner thighs instead before declaring them too hairy for her. I squatted lower down, trying to angle my bum towards her, but she was already a little apprehensive about fondling my balls and showed no inclination to explore what was behind them.

My backside clearly held no appeal for her. What was there out front was challenge enough.

"If you don't like me licking my own cock," I said, directing my organ towards her, "I assume that means you don't want to lick it yourself?"

I wasn't very keen on oral sex, but I was happy for her to use her tongue on me.

She said that she wouldn't -- she said there was already, just from its hardness at being masturbated, a spermy odour wafting from the slit -- but she offered to lick my balls.

I was a little surprised, but readily agreed. I usually quite enjoy it when a woman does that to me.

She leaned forwards -- I could see her wincing from the heavy lacing of sweat on my scrotum -- and gently licked my fat, hairy balls as I continued masturbating.

Suddenly, again, I knew what I wanted to do to really excite me. I wanted push her face underneath my balls until her it was deep between my legs. I would hold her head there and straddle over her until her nose and mouth were level with my most delicious and odoriferous part. That would really get me going: feeling her snorting into my hairy, sweaty crack as my hot, sordid hole pressed down towards her mouth. I could probably climax with her face down there; especially if her tongue were to upwards and lick the straining rim of my anus.

I pushed myself forwards, hoping she might be willing to lick behind my balls so that I could gently, almost imperceptibly, work my arsehole towards her mouth. Although the smells of my genitals -- indeed any such evidence of my male biology -- seemed repugnant to her, I had a faint hope that she might somehow enjoy the more carnal and robust tastes I was able to offer her. There was a distant chance that, even though the combined odours of sweat, testosterone and precum were so offensive to her, she might be curious enough to push herself forwards and appreciate fully the most pungent and uncouth part of my body.

But she was oblivious to such attractions: however I repositioned myself, she moved with me to keep her focus on my balls; the darker and more animal flavours between my legs seemed, as I'd expected, totally devoid of any appeal.

Later, after I'd worked my tongue between her legs and had been enthralled at how strong she tasted in the flesh and how freely her juices seeped into my mouth, we'd made love gently in the light of the candles and with the scent of patchouli heavy from the oil burners. It was great to feel my cock inside a woman again -- especially one whose vagina was so spaciously accommodating to my size -- and to feel that there might, perhaps, be hope for the two of us: that this could be the real beginning of what could become a burgeoning romance.

But even then, in that most intense of states, part of my body was feeling left out. Although I'd never involved my backside in sex with a woman my whole life, right then it had never felt more neglected. Perhaps I'd grown so used to thinking of my bum as an extension of my genitals, it now felt profoundly remiss not to include it in our lovemaking.

I wanted Debbie to reach round and finger me as I fucked her. She was grabbing at my back and I kept trying to push her hands down towards my buttocks, but she was determined to avoid my rear at all costs and would persistently reach back up to my shoulders.

So instead, I began to construct fantasies of my own as we worked up a rhythm together, our bodies moving in unison to the beat of my cock sliding in and out of her. I imagined that she'd lied about being divorced and that her husband would walk in and catch me on top of her. Enraged and compelled to express his dominance over this man who was ravaging his wife, he'd pull his erection out from his fly and climb on the bed behind me. His cock would be huge: it was as if he was the one who had turned her off well-endowed men. Still thrusting in and out of his wife, my flexing arse would be roughly impaled by his long, thick phallus as he forced my shins apart with his knees. Then he'd grab me by the shoulders and ram himself in and out of my obscenely stretched hole, buggering me as his wife's adulterous lover until even the patchouli couldn't cover the profane stench of my debasement. And I'd grin at her as my gaping arsehole was so brutally ravaged by her husband's tree-trunk cock, filling her with my seed as his own massive balls released spurt after spurt of his thick, burning cum into my bowels.

I'd climaxed with that thought in my head and had kept pumping, sloshing around in my own copiously-filled condom, until Debbie had achieved her own orgasm or at least had pretended to.

As we'd cleaned up, Debbie had asked me if I could put my underwear back on before we slept.

I said it would be nice for us to sleep naked together but she'd muttered, "Sorry, Rob, but your sperm smells so strong."

I'd offered to wash it off -- I'm well aware of how powerful my semen smells, but she went on, "And... you know... when you're asleep you'll get hard-ons... and... well... your helmet and your dribble... I'll smell it on myself all tomorrow..."

So I'd silently pulled on my dirty underwear, wishing I was less fastidious about cleanliness so there'd be a dirty great skid mark on the back of them to offend her sensibilities.

And now I was lying awake, mulling over the sex we'd had, wondering if there was any point in us meeting up again.

She'd admitted she had issues, but what could they be? She'd enjoyed it when I'd made love to her -- had cried out with the feel of my cock inside her -- so why was so uptight about my size and my male odours? I don't see myself as a particularly whiffy man -- except for my semen, of course -- so why did she have such a problem with me?

More worrying than that though, my cock was still throbbing, and I wondered if it was dissatisfied with the vaginal sex it had experienced. Perhaps my sexual needs had been transformed over the last few months: maybe anal stimulation was now just as important to me as what I did with my penis.

Would sex with a woman -- even a normal woman without all this secretive baggage -- ever be the same again?

I looked over at her alarm clock over the other side of the bed. It was ten past three. This was going to be a long night.

===

I'd showered the next morning while Debbie was still sleeping, and had coated myself in all the gels, balms and deodorants I could find. It obviously worked in my favour because, in spite of how rough I looked from the paltry amount of sleep I'd managed to get, she let me make love to her again.

This time she only commented that my cock "didn't suit" me. She obviously thought I'd be better off with some stubby pencil-sized dick and a pair of frozen pea balls. Maybe she'd have been right: maybe I would have been happier if I'd developed that way.

After leaving her house, I looked at myself in the rear-view mirror as I waited at some traffic lights. Jesus, I looked like death warmed up. Tonight was the night of the office Christmas party and I'd really wanted to look my best, as good as that is, and yet here I was with about as much allure as a down-and-out.

I decided I'd head home and phone work with an excuse about car trouble. I needed at least of couple of hours kip to recover myself.

===

After sleeping until noon, I had a bath and a large mug of strong coffee to wake myself up. I looked considerably better than I had first thing and I now felt I was in a fit state to meet whoever it was who Cameron was going to fix me up with at the party.

I tidied my bedroom up a bit -- it was likely that a man was going to be sleeping alongside me that night (how amazing was that?!) -- and put fresh sheets on the bed. I certainly wouldn't be asking my new friend to sleep with his underwear on: if I smelt of his nocturnal hard-ons all the next day, I would quite enjoy the fact.

Checking in my drawer, I realised I'd need to buy a few new packs of condoms on the way over to work but I knew a chemist en route which usually had my size in stock.

I didn't go in for candles and oil burners. I might if and when Debbie came over to stay for the night, but not when I was planning to hook up with another bloke. With a man, I wanted our encounter to be under the glare of the overhead light -- I wanted to see him in all his hairy and muscular glory -- and the only smell I wanted in the room was the intoxicating stink of our male-to-male sex.

After spending an evening with Debbie, I felt like I needed something rough and dirty: I wanted my face in a guy's arse and I wanted to see it and smell it in full explicit detail as I did so. I wanted his cum all over me; his big, sweaty balls in my mouth. I wanted his cock up my arse, and mine up his; and I wanted to watch the two of us rutting together in my full-length mirror, our cocks rock hard for each other and our arseholes gaping.

We were going to have sex together as a pair of horny men, and I was going to make sure that this time, afterwards, my cock would definitely not be still hard.

===

Next story: Getting Together

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