Stain Devils

"Your hair's tickling my bum," I explained. "Your fringe keeps rubbing between my cheeks where you've gelled it up."

"I'm sorry," he muttered, and pulled back a little.

"No – it's nice, actually," I insisted, but from then on he maintained a prudent distance.

When he'd taken out the bulk of the colour, leaving only a faint pink tidemark on my underwear, the solvent he'd applied was already evaporating, leaving behind little moisture. As I pulled up my clothing and fastened up my belt, the back of my trousers felt surprisingly dry. Greg turned to back to the cupboard to put the napkins away, informing me that a laundry liquid called 'Stain Devils' would bring out what was left. It would, he said, bring out just about anything.

I doubted it would succeed on some of Jake's more floridly stained underwear.

I turned towards him, aware that my erection was making a mound in the front of my trousers, and watched him struggling to get the napkins back into the packet. It seemed of some importance that they were refolded and put away correctly; perhaps he'd been told off by his superior for leaving them where they were likely to be creased and rendered unusable.

His bottom looked very nice in the back of his trousers. The material was tight enough to show that he wasn't wearing slip briefs like I was: instead, he was probably concealing the sort of tight-fitting shorts that didn't produce a visible hemline. Whatever he was wearing, it made for a very pleasant view.

While I waited for him to finish faffing around with the napkins, I picked up the bottle of solvent to look at it, for the want of anything better to do. The label said it was polyphenol and it had a hazard warning that it was highly volatile. Suitable for use on most colour-fast fabrics, it said. For use-by date see bottom of bottle.

That gave me an idea. A rather naughty one.

I turned over the bottle and splashed a generous gloop of the liquid over Greg's bottom. He swivelled around to face me, shocked, and I apologised to him as profusely as he had when he'd spilt the wine.

"I was just looking for the use-by date," I claimed. "I didn't realise you hadn't put the lid back on. I'm really sorry..."

"It smells really chemically," he complained, grabbing a couple of the napkins he'd been carefully folding and wiping the excess from his backside. "I can't serve customers reeking like this... it'll put them off their meals."

"Let me help you," I offered. "Turn around for me..."

He turned back to face the cupboard and passed me a wodge of napkins. I knelt down behind him and dabbed at his backside, finding that the liquid had mainly splashed his right cheek. Now his bum was at eye-level, I was captivated by it – he really had the most gorgeously firm pair of buttocks and the crack between them was intriguingly deep. If only he had been as enraptured by what I had been keen to show off.

I managed to wipe away the majority of the liquid and what was left evaporated quite quickly.

"Does it smell really bad?" he asked.

I leaned forward to sniff where the liquid had been and winced at how sharp the material reeked.

"Your right cheek took the worst of it," I said. "Even though it dries quite quickly, it leaves behind a hell of an odour."

I moved across to his other cheek and found nothing more than the faintly foody smell of the restaurant.

"Your left side's fine," I called up to him.

Then I moved into the middle – right between his magnificent butt-cheeks – and casually asked him to bend forwards a little. I stuck my nose between his buttocks as deeply as I dared and snorted the smell of the material which had, no doubt, countless times ridden up into his arse-crack.

I thought it must have been a few weeks since he'd had the trousers washed because the material between his cheeks was startlingly odoriferous. In spite of his polished appearance and delectable manners, the smell of the rear hem of his trousers, right where it nuzzled between his two round cheeks, was as coarse and uncouth as one might expect from a bricklayer.

"There's a strong smell in the middle," I informed him, my voice betraying a little of my excitement. "Bend a little lower and I'll have another sniff..."

He dutifully complied – his thoughts no doubt too concerned about the stink of solvent than to consider my motives – and I pressed my nose lower and wedged more deeply into his crack. Inhaling strongly, I marvelled at how powerfully acrid his odour was back here – an intensely earthy bouquet of his most secretive scents – right where the material would chaff so close to his hole.

This was an arse that was overly ripe for rimming and I was determined, somehow, to engineer things towards that goal, however distant and unlikely it might seem.

"Yes, there's a very strong smell back here, Greg" I said, "right between your legs. I'm not sure it's the chemical, though..."

I moved in for another whiff – his robust fragrance was surprisingly addictive – feeling myself becoming more aroused.

If the stuff I'd read about men's backsides secreting pheromones was true, Greg must be churning them out by the bucket-load. Other diners in the restaurant must surely find themselves reacting to this waiter's alluring scent when, for example, he bent down to retrieve a dropped fork and the odorous seat of his trousers was raised prominently upwards.

I pulled back from his bum and stood up behind him.

"I think your right side caught most of the splash," I informed him, "but I'm not sure about the... er... middle."

"How can we get rid of the chemical smell?" he implored. "It's really cloying... like turps, only stronger and sort of sickly-sweet."

"Have you got a wet cloth or something?"

I seemed to remember from Chemistry lessons at school that some solvents are dispersed by water. I wasn't sure how reliable my memory was but it was worth putting to the test.

Greg reached over to the sink and passed me a wet dishcloth. "Could you be quick? They'll be wondering where I've got to."

"Of course," I smiled. "But I'll need you to pull down your trousers... it'll have soaked through to your underwear as well."

"I dunno," he muttered, shaking his head uncertainly. "Maybe just wipe my trousers..."

"Come on! You've seen just about everything I've got," I reminded him. "You've seen my body more intimately than the woman out there has!"

That much was certainly true.

He shrugged and nodded and, turning back to face away from me, started unbuckling his belt. Unzipping his fly and pulling down his trousers down slightly, he revealed a purple pair of boxer briefs tightly cupping the pert mounds of his buttocks.

I took the cloth from him and knelt down behind him again. I rubbed the seat of his pulled-down trousers with the wet cloth and then leaned forwards to sniff the damp material. My memory had served me correctly: the water seemed to have driven the chemical out from the material.

I was tempted to take a quick whiff of the hem between his legs – this time from the inside where the smell of his bum would be far stronger – but I thought better than to push my luck.

Instead, I moved up to his underwear.

"Before I dab you down, Greg, I should wipe the stuff off your skin."

"I dunno," he said again, uneasily.

"It might cause an allergy or a chemical burn. It's best to be on the safe side."

"Well... okay... if you're sure," he muttered after a pause, and I reached up and pulled down his shorts so that the waistband was around the tops of his thighs.

His backside was breath-taking in its naked glory: the skin so pale and smooth, the deep cleft between his cheeks bristling with a fine fuzz of reddish hair. He had a few small, pink pimples around the crease where the tops of his thighs met the curve of his buttocks, but other than those the view was near-perfect.

"I can see you're a natural auburn," I quipped.

His face swung round to look at me, blushing. "Oh God, am I that hairy back there?"

I smiled up at him. "Most men are, Greg. It's part of our irresistible charm."

My reply seemed to quell his embarrassment somewhat and he threw me another half-smile.

I sniffed his right arse cheek and confirmed to him that the chemical smelled strong on his skin there. I dabbed at the whole area with the cloth and he passed me a napkin to dry him off.

Then I turned to the deep valley between his buttocks.

"I'll just see if the chemical splashed onto your... er... other place. I couldn't really tell from your trousers."

I leaned forward and pressed my nose between his cheeks. Inside his crack was hot and muggy and his thick, crude odour was almost overwhelming. It was dank and harsh; bursting with his own rich pheromones and replete with his bitter, effluvious stink. It was at once masculine and sexual; urgently compelling and deeply arousing.

This was an arse that was not just ripe for rimming, but which was crying out to be fucked. I imagined bending him over and ploughing my cock into this succulent furrow. Smelling the fullness of his backside as I drove in and out of him. Feeling his hot, slimy rectum squeezing in spasms on my thick, pumping shaft.

I snorted two or three times, nuzzling in deeper so that I could more clearly imagine what it would be like to be standing behind him, grabbing him by the shoulders and slamming so hard in and out of him that the whole room would be filled with his rich, extravagant stink.

Then I heard him say, reproachfully, "I don't like you sniffing me there."

I pulled back and looked up at him, feigning innocence. "I was just checking to see where the chemical splashed, Greg. Just like I did on your trousers."

"It's different with my pants pulled down," he said, starting to blush.

"I can't see why..."

"You know exactly why," he went on, his cheeks now scarlet. "It's a very personal place... private."

His intense embarrassment made it obvious that he must know full well how whiffy he could get back there. He was probably reminded of it every time he pulled off his underwear.

I stood up behind him again and smiled at him. "You shouldn't feel embarrassed, Greg. It's just how your body is... it's perfectly natural."

"Yeah, I know," he muttered. "But you kept sniffing and pushing deeper, like you were enjoying it."

"Well, you have a very interesting smell, Greg. Quite... stimulating..."

He stared at me for a second before asking, a touch incredulous, "You like the smell of my bum?"

"A man's backside can be a very erogenous place," I informed him.

"I'm not gay," he said, flatly.

"Neither am I," I echoed. "But just because I prefer dating women, doesn't mean I can't appreciate the male body as well."

"Does it excite you?"

"Sniffing your bum?" I asked.

He nodded.

"Not as much as licking it would," I replied.

He looked surprised. "You would actually lick it? My bumhole?"

"If you would let me," I nodded, finding it cute that he'd call it his 'bumhole'.

"And you're not gay?" he checked. For some reason this was quite important to him.

"Not that I know of," I smiled. "I'm just... well... a bit of a dirty sod, I suppose."

He smiled back at that. "'Opportunistic' might be a better description," he suggested.

I chuckled.

Then I asked him, "Would you like me to rim you, Greg?"

"Is that what it's called?"

I nodded.

"As long as you don't want me to do anything in return," he replied, before conceding, "yes. You can rim me."

As I knelt back down he felt obliged to warn me, "I've always been pretty smelly down there. I can't help it."

I looked up at him and smiled. "I did kind of notice."

"And it doesn't bother you?"

"Bother me?" I laughed. "I love it! I mean, as long as you're clean..."

He smiled and nodded. "Yeah, I'm clean. To the point of paranoia. I just get sweaty and... well..."

"It's okay," I interrupted. "Just let me enjoy it."

I reached up, grabbed his hips and moved in for the kill.

He was, by now, obviously keen to experience what it would feel like to be rimmed, because he bent forwards slightly and opened his legs to give me less restricted access between his buttocks.

I prized his cheeks apart with both hands, splaying open his lightly haired crack so I could see, luridly and graphically exposed, his tiny pink hole, clenched tightly shut. It was slightly higher than I would have expected; I supposed different men must be built differently back here.

He called back, nervously, "Is it okay?"

I smiled. "It's magnificent."

I heard him chuckle and then he asked, his voice affectedly formal, "Would you like a sauce with that, sir?"

I laughed back. "The juice it comes with will be delicious enough."

I pressed my face into him, this time with no attempt at pretence, and inhaled the full impact of his spread cheeks.

He was a smelly guy, that much was certain, but the smell was in no way unpleasant: it was just incredibly strong and uncompromisingly anal. His bum had all the allure of Guy's splayed backside – the same musky aroma that had so excited me and had drawn me into this fetish – but at a level which was cranked up to the extreme.

If Guy had smelled like Greg – if this had been the intensity of the odour that I'd been met with when I'd craned my face up from the hotel bed and pressed it between his squatting legs – I'd have either quickly recoiled at the sheer ferocity of it, or would have started involuntarily climaxing there and then. In either case I would never have got as far as rimming him, and I probably wouldn't be where I was now.

But since then, I had grown used to such peculiarities; familiar with sheer variety of smells and tastes that men's backsides can offer.

I pushed in further and inhaled as deeply as I could.

The sheer strength of the odour from Greg's backside – from his 'bumhole' as I now liked to think of it – reminded me of Shane the carpenter, who I'd rimmed at the adult learning centre. Greg's scent wasn't as ferocious as Shane's – his had verged on being eye-wateringly offensive – and I was keen to apply my mouth to his hole in a way I hadn't been able to with the carpenter.

Whereas Shane had been the sort of man who could not have cared less how rough and ripe his arse smelled – he probably thought all men were as whiffy as he was back there – Greg was clearly very self-conscious about his odour. And that, for some reason, made me more willing to persevere with his backside than I had been with Shane's; eager to show him that what he might regard as an embarrassing flaw could, for the right person, be a powerful aphrodisiac.

I extended my tongue and licked at his anus. Jesus Christ, this guy tasted hot!

The strength of his flavour – sharp, spicy and pungent – made my tongue tingle and my cock strain in my trousers, painfully constricted and desperate for its owner to start pumping it.

I pulled back from him, breathless.

"Bloody hell, Greg! Your arse tastes amazing! I've never tasted anyone as intense as you!"

I grinned up at him but found him looking down at me quizzically.

"Am I supposed to be enjoying it too?" he asked with little enthusiasm.

I stood up and he turned around slightly to show me his cock. It was pale and limp and flopped insubstantially over his small, shrivelled scrotum. He was clearly not at all well-hung and had trimmed his pubic hair very short to show off what little he had, without – I should add – very much success.

He went on, "It's just that, if I am supposed to be getting off on this, then... well... I'm not."

I smiled at him and undid my trousers again. My cock sprang upwards, thankful for release, and then throbbed gratuitously in its sheer enormity. The bright red head was vividly exposed and looked, on its own, bigger than his cock and balls in their entirety.

"If it's any consolation, Greg, I am!" I told him.

"Whoa!" he laughed, gaping in amazement at my large erection. "Look at that thing! It's a good job my girlfriend hasn't seen what you've got – she already says I'm a bit on the small size."

I enjoyed his admiration and thought he might want to appreciate what I had in a more physical way.

"Would you like me to try and fuck you with it?" I asked him, mindful that I had stashed a condom into my wallet in case my evening with Debbie were to have taken an unexpected turn.

"Fuck me?" he queried, perhaps unaware that that word could be applied to two men.

"Yeah... you know... work my cock up into your... er... bumhole."

"No, no!" he cried out, shaking his head energetically. "It's far too big. I've never done anything like that before... I've never done anything with another guy, actually."

"Okay," I smiled. "We'll try something else, then. If you don't enjoy me rimming you, maybe you'll like this..."

I knelt down again and gestured for him to turn back around. This time, instead of sniffing and licking his bum, I reached my finger up to my mouth and applied a copious layer of spit to it.

"I don't know that I'll like that either," he said, anticipating my next move.

"Well, there's no harm in finding out," I proposed, and asked him to bend over a little more for me.

I wasn't entirely sure how to finger another man now that I was presented for the first time with a moist, hairy arsehole awaiting my entry. With a woman, vaginal fingering can be quite a delicate operation. The angle of the finger has to be quite precise and the rhythm of stimulation is notoriously difficult to judge. Too fast can be uncomfortable and too slow can be unexciting. Too deep can be painful and too shallow can be frustrating. And two fingers... well, you can compound all of the above.

With Greg, I decided I would use a similar technique to that I use on myself: an extended middle finger rather crudely inserted followed by a rough and ready in and out motion. A woman would be horrified if I were to besmirch her with such an insensitive approach, but as it had worked so successfully on me – having helped my right hand bring me to an enjoyable climax on many an occasion – I thought it worth a shot.

I slid my finger into him with one rapid and rather inelegant plunge. He mouthed a breathless "Aah!" sound as his backside accepted the intrusion.

I held it deep inside him, feeling the slimy heat of his rectum clamped around my knuckle, and looked up at him to gauge his response.

He was grinning at me; half in pleasure, half in surprise.

"That feels quite nice," he admitted.

Men were, evidently, far easier to please with a finger than women.

I leaned around to take a look at his cock and saw it slowly lengthening and lifting upwards from his scrotum, like a sausage-shaped balloon that someone was inflating. In spite of his developing arousal, his organ remained extremely small: becoming only slightly thicker and longer than one of his fingers. As his foreskin retracted, it exposed a tiny pink head, looking for all intents and purposes like a baked bean with a small slit in it.

He watched me looking at his cock and smiled at me expectantly, clearly waiting for me to make a favourable comment. After it had begun to arch upwards and it was clear that it wasn't going to grow significantly bigger any time soon, I looked up at him and said, simply, "Nice."

He had the genitals I'd have given anything to possess when I'd been at school. His cock was modest enough to disappear among the folds of his trunks when he went swimming with his friends; not like mine which, even in my teens, would make a prominent mound that everyone would peer at and make jokes that it would scrape along the bottom of the pool when I swam. His balls were similarly virtuously restrained; not like mine which would bulge like concealed golf balls in my school trousers and make other boys laugh that I looked ready 'to spunk up' – long before I knew what that even meant.