Stain Devils

Greg's were the sort of genitals that one could respectably allow even an elderly, widowed vicar to clap his eyes on, if ever such a situation were to arise. They were the sort of genitals that I used to want my mother to think I had: not the grotesquely thick penis and pumped-up testicles that I'd so swiftly developed during adolescence.

He looked at me staring at what he possessed and grinned more broadly. He seemed quite proud of his pencil-like erection and pea-sized bollocks.

I smiled back at him and slowly withdrew my finger from his arse. It was that that I wanted to focus on: to be honest, I couldn't really care what was between his legs.

His strong anal smell became bitingly intense after I'd slid my finger out of him. It filled the air like a fart, although its odour was far less brash. It was the same smell that I'd enjoyed when I'd first sniffed him through his trousers, but now released powerfully into the air from my glistening finger: the same heavy, pungent aroma that had so captivated me inside his arse-crack, but now evaporating so thickly that we could both smell it growing stronger.

I saw him blush and he asked sheepishly, "Is that okay? The smell of my bum, I mean."

I smiled at him. "Okay? Come on, Greg – it's as hot as fuck!"

He smiled back and then chuckled naughtily. He was finding that he rather liked the fact that someone appreciated how strong his backside smelled; that someone was aroused by the strongly raucous odour he was unable to control and which had probably bothered him most of his life.

I slid my finger back into him and he gasped again. "Aah... yeah... that feels so good!"

"There are nerve endings up inside your rectum," I explained, "which magnify pleasure. You should try this when you masturbate – you'll climax much more powerfully."

"Isn't it a gay thing?" he asked. Always with the gay stuff; what was his problem?

I smiled to hide my irritation. "Not at all, Greg. It's a male thing. All guys have these nerves; all guys should learn how to enjoy their own bodies."

He nodded and then said, more confidently than I would have expected, "Well, finger me, Rob. Like you finger yourself. Show me how it's done."

I started a slow, deliberate rhythm, making strokes as long as I could and keeping it simple: just pumping my finger steadily in and out of his tight hole. His eyes widened and his mouth gaped in his enjoyment, and he started working his arse onto me, matching, in reverse, my motions.

He asked me if he could masturbate and I laughed. "Why are you asking my permission?"

He smiled back. "I dunno... I suppose I just want to check that it's what I'm supposed to do."

I laughed again. "Do what you like, Greg. Do whatever feels good for you."

As I kept pushing in and out of his arse, he grabbed his cock and wanked himself, jerking his tiny foreskin between his finger and thumb. I couldn't remember my cock ever being small enough to masturbate it like that: even when I'd first taken up the hobby, I seemed to remember that my organ had been big enough to fill my whole hand.

Greg appeared, if anything, quite proud of his diminutive size and to enjoy the fact I was watching him wanking as I fingered his arse. He flaunted it towards me as his finger and thumb sped up and down his shaft – a mere half inch of movement, his wrist barely twitching – as he smiled down at me as if parading his tiny erection as something I should envy.

Perhaps, like me, he'd always been told how good boys were modestly proportioned and was simply proving to me how righteous he'd been until now. If that was the case, he must regard me from the abundance of my own genitals as having been a very bad boy. Perhaps I had been.

And, indeed, I probably still was because I suddenly had a mischievous idea.

"Would you like to fuck me?" I asked him. And then, in case he needed clarification: "I mean, do you want to push your cock up my bumhole?"

If he had a condom on him, I'd be very willing to bend over for him. After all, his cock was ideally suited to buggery: there'd certainly no danger that I would find it painful when he pushed it up my arse. Let's face it: it would hardly touch the sides.

But he shook his head and muttered, breathlessly, "I'm enjoying this... keep going..."

I kept fingering him, a little disappointed that I wouldn't yet get to feel what it was like to have a man's organ inside me. The thought of the two of us hidden away together furtively butt-fucking – the waiter secretively servicing the splayed and protruding buttocks of one of his male customers – had rather appealed to me.

He pushed his bum against my hand more forcefully and with a quickening rhythm, showing me that he wanted me to be bolder and rougher with him. I managed to work a second finger into him, pushing the two of them as deep as they could go, and his hole started making noisy slurping noises as I stretched it open more widely.

The powerfully anal smell continued to build and he smiled down at me as he sniffed it to show how much he was revelling in it. I grinned back up at him and grabbed my cock with my free hand, jerking my foreskin quite quickly to show him that I too was greatly aroused I was by his crude, anal stink. He liked that and pumped his own cock faster, grunting in pleasure at having something he had clearly for so long been self-conscious about being invested with a new sexual dimension.

I called up to him, "Stop moving your bum for a second, Greg. You might enjoy something else..."

He stopped working himself onto me and I reached forwards, still drilling in and out of him with my two slick fingers, and licked gently around the swollen ring of his arsehole, now gaping wide from my repeated pummelling.

He called out, "Oh God, yeah! That's really nice!" And his elbow started moving more quickly.

I kept licking at him, masturbating myself more forcefully in my renewed pleasure at having managed to reintroduce my favourite activity into our fun.

I sped up my paired fingers as fast as I could, slamming them in and out of his reddening ring as I revelled in his still thickening smell. I licked around his hole, teasing it with the tip of my tongue, and then tasted my fingers as they thrust back and forth.

They were thickly coated with his juices and – Jesus! – did they taste powerful! I felt my orgasm building as I hungrily cleaned them with my tongue, relishing the potency of the acrid slime that I was devouring; the sheer, unbridled pungence of his rectum.

He called out, "I'm getting close! I'm going to cum!"

Taking care not to pull out of him with my left hand, I scrambled up and stood alongside him.

We wanked together facing the cupboards, me with my fingers still pushing in and out of his bum, and looked down at each other's cocks. His was literally only inches long: he wasn't jerking his tiny foreskin so much as tweaking it. Mine was, perhaps, ten times its size; looking not so much like a big brother to it but more as a barely related species might.

I thought I knew what might bring him off.

I whispered to him, "I love the smell of your arse, Greg. It's so fucking hot!"

I had intended to pull out of him and sniff my fingers appreciatively to excite him, but I felt the muscles of his rectum squeezing around my fingers in pulses and he threw his head back and called out, "Oh God! Yeah!"

His hips started bucking and he closed his eyes tightly. It was as if all the pent-up angst he'd felt about his backside for so many years was being discharged through his orgasm. He let out a long sigh of intense relief and then squirted two small spits of almost clear juice, one after the other, onto the front of the one of the cupboards.

He kept masturbating his thin shaft and I wondered if he was about to spray a more bountiful climax over the cupboard. However, nothing more was produced and it soon became apparent that that was it: his discharge had been represented by two tiny gobs of translucent liquid that were now slowly trickling down the front of the cupboard door.

He turned to me and smiled, clearly quite proud of what he saw as an impressively manly release.

"It's a bit of a mess," he said, looking at the twin dribbles he'd produced. I wondered how many sperms were swimming around in such tiny pools: he'd be lucky if a handful could squeeze into each of them.

Still tugging away at my big, fat cock, I pulled my fingers out of his arse and sniffed at his powerful stink. I muttered my own, "Oh God!", feeling my climax hit in, and then thrust my hips forwards to direct my cock away from us.

The first spurt of my orgasm sprayed against the cupboard in front of me like an abrupt and copious jet of thick white piss. Some of it splashed back and hit us both, spattering our clothes in glutinous gobs.

I kept masturbating and my cock paused, as if taking a breath.

Then a second gusher erupted from it and I directed it upwards to soak the tiles and the work surface. I turned to him and gasped as my balls emptied themselves in a long, noisy stream.

This second surge soon abated but I still kept jerking my foreskin back and forth.

Until a third wave hit me and I hosed down the front of the cupboard with it, washing away Greg's mere football team of sperms with a few hundred million of my own.

After teasing out a few last dwindling squirts, I took my hand from my cock and grinned in his direction.

"I think, Greg, that's what I'd call a bit of a mess!"

He looked at me as if shell-shocked.

As I hitched up my underwear and then my trousers, he asked me if other men orgasmed so plentifully.

"I don't think so," I replied, watching him pull up his purple boxer briefs and cover his rather fascinating behind. "I think it's just that I have... well... a particularly large set of Crown Jewels, I don't know if you noticed."

"Yeah, I did," he muttered, a suggestion of admiration in his voice.

"And does other men's spunk smell as strong as yours?" he asked, sniffing the air as he was doing up his trousers.

Now it was my turn to blush slightly; a leftover embarrassment from my own youth.

"No," I said. "Every guy must be different. You have a... how should I put it... rather fragrant backside and I have semen that must be pumped full with male hormone. It's what makes sex between men so interesting."

"Sex between men? You mean, gay sex?" he said with alarm.

Again the gay thing.

I smiled at him. "Do you want to be my boyfriend? Do you want to go out on a date with me?"

"No!" he called out, almost recoiling with horror.

"Well, I don't want to do those things with you, either. So it can't be gay, then, can it?"

He caught my drift and his fear lifted. "Okay... I guess not..."

As we used yet more napkins to wipe my thick, white goo from the where it was splattered, he asked me how I usually met other men for sex.

"Believe it or not, Greg, I haven't done this very much. I only discovered a few months ago that I enjoy this kind of stuff."

"And does your girlfriend – the woman out there in the restaurant – know that you're into men as well as women?"

I shook my head, concealing my slight alarm at his mention of Debbie. In all the fun we'd been having, I'd rather forgotten her. How long had she been sitting out there?

"No," I replied, after considering how I would begin to explain my protracted absence. "I can't really see any reason to tell her."

He used the cloth on his black trousers and waistcoat, dabbing off the stray splashes of my gloopy seed, and then passed it to me.

"I suppose," he went on, "getting together with another guy is a way of having sex with no strings attached. I mean, what we did was just sex for the sake of it... nothing else."

I smiled over at him, dabbing off my own trousers. "I think that's what attracts me to it: the lack of any emotional complications."

He walked over to the sink and washed his hands, thinking over the possibilities our encounter had seemed to raise for him.

"I've never thought of my bum as a sexual organ," he commented.

"Me neither... well not until sometime in September."

He turned and smiled, drying his hands on a tea-towel so dirty it looked like it might introduce microbes onto his skin which were far more unpleasant than those he had just washed off.

"Other guy's bums can be fun, too," I suggested.

He smiled more broadly. "Maybe I'll have to start spilling wine over the back of guys' trousers more often!"

We left the little cloakroom looking relatively clean, hoping the smell of his arse and of my semen (of 'my bum and your cum' as he poetically put it) would soon be dispersed by the noisy extractor fan.

When I got back into the restaurant, Debbie was looking around anxiously.

"Where've you been, Rob?" she asked fretfully when I'd returned to my seat. "I was getting worried. You've been over half an hour!"

Had it really been that long?

"I'm really sorry, Debbie," I gushed in the way that I'd mentally rehearsed it back in the cloakroom. "It took him ages to get the stain out. He had to try just about every bottle of solvent he had. And then I accidentally spilled one of them over him... it all got a bit wet and sticky, to be honest."

Well, that part was true.

I went on, "I'm so sorry you've been sitting here on your own for so long. I should have popped out and let you know what was going on."

On second thoughts, I probably shouldn't.

"It's okay," she said, sounding more composed. "I mean, it wasn't your fault he spilled wine all down your back."

I nodded and tucked into my starter. It looked like she asked them to rustle up a prawn cocktail for me. That was rather sweet of her.

Greg came over and acted with the same professional aloof that he'd exhibited when we'd first walked in.

"Could I offer you both another bottle of wine? With the compliments of the management, of course."

"That's very civil of you," I chirped brightly.

He turned to Debbie. "I'm sorry for the delay in cleaning your companion's clothing. We didn't have any solvent in the cupboard. It took time to send out for some."

"Oh?" she said, quizzically. "He said you had lots of bottles and you had to try them all."

She looked over at me, confused.

Before I could think up a reply, Greg intervened. "Ah yes, madam... I meant to say that we didn't have the right solvent. We had lots that were wrong and... yes... that's right... we did try them all... but then we found we needed a different solvent, so we sent out for that."

"Oh," she said, looking at me questioningly.

I smiled at her. "I didn't want to bore you with all the tiny little details. Suffice is to say that it was all very messy."

"It was indeed, sir," Greg chimed in. "Exceedingly so."

I could see now that this waiter-talk of his was just a routine. I'd seen the real man in the cloakroom; the real Greg being himself. Out in the restaurant, it was like he was playing a character.

As he went off to get another French Shiraz, Debbie looked at me suspiciously.

I just smiled and acted like we were having a very pleasant evening. Which we were: one of us rather more than the other.

The rest of our meal passed largely uneventfully and Greg retained an incurious distance from us as we enjoyed our time together.

At the end of the evening, when he had fetched me my jacket and Debbie had popped to the bathroom, I told him that I hoped he would act on his newly awakened interest and be more experimental with his own gender.

"I will," he smiled, dropping the waiter act again momentarily. "You've given me a lot to think about, Rob."

I was about to offer him my number so he could give me a call and come over one afternoon. I wanted to experience again the full impact of his amazing backside and thought it likely, given how keen he'd been to enjoy my fingers, that I could persuade him to take a rather larger part of me inside him. I had an image of the two of us naked together in my mind: me on my bed, kneeling behind him and him straddling me, thumping his arse up and down. He'd be tweaking that little cock of his, making his nodule-like balls bob up and down, as my massively thicker shaft plunged in and out of him and my fattened bollocks, swollen up like eggs in their saggy, hairy sack, slammed back and forth. And the two of us would be revelling in his stink, sweating and grunting as we basked in it, wafting thickly from his hole and from the plunging rod of my bum-streaked cock.

It was an attractive thought – rousingly appealing – but in view of our age difference I thought such an invitation, albeit implicitly given, might come across to him as unnervingly clingy.

I'd have to make do with imagining Greg with another guy – one nearer his own age – gasping at having his bum fingered again and discovering for himself the multitude of other ways he could enjoy himself with his own gender.

As Greg saw the two of us to the door of the restaurant he formally expressed his gratitude that I had been so 'co-operative', as he put it, following his unfortunate indiscretion. In return I offered my own appreciation at how 'accommodating' he had been.

Out in the car park, alongside our cars, I thanked Debbie for a lovely evening and we said our goodnights. In spite of the abundance of my earlier release, I was already starting to feel horny again. If she'd have invited me back to stay over with her, I'd have readily agreed, although I thought it too soon in our fledgling relationship to ask her to come back to my place.

I realised that, as much as I enjoyed sex with other men, I also wanted to be physical with a woman. The two things were satisfying on completely different levels. I could quite happily have buggered the arse of the waiter in the restaurant, if he'd let me, and then gone back with Debbie to just as enthusiastically make love to her; the earlier homosexual gratification having no discernible impact on the latter heterosexual version.

Men's bums were great – amazing, even – but female sensuality still held an unfaltering appeal.

I leaned forwards to kiss Debbie, hoping to show her my desire, and at first she reciprocated but then abruptly pulled back.

I thought the bulge in the front of my trousers must have unsettled her when I'd pressed it towards her, but her agitation turned out to have been borne from the smell of my face.

"I'm sorry, Rob," she said. "It's just I'm very sensitive to smell and your face seems... well... perhaps it's your after-shave or something."

I realised she could smell Greg's arse on my skin.

"Oh yes," I muttered, "I did... er... experiment with a new scent this evening."

"Well, it's a little bit... shall we say... musky for my tastes. Quite pungent."

I smiled. "Perhaps I'd better stick to Old Spice in future!"

She chuckled. "I'm sorry I can't kiss you back. I do want to... it's just..."

"I understand," I conceded. "I thought it was a bit on the strong side when I first smelled it. It's really not a problem."

So, for want of any other way of expressing our developing affection, we parted with a handshake before driving off our separate ways.

===

Next story: Father and Son Moments

===