tagGay MaleBearded No More

Bearded No More


We're in a barber shop at night. I'm laying in a barber's chair, chair back reclined. You are straddling my loins, facing me. We are both buck naked, and you have just languidly fucked yourself on my tool and have now settled down into my lap, feeling my rod go tumescent inside you.

You run your hand over your cheek, telling me that it burns and that my beard has scratched you while we were passionately kissing. I tell you that we can't have that—that I must passionately kiss you again—so you have my permission to shave the beard. But I say I'm afraid you won't recognize me if you do, that I no longer will be the man who lights your inner fires. You rotate your hips on my cock and tell me that it's not my face that sets the blaze within you—and that only that same fireplug you are sheathing now can also quench that fire, as it has just done.

You lean over and take a razor and a can of shaving cream from the barber's table. The shaving cream is a special blend—minty to the taste, tingly to the feel, a soothing lubricant no matter where applied. You spray it liberally into a hand and run that hand lovingly around my jaw and cheeks and, with delicate touch, under my nose, spreading the cream in great mounds. You bring your mouth to mine and kiss it then, bearded for the last time, the hair softened now, not scratching you now, permitting you to linger with your tongue swabbing the insides of my cheeks and my teeth. You lift your head now and smile down at me, white cream on your cheek and dribbling down your jaw line, reminding me of just a short time earlier when you were making love to my cock with your luscious, soft mouth and brought me to orgasm and then raised your head and smiled at me, that innocent smile celebrating your victory and my release—my cream dabbling your cheeks and jaw.

You take the razor now and gently shave off the cream-soaked beard and mustache, stopping briefly from time to time to kiss and lap up the cream residue from where the razor has separated hair from skin. When you are done, you smile down at me radiantly, telling me that I am far more handsome and desirable without the beard than with, assuring me that I arouse you even more now than before, wondering out loud if I can bring you to even greater heights of arousal by being further liberated of the soft, downy auburn hair elsewhere on my body. I can tell you are increasingly aroused; I have a hand wrapped around your cock, and your cock tells me that the unmasking of me has given it great pleasure.

The can spits a mound of cream, which is spread across my chest, and you shave the thin line of hair running down my sternum and under my nipples, two spritzes on the nipples, and you suck off the cream, lingering with your teeth and lips there. I raise, first my left arm, and then my right. You bury your face in my pits, one after the other, to enjoy the last lingering man scent and to tongue my curly hair there to moist softness, followed by cream and shave, and ending with drinking in the new, clean, fresh mintiness, with just a hint of male, with your nose buried in the hollows.

My forearms are spritzed and shaved and kissed from wrist to elbow, and then you are off my lap, standing hunched over my body as it reclines in the barber's chair, and the cream, the shaver and you lips are following the erstwhile trail of auburn hair down my six pack, around my navel and to the edge of my curly auburn bush.

You desist from that approach for now to spread my legs and cream, shave, and kiss my thighs and calves. Gobs of cream are applied to my toes, and you lick and suck each one, individually, clean. Slowly and sensuously. My belly is heaving at this, and I am stroking my cock. I tell you I want you now. No, I cry out my need for you. I want you to take me now, to fuck me.

But you are not finished revealing me, unmasking me everywhere. You brush the hand aside that I have been stroking myself with. You find some twine in the barber's drawer and bind my wrists together and hook the coil on a hook on the back of the barber's chair, just over the top rim. My arms pulled up and back, the muscles of my now-smooth arms and chest are fully flexed for you, on exhibit for your approval. And your eyes slit and burn with desire, showing that you do approve of your handiwork.

The hand I had wrapped around my cock is now replaced with your left hand, as you release mountains of cream across my loins with your right hand and slowly shave my pubic region to total nakedness, total openness to you. You kiss and lick the clean canvas you have created, well pleased with what you have done. My standing cock is buried in a mound of cream, and your mouth takes this luscious éclair in one long enveloping. You play with the hard center of this pastry with your tongue and teeth and soft inner cheek walls and stroke up and down, up and down, up and down on me until my cream mixes with the minty shaving cream, while I am writhing and moaning and sighing at your attention.

You hold there, savoring your midnight snack, while my muscles relax and my breathing turns from ragged to a soft purr.

When all is calm once more, you rise, unhook the coiled twine imprisoning my wrists and tell me to turn as you raise the back of the barber's chair. You then tell me to straddle the back of the chair, my chest to the chair back, my knees on the chair arms, and, as I comply, you have me embrace the back of the barber's chair and you rehook my wrists to a latching in the midback of the chair.

You stand where I can see you spray cream from the can liberally on your erect, throbbing cock, and then you are behind me, first kissing and tonguing my hole, and then pushing the tab of the can into my hole and filling me with the last of the minty shaving cream. I feel you come up into the chair seat behind me on your knees, and then I am granted what I have been begging for for the last several minutes, as your cream-covered dick slides into my cream-filled hole, and strokes me and strokes me and strokes me, until the shaving cream has evaporated from the vigorous friction, to be replace with a warmer, far-more manly flood of cream—your cum, filling me, flooding me, and making love to my inner crevices.

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