Getting Into His Pants

Getting Into His Pants

Note: All of the characters in this story are over the age of 21. Trigger warning: this story involves non-consensual sex.

Let's start by saying that, in the eyes of the world, inside and out, the guy was a fucking mess. He'd always struggled with various challenges -- a little bipolar, a little depressive, a lot OCD. Then he'd quit his job to take one that looked better, only to get fired within a few months because he couldn't "compromise his standards" and do what his bosses told him to do. So now he was out of work, almost out of money, and spending way too many evenings at my house drinking himself into a stupor on my booze. He would show up at my door in the early evening, looking a bit hang-dog and a lot thirsty, a goofy and guilty smile on his lips.

We'd been friends for years, so I didn't have a choice. Every time I invited him in and asked him if he wanted a beer. Every time he'd nod his shaggy head up and down a few times and grin at me as I headed off to the kitchen to get him his first drink of the night. Every time he'd wander around my living room looking for the remote, and flip the TV on to whatever ball game was available. By the time I got back from the kitchen, his shoes would be off and his big feet would be propped up on my coffee table, toes waggling as he settled his body deep into my couch.

So why did I put up with this? Why did I give in every time to his freeloading and unasked-for presence? What was wrong with me that I was willing to enable him? It was a simple formula -- about 20% habit, 30% affection, and 50% lust. Unrequited lust, of course. He was as straight as they come. If he was awake, he was talking about women. He constantly complained about the lack of a female in his life, and completely failed to understand why no woman ever wanted to go out with him more than once. I understood their reasoning completely. He dressed like a complete slob, there were holes in all his socks, he couldn't eat without creating a mess of discarded food on the table all around his plate, and he didn't have any money to spend on anything. Of course, the other reason I knew he was completely straight was because I couldn't manage to seduce him, no matter how hard I tried. Don't ask me why, but I found the big goof deeply sexy in a twisted way. He was odd-looking, but I liked it. His head was oversized and his dark hair was shaggy. He didn't get it cut very often, and when he did he must've had it done for free by an inexperienced barber-in-training. His nose was huge and his complexion wasn't good. He was tall -- about 6'4" -- and he had a lanky body dominated by sloping shoulders and a little pot belly. He shambled along when he walked, and he usually forgot to shave. But. His height totally turned me on. I've always melted over men built like skyscrapers, the kind whose torsos are so high up that my head hits their chests when they hug me. I love reclining against a big tall bear of a guy who can wrap his body around mine. Beyond that, he had killer eyes -- huge, a beautiful shade of brown, and as soulful as a puppy's. And most important -- at least, as best I could guess from the bulge often showing in his baggy pants -- he had a fucking monster of a cock. Sometimes when he'd lay back on my couch, or walk across the room, the fabric of his stained pants would bunch up in just the right way, and I'd catch a hint of the gigantic hog that I knew he kept hidden in his shorts. Often while he was staring at some pro ballers on the TV screen, I'd discreetly direct my eyes down at his crotch and salivate over the anaconda I knew was sleeping in his lap.

I did everything I could to get inside those pants. When we first met, I listened sympathetically to all his befuddled complaints about the women he couldn't score with. Eventually, after hinting around for a while, I finally came right out and directly asked him how he managed to channel his sex drive. His answer was to tightly grip the lump in his crotch, leer at me, and say, "when the big fella can't find any other playmates, he lets me play with him all I want. Sometimes we play for hours."

I can't say for sure that his dick was fully awake for this conversation, but I can say that the bulge between his legs looked even more prominent than usual for a while.

But he didn't unzip, and no more was said. For weeks. So I doubled-down on my efforts. On the nights when he didn't volunteer the information himself, I developed a habit of asking him how his dating life was going. Had he gone out since the last time I'd seen him? And if so, had he managed to score? The answers made it clear that he was only hitting the bullseye once or twice every few months, and that the successes were separated by long dry spells of failure. I started to hint at the fact that he had other options he could explore. I pointed out that there were lots of gay guys out there who would be willing to give him a blow job (or more) without expecting him to spend the time and money required for regular "dates" -- and stressed to him that guys tend to be a lot better than women at giving blow jobs anyway. He could get triple the reward on a much more frequent basis if he'd just -- flex a little. He smiled, slowly shook his head, and said he "wasn't up for that." But he still kept showing up at my door, and I noticed that he was whining more openly now about how horny he felt all the time. I didn't have to bring up the subject of sex anymore. Out of the blue, while leaning back on my couch with a beer (or a scotch) in his hands, he'd regularly say something like, "Man, am I boned up tonight!" My eyes would flick down below his waist, he'd tug at his pants, and then he'd laugh. "Too bad there aren't no ladies here tonight," he'd say, as he fumbled at the growing lump in his crotch.

After a few weeks of this, I got bolder. I opened up more than I ever had before about my own sex life (which was far more active than he knew). I told a few stories about a couple of guys I'd seen repeatedly for months. Then I told him about some of my one-night-only, blow-and-go experiences. Bullseye. Those made him sit up straight and open his eyes. But he still didn't open his pants. So I started "dressing down" more. He'd show up at my door to find me wearing just loose running shorts and a t-shirt. Before long, the shorts didn't have any underwear under them and the tee's got smaller and had more holes in them. I thought I saw his eyes drop below my waist a few times, but the glances were momentary at best -- and led to the same old nothing. So one Saturday night, I left some porn on the coffee table for him to see when he arrived. I made sure there were a couple of straight mags on top -- and some mild gay stuff underneath. When he arrived and started to put his feet up, from my vantage point in the kitchen I could see him pick up the top one. He leafed through it, groped himself a little, set it aside, and picked up the next one. I stalled some more, talking to him from the other room as he leafed through the pages. By the time he got to the third one (the gay one), I was fully hard and couldn't wait to see his reaction. Which was -- mixed. He did leaf through it. But it wasn't long before he set it aside on top of the others. Disappointing, but not surprising.

I joined him on the couch, handed him his beer, and settled down beside him. His eyes stayed glued to the screen, and he didn't say a word about the porn. After a few minutes, I said, "Hey Stew, I see you found my stash! What did you think?"

"Eh. I've seen better. There's one blonde in there that the big guy wouldn't mind making friends with, though! But what are you doing with straight porn? I didn't think you were into that stuff."

"Aw, you know, gotta see what the competition has to offer!" He smiled and his attention went back to the game. And my eyes stayed on his pants. He had to know where I was looking. But he didn't say a word.

In the weeks that followed, I tried everything I could think of. I'd tell him he was "looking good" and ask him if he'd had any special fun with "the big fella" lately. Nothing. I'd fold my feet up beside me on the couch and let them rest against him. Nothing. I'd bring him his third or fourth drink of the night and massage his shoulders a little. Nothing. My balls were turning blue. So finally I came right out and made him a direct offer. It was a Friday night, his latest date had asked him to take her home early, and he was complaining about his horniness more than usual. Sometime around his fourth or fifth drink, I thought I saw his eyes drop down to my crotch again, and I decided it was time to make the next move.

"Tell you what, old buddy," I said. "If you wanna get some relief tonight, I'd be happy to, uh... help you out. No strings attached. You don't need to do anything except sit there and let it happen -- and if you don't want to, we'll never talk about it again. But Stew, if you really feel that boned up tonight, I'm sitting right here and I'm more than willing to provide you with some special care."

He turned his head to look at me. His eyes were getting glassy, and for the first time, I felt like he was really thinking about it. I could almost see him turning the idea over in his mind, weighing it as best his drunken state would allow him to.

"Uh, well... I mean... thanks, bro, but, you know... that is... sorry, I can't. Just can't. A blow job would feel fuckin' great, but... yeah, no, I just can't. Thanks, though. 'Preciate ya."

His body slumped back into the couch again, and he went back to sipping his drink. But he wasn't hiding his crotch now, and "the big fella" was clearly awake. He was stretching himself out along Stew's right leg, and the half-risen tenting in his crotch was an impressive thing to see. Although his attention was supposedly fixed on the game on TV, Stew repeatedly reached into his lap to idly adjust his monster -- perhaps even to fondle it a time or two.

I knew there was hope. So I kept bringing him more drinks. Unlike most men, the alcohol didn't cause Stew to lose his erection. In fact, quite the opposite. The more booze he swallowed, the more "the big guy" kept growing. By the time the third quarter of the basketball game ended, my buddy was on his seventh drink, his eyes were mere slits, his body was as loose as a goose on his end of the couch, and his dick was a flagpole in his lap.

And then -- just as the fourth quarter got underway -- he passed out. I looked over at him and saw that his head had fallen back, his mouth was wide open, and all his limbs were loosely splayed out. Shit, I thought. I went too far. Almost got his pants open, and now it's too late.

Or was it?

And a terrible, wrong, wonderful idea formed in my head.

If I couldn't have him when he was awake, why not have him when he couldn't put up a fight?

After all, he had started to sound receptive -- and this might be the only chance I'd ever get -- and his dick was ready to go -- and he was the one who chose to keep tossing down the drinks -- and now he was too drunk to put up a fight. So why not? He'd get some pleasure in his sleep that he'd never know enough to regret. And I'd finally get some payback for all the time and money I'd spent listening to his woes, letting him eat my food and drink my booze, and supplying him with a sympathetic ear and an open house.

Stew had run up a bill. It was time to demand a payment.

I stood up and looked down at him as he sprawled on the couch. His head was thrown back, his arms flopped at his sides, his hips were thrust forward, and his legs were split wide apart. Perfect. The table had been spread for the feast.

Staring at his lidded eyes, I slowly started to do a striptease as I stood in front of him. I imagined that he was awake and watching me -- that he was taking in inch after inch of my flesh as I slowly peeled my clothes off. First my shirt. A button at a time. I swayed my hips side to side, dancing to the music in my head. "The Stripper" -- a private dancer performing for my punch-drunk audience. I dropped my shirt from one shoulder, turned sideways, and undulated my body seductively. I looked at his wide-flung legs and almost thought that I could see the monster between them starting to twitch. Off came the shirt, dropped on the floor behind me. I unbuckled my belt, then pulled it loop-by-loop out of my pants. Once it was free, I held onto the buckle and started to tease Stew's body with the loose end of the belt. I ran it up and down one leg, and then the other. I trailed the end of the belt across his stomach, back and forth several times. Then I ran it down into his crotch, enjoying the movement as it slithered across the fabric hiding his straight-boy cock and balls. I pulled the belt back and started to run it all over my own body. I turned my back to him, held one end of the belt in each hand as I slipped it over my head, and let it ride up and down, side to side, over my naked back. I let the belt drop downwards and fall under my ass, then pulled it tighter to turn it into a sling that I could sit my ass on. I ran it back and forth between my legs. And finally, I looped it around my neck and let it hang there like a leash. I presented my body to the sleeping watcher and watched his cock move inside his pants.

I opened the button at the top of my own pants, and let the trousers fall down my legs. He could "see" my jock now, fresh and white, cupping my own junk as the head of my rigid cock poked out of the side. I stepped out of my pants, still dancing, and moved forward closer to him.

And at this moment, I make my move. My hands reach out to his waist, and I grab the elastic at the top of the loose track pants that he wore to my house tonight. Carefully, afraid to wake him (though I know that's unlikely at this point), I pull his waistband forward. The worn elastic puts up no resistance, and I am easily able to get my first look down into his crotch. What I see confirms what I knew had to be true: he's gone commando tonight, and there's nothing blocking my view of the big fella. Finally, I can see the monster. He is indeed magnificent - somewhere between 9 and 10 inches long, as thick as a baby's fist, and quivering with need. Stew's dick is an obelisk of cock, a monument to sex. And below it are two fat balls, ripe plums of goose-pimpled flesh, full of fresh seed and nestled in a thick bush of hair. They are big and round, plump sacs of baby juice suspended below his mammoth cock. His tackle is gigantic. I've never seen a bigger set. I literally start to drool as I look at it, and I can feel a thin rivulet of saliva as it drips out the side of my mouth and runs down onto his enormous pipe.

It demands to be served. I won't disappoint it.

I tuck the front of the elastic waistband beneath his balls. They are more than big enough to hold it in place as I reach around him and tug the back of his pants down over his ass. I have no idea how I'm going to explain any of this when he wakes up. That's a problem for later. Right now, all I want is his body naked and available to my hunger. And I'm going to have it.

I keep pulling until the track pants are lowered enough to yank them down the rest of his legs. They lie around his ankles, a soft pool of fabric waiting to cushion my knees as I kneel down. I grab his enormous meat with both hands and pull it out from his body, aiming it at my mouth. As I do, I think that I see his eyes flickering just a little -- and his hips push forward ever so slightly more. The result is that I have even better access to the big fella, and I put one elbow on each of his legs to give myself a still firmer base to work from. I now have both of my hands wrapped around his meat, one hand stacked on top of the other, forming a tube for his prick to fill. There is more meat than I can hold in my hands, and the crown of his rammer rears above the column I have made, purple-red and already damp with a few drops of pre-cum. I stick the tip of my tongue out of my mouth -- pause for a few ecstatic seconds to contemplate what is about to happen -- and then gently touch the end of my tongue to the soft velvety knob of Stew's dick. An electrical current passes between us, and my head reels in reaction. Slowly, ever so slowly and carefully, I start to lap across the beautiful head. My hands are on the gear-shift of his body, and as I move his babymaker clockwise with my hands, I lap round and round his cockhead, the circles traced by my tongue gradually growing wider and wetter. The pre-cum the big fella is producing adds to the lubrication and enhances the taste as I continue to lap away. My tongue is now extended as far as I can make it go out of my mouth, and I am wrapping it around more and more of the skin of his cock as I start to descend down, and then rise up, the shank of the shaft. Up close, I can see the monster in all its glory. Veins are visible beneath the pale white skin, and the uncut foreskin moves up and down with my roaming mouth. I push my tongue inside the pocket of his foreskin and discover what it feels like to have his cock's hood slither against and slide over the blade of my tongue, trapping it against the head of his dick. My hands remain in a column around him, pumping him faster all the time, yearning for the moment when his cock will fill with cum and spit his seed into my mouth.

I open my mouth as wide as I can, and manage to get the knob of the big guy into the cavern of my mouth. It is a warm apple, a rubbery plug that fills me up. I've been waiting for this for so long. This is what I've wanted. THIS. Exactly this. This is why I've put up with him for so long, listened to him for so many hours, watched so many games with him, fed him so many drinks: so that I could have his cock inside me. In my mouth. Getting ready to plug my throat.

I don't think I can do it, I've never before managed a cock this big -- but I've got to try. I'll never have this chance again, and his meat looks too delicious to give up anytime soon. I take one hand (wet with my own slobber) off his shaft and push my head down further on his cock. It is so huge that my mouth can't accommodate it. I'm afraid that I will wake him up if I try too hard. But there's no choice here. So I relax as much as I can, open my throat as wide as I can, and keep pushing down. I can hear myself starting to choke, and I can feel that I'm running short on air, but I don't stop. I can't stop. I won't stop. I keep trying to force the head into my throat...

And just as I'm about to give up, it squeezes in. He is inside my throat. Granted, it's just the tip of the iceberg in the tip of the neck, but I know now that it's possible.

Coughing and gasping for air, I pull back a little. I look up at him. He is breathing harder than he was, and his eyes are squeezed shut. His arms seem to be bracing him against the edge of the couch, and his hips are moving in a barely-visible pumping motion. His mouth is open as he shallowly pants, and his head is rolling against the back-pillow of the couch.

I'm sure he's still asleep. He must be. He sure drank enough.

Asleep or awake, I'm not stopping now. I drop my head again and push. It's easier now. My throat knows what's coming, and my mind knows it's possible. Not only do I get the head of his cock inside my neck, but at least a full inch of the shaft as well. I can feel the muscles of my neck tightening around the cockplug he has inserted into me, and I realize that I have begun to milk him with my throat. I fully remove my other hand from his cock so that I can take him still deeper, and start to caress the fat rubbery balls suspended beneath the stalk.

Up and down I go. I find my rhythm. I discover just how long I can hold his cock deep in my throat before I have to release it to grab the next breath of air. I roll my tongue under his shaft as it stuffs my mouth, slurping on and loving the skin of his prick. I can feel his body thrilling to the feelings, rejoicing at being inside a warm wet human hole. I stretch his balls out. They fight to retract.