tagGay MaleWhat Lurks Beneath

What Lurks Beneath


Part of the 'Butt Monkey' series of stories by Robert Furlong


As I was getting into bed, Guy returned to the room chuckling that the lads had still been on their DS, which he'd confiscated. "I know they're getting a bit old to have their toys taken off them, but they're gonna need to get some sleep if they want to enjoy the match tomorrow."

Knowing Jake, I was quite sure he was already finding other things to keep him and his friend occupied. My son always went to bed very much on his own terms.

Guy put the games console down onto the drawers and started hitching his jeans back down. His cock, I noticed, was now mainly flaccid inside his briefs but the wet patch it had made when it had been stiff and leaking was still dark and sodden.

He looked over at me checking out his bulge and hitched the waistband up a little to show it off more prominently.

"Reached a verdict?" he asked casually, as if he was asking if I'd decided what time to set the alarm. Considering we'd been discussing trading sexual favours, his tone seemed remarkably inappropriate.

I pulled the duvet over me and smiled at him. "Yeah. I'm gonna back out, actually. Let's just put what we talked about down to the strength of the whisky..."

He pulled his jeans off and tossed them to one side. He smiled over at me without a trace of rejection or disappointment. "Fair enough, mate. No worries."

He walked into the bathroom and stood, side-on to me, in front of the toilet bowl. He pulled his cock out from his underwear and directed down towards the water. It was still quite large and the purple head was protruding from his foreskin as a result of his earlier erection. He started pissing -- a thick yellow jet of liquid -- and called over to me, "I might have to beat off before I can sleep. Would that be okay with you?"

The question only surprised me in its directness. He was so sexually tense I had assumed he would need some kind of release. I'd just hoped he would be able to wait until he'd returned home so that I wouldn't have to listen to him.

"Yes, of course. Just close the bathroom door so I can get some sleep."

He laughed, still directing the powerful stream from his organ into the water of the toilet bowl. "I mean in bed. Who's ever heard of wanking standing up?"

"Don't you ever do it in the shower?"

He looked over at me. "No. I have to be lying down. Do you mind if I do it in bed?"

"I need to sleep. How long will it take?"

His jet of piss subsided into a trickle and he squirted the last few spurts into the toilet. He shook his cock and I noticed that it had begun to lengthen and thicken again at the prospect of being masturbated by its owner. The head was looking redder as it swelled and fattened.

"I dunno," he muttered. "I'm not a big fan of it, like I said, so it can take a while. And without any porn..."

He tucked himself back into his underwear and walked over to the sink. Then he went on, as he squirted toothpaste onto his brush, "I managed to do it on the rig a few times without disturbing three sleeping men, so I can be pretty quiet about it."

"Okay," I agreed. I couldn't see that I had much choice in the matter. Did men often have these kinds of conversations when they had to share a bedroom? I'd shared with a friend of mine, Adam, the night before my wedding. I didn't remember having to discuss his masturbatory requirements after we'd drunkenly staggered back from the bar.

He brushed his teeth hurriedly and I clicked my bedside lamp off to show that I was hoping to be able to go to sleep quite imminently.

Having finished in the bathroom, he switched off the light and walked over to his bed. He directed his own bedside light away from my side of the room making it gloomy enough for me to close my eyes and at least hope to be able to sleep while he attended to himself.

He said, "Sorry I need to do this, but I got so horny earlier talking about stuff which really shouldn't made me that horny. I think I must need to empty my nuts."

I turned away from him to give him what little privacy I could, and said, flatly, "Goodnight, Guy."

He said, "Goodnight, Rob," and his mattress squeaked as he climbed into his own bed.

I must admit that his sounds of self-stimulation were very discreet and well-concealed. Indeed, if he had not announced what he was about to do, I might have been blissfully unaware of the activity going on underneath his duvet and managed to nod off. As it was, though, the knowledge that another man was lying in the same room as me pleasuring himself made me listen out for any sounds he might make; it was that, more than any actual sounds, which ended up keeping me awake.

At first, I was waiting impatiently for the tell-tale gasp of his orgasm, which would let me know that he'd finished so I could finally go to sleep. I reflected that this must have been how my ex-wife had felt while she'd waited for me to 'expel my seed', as she'd so affectionately put it, as I'd lain in bed next to her tending to the erection I almost invariably developed at bedtime.

Early on in our marriage Linda had seemed to accept that regular sex was necessary for me and had allowed me to have intercourse every night before we slept on the proviso that I would attend to my morning erections while I was showering. But after a while she'd said that such 'nightly rutting' was making her too sore, so she'd agreed to beat me off instead. The first few times she had seemed quite keen on the new arrangement and had worked on me with gusto, using different techniques on my cock to bring me to my much-needed climax. But soon her enthusiasm had waned and she began complaining that she needed to sleep and that she couldn't see why my balls needed to be 'emptied so regularly'. So she'd ended up lying there each night with her back to me, making her displeasure clear, while I'd tried to masturbate as quickly and quietly as I could, feeling embarrassed that my male physiology had given me such an apparently unreasonable sexual appetite. Pretty soon I'd been relegated to the bathroom, and had ended up spending most nights squatting on the tiled floor with my pyjama bottoms around my ankles discharging the day's pent-up semen over a couple of girlie magazines I kept behind the bath panel.

Now, as I lay there in the semi-gloom of my side of the room, I felt a modicum of sympathy towards Linda when she'd been a similar position but I also recognised that Guy had needs like my own and that I had to show more patience towards what his biology was forcing him to do than my ex-wife had towards me.

And so I didn't make sighs and grunts of exasperation to hurry him along, as Linda had in my position, but rather lay there listening to him, focussing with mild interest on the sounds he was making as he tugged his foreskin back and forth underneath his duvet. There was a steady rhythm -- gentle and almost indiscernible from the beating of my own pulse in my ears -- but easily recognisable to me, having made similarly discreet sounds in my own bed on many an occasion so as not to disturb Jake, sleeping in his room. Then there was his breathing, growing steadily faster and shallower as his rhythm quickened and his pleasure intensified. His mattress, too, would occasionally betray him with a few expressive creaks, perhaps when his elbow inadvertently rubbed against it or his hips give a few involuntary thrusts.

As I listened to him rubbing himself, his rhythm gradually intensifying and his breathing gradually quickening into short pants, I felt my own cock starting to lengthen and became aware that these private, sexual sounds from another man were beginning to excite me.

I rolled over onto my back and glanced over at Guy.

Aware that I wasn't asleep and that he had no need to be quiet about what he was doing, he began beating his cock more powerfully, allowing his fist to make a recurring thumping sound against the duvet every time it reached the top of his cock. In time with this was a wet clicking sound like somebody chewing gum. I realised it must be his foreskin making moist smacking noises every time it swept across the head of his cock, wettened by the ooze of liquid weeping from the slit.

My cock continued to stiffen through the fly of my boxer shorts as I heard a second rhythm to Guy's exertions: a rapid slapping sound which could have been his wrist beating against his hip or -- and the idea of this made me reach down and wrap my fingers around my own stiffening member -- his large pair of nuts thumping against his thighs.

Guy must have noticed the mound of my hand, touching myself beneath the duvet, because he called out, breathlessly, "Yeah! Come on, mate -- wank with me!"

My inhibitions lowered by the whisky, I acceded to Guy's command and started to beat myself under the duvet, my wrist making a gentle beating noise against it in time with Guy's more powerful rhythm.

He called out again, "Yeah! Go for it!" and then I saw him push his duvet away right off his bed so that he could stroke himself in the open air.

With his bedside light directed onto the wall next to him, I saw Guy's outline mostly in silhouette. His body was tense and his chest was heaving. His wrist swept up and down the length of his large, curving cock in a fast, rhythmic motion. The head of it was fat and engorged and the wet clicking noises made by his foreskin against its sticky surface sounded louder and clearer. His balls protruded upwards in a slightly odd way: I then realised he'd tucked the waistband of his briefs underneath them when he'd started masturbating.

I could smell it quite distinctly: the sharp, musky tang wafting from his oozing cock-head as his foreskin swept back and forth across it and the thicker, more acrid, odour from his balls. It was an unmistakably sexual scent, heavy with sweat and testosterone: the unrefined smell of male masturbation.

I found it surprisingly arousing and inhaled it deeply as I lay stroking myself. It was a powerfully masculine odour and yet it was strangely exciting to me. I increased my rhythm on my cock, pumping myself more quickly and more firmly as I sniffed at the sharp bite of Guy's cock in the air.

He turned to look at me and called out, between gasping breaths, "Push your bedding off! Show me it!"

At first I was reluctant to do so, but my excitement overcame me and after a minute or so I revealed myself to him. Pushing my duvet away, I let him see me jerking my cock through the fly of my boxers in the half-light on my side of the room.

He peered over at me in obvious surprise. He must have assumed my reluctance to flash myself at him at every occasion, as he had with me, arose from my shortcomings in the trouser department.

The fact is, though, that I am very well-endowed, both in terms of the length and girth of my penis and the distended size of my testicles; so much so that I've always been self-conscious about exposing myself. My mother had told me when I was growing up that large genitals were something to be ashamed of and so for many years I had tried to hide my size and had felt awkward when I was circumstances dictated that I had to be naked among other people. It was bad enough to have been an early developer and to put up with my classmates' staring between my legs in the school showers in fascination each week watching my testicles grow steadily to the size of plums and my scrotum sprout a forest of dark, wiry hair while their pea-sized equivalents remained practically hairless. For a while my nickname became 'Furballs' -- a crude corruption of my surname 'Furlong' -- much to my discomfort. But once my development had really taken off a year or so later, it was mortifying to have them point and giggle at my lengthening penis which looked more and more like an elephant's trunk hanging between my legs during each weekly shower while theirs barely made a bump in their underwear. Within a short time my name had been further corrupted into 'Footlong', a jibe which had me blushing and hiding my face whether it be hurled at me on the sports pitch or across the maths classroom.

These days, while I wasn't so embarrassed of being well-built and knew that many people appreciated a large manhood, the hangover of shame from my youth still made me very reticent about revealing my genitals to anyone, both male and female.

Guy laughed and called out, still beating himself, "You're a dark horse, aren't you, Rob? You hid that pretty well!"

His reaction gave me confidence and I smiled back at him.

He went on, "It's always the quiet ones who have pythons stuffed down their trousers!"

I'd never had it called a python and I liked the analogy. I changed position slightly so that he could better see it, and more fully admire its length and thickness. I hoped, too, that he might enjoy the distinctive odour of my cock as I masturbated it just as I was appreciating the strongly male scent that his was exuding.

He sniffed a couple of times, though whether it was to savour the waft of pheromones from my cock as I stroked it or whether he was becoming breathless from his own exertions, I don't know.

I, for one, was relishing the intensifying stink that was gathering in the room. I'd always enjoyed the strongly sexual smell of my own masturbation and now, with two of us in the room exposing our erections and rubbing them vigorously together, our collective odour was twice as intoxicating. I could feel the thickened shaft of mine hardening to full stiffness, lengthening to its full enormity, in the building excitement I was experiencing.

My only concern -- and it was a very distant one -- was that one of our sons might, for whatever reason, come tapping at our door. The sharp reek of our cocks would make it unmistakable to another male what the two of us had been doing: I would hate for Jake or Simon to wince at their dads' masturbatory stink; to grimace, knowing that the cloying odour in our room came from two men who had been pleasuring themselves together.

Nevertheless, we lay like that for a minute or so, enjoying our communal masturbation with an almost fraternal intimacy: watching each other's hands stroking up and down, and enjoying the sensation of being watched.

I was intrigued by the way that Guy's technique differed from my own. He was stroking himself using two fingers and a thumb on his organ; I had my whole hand wrapped around my organ. He kept his legs closed pushing his scrotum upwards between his thighs; I kept my legs widely apart and let my much larger balls settle between them, gently slapping against my thighs with the rhythm of my hand. His cock sounded wet and sticky as he wanked it and the ooze from its head lubricated the sweepings of foreskin; mine was much drier and I needed to lick my fingers occasionally to moisten the head.

Aside from those few differences, however, our techniques were largely similar and our rhythms well-matched. Guy stared at my cock and I stared at his as we did exactly the thing Guy had told our sons not to do a couple of hours earlier.

Abruptly, Guy leapt up from his bed and came over to mine. He stood next to my bed while I, still stroking myself, stared up at his manhood standing upright next to me. A string of clear sticky liquid dribbled from the end of it onto my pillow. The smell from his cock, his balls and perhaps his underpants too was mouth-wateringly strong.

"Suck it," he commanded.

"I dunno, Guy." I was enjoying masturbating with him and finding it surprisingly arousing, but --

"Suck it. Please," he implored.

He reached down for my cock and pushed my hand away from it. He grabbed it quite roughly in his fist and started hurriedly jerking my foreskin back and forth. In spite of his uncouth technique, it felt good to have another person's hand on my cock after so much time. I gasped my appreciation.

"I'll wank you off as long as you like..." he pleaded. "I'll do anything with it... just suck me. Please. I need it."

I looked at his cock, still pounding with anticipation and dribbling clear fluid onto my pillow and, pained by his desperation, I nodded.

He grabbed it with his free hand and directed it downwards towards my face. In spite of its hardness he forced it down at such an angle that I was sure it must hurt him, but he was so eager to get it into my mouth that he must have been oblivious to the discomfort.

I leaned up from my pillow and tentatively licked the sticky, swollen head of it. The taste was unremarkable -- salty, a little bitter -- but I was almost overwhelmed by his powerful odour. It was so much stronger than the scent which had wafted over to me when he had been masturbating -- it made that almost pale into insignificance.

His smell up close was somewhere between the rank odour of sweat and the sharp stench of piss, but with more to it than that: a stronger, sexual aroma from his pores, reeking of musk and testosterone. In spite of how cloyingly intense it was -- and how potently masculine -- I found it captivating and what I had thought would be a few reticent licks of his cock-head quickly intensified into a full-on fury of slurping and gagging as I took as much of his engorged organ into my eager, gasping mouth.

He pulled away from me, his cock springing upright again. "Steady on, mate. You'll bring me off!"

I looked up at him, for the first time feeling lust towards another man.

"Let's do this properly," I said. "Take your underpants off."

He yanked his briefs down his legs urgently, and kicked them off onto the floor. His cock arched upwards and his balls dangled downwards, the left one hanging rather lower than the right.

"Get on me," I ordered him. "Straddle my face. I want to lick your shaft, your balls..."

"Yeah?" he said, looking at me stupidly.

"Yeah," I stated. "I'll lie here. You get on me. Cock in my face."

He looked like he was out of his depth and muttered, "What about me wanking you?"

"That doesn't matter. Just straddle my face."

He climbed onto my bed and hunched over my chest, moving his throbbing cock and now free-hanging balls towards my face. As he did so, I got another whiff of that intoxicating odour from them and my own cock throbbed so hard it rose upwards from my stomach; I was more aroused that I had been in a very long time.

Again he directed his cock downwards into my mouth, and I gave him a minute or so of what seemed to be an enjoyable blowjob -- one male administering oral stimulation to another. I took as much of his length down into my throat as I could and lapped strenuously at his fattened cock-head with my tongue. The more I licked at the head, the harder it throbbed and the more copious the ooze of salty juices from its puckered slit as he thrust back and forth. He grunted contentedly and held my head, using my mouth as a substitute for the pussy he so desperately wanted.

But my interest was focussed on other things: I wanted to sniff his balls, his pubic hair, the wiry hair between his legs and... what else? My longings, I recognised, weren't those of a heterosexual man making do; I was fascinated at a basic, purely sexual level by this large excited man whose cock I was dutifully servicing with my mouth and I wanted to take in as much of his hairy, smelly maleness as I could.

I pulled off him and, catching my breath, said, "I want to suck your balls."

He muttered a bewildered, "Yeah...?" And I realised I was fully in control of this situation. He would do what I wanted him to.

He pushed his bollocks into my face, large and heavy like golf balls inside his furry, wrinkled scrotum and I pressed my face into them, inhaling their musky odour which was more powerful and intense than that of his cock. Again, I felt overcome with lust, all too aware that to me this was a novel and entirely homosexual form of desire but unable and unwilling to resist it.

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