*** This is a work of fiction. All persons are intended to be age 18 and above.
Have I mentioned I take a walk every morning?
Of course I have. How else could I have enjoyed that hot kitchen floor blowjob with the married man who lived along the way (“Taking Care of Hubby”). You may remember he moved right after our encounter. Well, I FOUND his new home, and it’s just around the corner. So expect future hookups with hubby! Then there was that of oversexed college boys on the disc golf course (“Disc Golf Dicks”). My jaws are still sore. I can’t wait for spring break! And there’s a new kid on the block who I met while he was walking to his bus stop. He’s the 18-year-old son of a family that moved into the house two doors down from mine. Stay tuned for an upcoming story (“Coming in through the Back Door”) because the kid is a Tyrannosaurus rex when it comes to sex!
Forget about the health benefits of walking; the sex benefits are unbeatable!
Which leads me to this hot encounter. It happened about two weeks ago, again during one of my morning walks. You’ll think I’m exaggerating but the truth is, I don’t have to. It was one of those experiences that burns itself into your memory. You’ll be glad I decided to share.
It was a Saturday and I had slept in to the unthinkable hour of 7:30, which is highly unusual for me. During the workweek you can’t drag me out of bed, but on weekends I’m up at 5 in the morning. Why? Because I don’t want to waste one second of my precious time off. Some people live to work, but I’m the opposite. I work to live. The way I see it, life is meant to be enjoyed, not wasted on 12-hour workdays, seven days a week, making money for some anonymous corporation or rich asshole living on a private island.
When I left for my walk the sun was already up, obviously, which seemed odd to me. Usually I walk in the dark, before sunrise, unless it’s right after one of those goofy time changes.
The day was hot and sticky. I knew that by the time I got back to my house, my shirt would be soaked with sweat. At the ripe old age of 39, my body isn’t as efficient as it used to be. If the temperature and humidity are in the 80s, I’m going to perspire. Case closed.
As I rounded the corner I saw one of those portable tent-like stands set up, with a group of people yelling and shaking noisemakers. I could hear tinny music from a boom box. As I approached they started yelling at me to come have a beer. I could see a keg under the shade, plus a table full of red plastic cups.
I looked at my watch. It was quarter to 8 in the morning. Who would be drinking beer this time of day?
Turns out there was a marathon being run through the area, which would explain the arrows drawn in the road with flour. Runners would use them to navigate the course. (Can you believe some dips hit actually reported them to the cops for spreading anthrax?) The partiers were part of the marathon support crew, although why they’d be serving beer to runners baffled me. What runner would drink beer during his race?
I thanked them for the offer and went on my way. My God, if I had a beer at quarter to 8 in the morning the whole day would have been wiped out. Beer has that effect on me. I’m useless after just one.
I strolled down to the park, passing hubby’s old house along the way. Somebody else had just moved in, a 30-something guy, his wife and two yellow Labs. The guy was a grizzly, with a giant belly and lots of dark, curly hair all over his body. Not my type at all. (By now you’ve probably figured out I like ’em young – not illegally young, but young. Eighteen and up to around 30 is my desired demographic.)
I took the cement walking path around the park and headed back to my house. As I approached the beer booth, the men and women there started whooping and hollering. Off in the distance I could see a runner approaching. There was a cop car just ahead of him, keeping pace. As it happened, he was the front runner, and he had a comfortable lead on the other runners. Nobody else was in sight.
He passed with a lot of noise and celebrating accompanying him (I notice he didn’t drink a beer), and then the neighborhood slowly quieted down, as quiet as it could be with a group of intoxicated, shrieky men and woman rattling noisemakers clustered around a tent. Instead of going home I decided to take a slight detour around the block with the hope that more runners would come by. The guys who run in these things can sometimes be really, really hot. Nothing wrong with a little eye candy to get the morning going.
No sooner had I turned left instead of right than another runner came into view, and I silently thanked God for letting me be here when he did. His hair was dark and closely cropped, though not as short as a member of the armed forces. His chest was wide but narrowed to about a 32-inch waist. His legs were a fine compromise between the chicken legs of many runners and the freakishly overbuilt stumps of weightlifters and gym rats. He was shirtless, and a nice patch of hair dusted his chest. He also had a noticeable 5 o’clock shadow. If I had to guess his age I’d say 25.
He caught me staring and I quickly looked away. But when he passed I turned back to study that fine , framed by those clingy nylon running shorts, flexing and unflexing as he headed into the distance. The things I could do to that ass.
I felt myself getting hard. I too was wearing nylon gym shorts, so getting a boner out here would serve no purpose than humiliate me. I tried to think of things that would turn me off – taxes, the presidential race, my checking account balance.
I continued down the street. More runners began to stream by. I was surprised that most were older guys – by “older” I mean in their late 20s up to my age and beyond. Not a lot of young hotties. They had the look of officers, which would not surprise me. The services have physical fitness standards that must be met every year. Running is a great way to stay in shape, and it has a cachet that seems to appeal to the commissioned crowd.
I saw a gap in the runners and crossed the road to enter another park, much smaller than the park I had walked at. It had picnic tables beneath sheltered pavilions. I could sit at one of the tables and watch the guys pass by.
I had been there about five minutes when, off in the distance, I saw the blue strobes of a police car. It was the cruiser escorting the lead runner. Apparently the course looped back on itself, which meant my neighborhood was very close to the halfway mark. Sure enough, the car and the runner came by me heading in the opposite direction. The other runners glanced at him and you could see the envy in their eyes. They seemed to be thinking, Gosh, I wish I was that good.
I then spotted another figure approaching from the opposite direction. It was the second-place runner, Mr. Hottie himself, and even from afar I could tell something was wrong. He was running, yes, but with a limp that seemed to be growing worse as I watched. I could guess what it was: leg cramps. On a warm, humid day like today, a runner could use up his electrolytes in fairly short order. The result would be leg cramps. If he didn’t get some water and Gatorade in him, they’d only get worse.
He slowed, and you could tell by his pained expression that for him, the marathon was about to end. You can’t physically run on a cramp; it hurts that bad. Not only that but you can damage the muscles and connective tissues if you keep running.
Instead of rounding the corner like the first-place runner, he headed straight into the park where I was sitting. He held up at the table opposite me, his leg sticking straight out, and let out an anguished groan as he squinted against the pain and gritted his teeth. I immediately got up and went over to him.
“Put all your weight on the leg with the cramp,” I told him. He didn’t open his eyes, and you wouldn’t have thought he heard me. “I’m serious. Put all your weight on the leg with the cramp. It sounds counterintuitive, but it works. Try it.”
He shifted and stood on the bad leg. I knelt and gently ran my hands up and down his calf, not really pressing or massaging, but just smoothing. His leg hair felt good against my palms. As I continued to rub, I could feel his muscles starting to return to their former, relaxed positions.
He was gasping, but his respiration began to slow a little. Presumably the pain was letting up. I continued rubbing his calf and even allowed my hand to creep higher, to his thigh, my palms sliding against his flesh on a layer of sweat. What I really wanted to do was get my hands on that perfectly shaped ass because this boy was definitely a keeper.
As I rubbed I told him my name and asked him his, which was Alex. I asked him where he was from, using his cramps as an excuse for asking – he didn’t appear to be acclimated to this area. He said he was from one of the I states in the Midwest – I don’t remember which – and he had followed his folks here after his dad landed a new job. But he didn’t plan on staying. Now that he was 18, he said, he could go back to his former I state and start college.
All the while we chatted, I continued rubbing, and my brain, on some back channel, began making plans. I maneuvered him to the other side of the picnic table and had him put his other up on the bench, concentrating most of his weight – he looked about 140 tops – on the cramping leg. As I rubbed, I said lightly, “The insidious thing about these cramps is they’re usually referential – by that I mean it may look and feel like it’s in the calf and the thigh, but the real source is much higher.” And then I began a riff about axons and dendrites, and how acetylcholine and cholinesterase regulate muscle action, and how potassium and sodium figured into the equation – it must have sounded impressive because Alex accepted it without question … and it wasn’t entirely false, either. It’s just that I couldn’t remember the specifics from my college Biology II class.
Finally, I said, “The real source of leg cramps lies in the glutes. Massage the glutes and you lose the cramps.”
As I said that, I allowed my hands to creep higher until I had both of his butt cheeks in my palms. I began to knead and squeeze, moving my hands in a rotary fashion, allowing them to explore every square inch of his butt. I could feel his muscles tightening beneath the whisper smooth fabric of his shorts, and in my mind’s eye I could see his hairy cleft squeezing shut, then widening, his dark, hairy hole coming into view as I massaged his ass.
He was facing the road, and a large clump of laurels shielded us from the passing runners, who were paying no attention to us anyway. I continued my ministrations. My hands dropped down to the backs of his thighs and then up to his ass. I allowed my hand to slip a couple of times to the inner thigh and I could feel his balls there. At one point I whispered, “I could do a better job of this if these shorts weren’t in my way,” and I slipped them down over the back of his ass. He started to protest but I assured him nobody would see him naked.
His ass was everything I pictured – gloriously perfect in shape with a healthy covering of hair. The hair grew thicker toward the crack and as I massaged, I spread his cheeks and took in the breadth and depth of his crevice. It was beautifully dark and covered in pubic hair that was slick with sweat against his skin. An odor wafted out, not the nose-curdling smell of shit but a healthy pungency of sexual potency. His asshole, peering from a nest of hair, winked at me.
I was beyond hard. My cock was like a ticking bomb in my crotch – one touch and it would go off.
I couldn’t stand it any longer.
I plunged my face into that crack. I could see Alex turning and peering over his shoulder with alarm, and I didn’t care. I just had to get my mouth and tongue in there. Nothing else mattered at that moment, except the licking and sucking. I slurped at his sweaty buns and even swallowed the random hair that got into my mouth – part of his DNA joining mine. I went up and down his ass crack, licking and tasting and swallowing. He had a wonderful aroma and taste – almost like a kind of meat spiced with some exotic herb from a faraway land. It set my mouth to watering and I slobbered all over his ass, and then licked that up too.
I maneuvered my way down and found his asshole. I pulled his cheeks apart farther and licked greedily at his hole. Here, both the heat and odor were more pronounced. I could feel his cheeks closing in on my face, as if they would trap me and hold me in place for an extended period of butt licking. I stabbed at his hole with my tongue, and then pressed firmly against it, willing his sphincter muscles to part ever so slightly so I could get inside him. Meanwhile my hands had found his balls and his sticky taint and were doing strange, sexy things on their own.
I sucked at his ass, smacking loudly and lewdly, until I felt the beginnings of an orgasm simmer at the base of my skull. I stood up suddenly and yanked down my shorts. My cock sprang into view, red to the point of being purple, and I pressed it against Alex’s asshole. I didn’t push it in. I just held it there, feeling the sticky warmth and the muscular tightness. And when I knew the cum was on its way, I pressed against him and started fucking his crack, while my hands found his cock and his balls.
Giant spasms of pure bliss momentarily blinded me as I emptied my seed into Alex’s crack, and in my hand I could feel his cock thrumming as sperm jetted from those hairy balls and out into his running shorts. Again and again, my cock spurted white love juice into the ferocious heat of his crack, slickening it so that my dick parted his cheeks with greater ease.
I held him in place for several moments, unwilling to break our shared heat and pleasure. It felt too good, just standing there with my schlong parked in his ass crack, and his cock pulsing in my hand. I pressed my body against him, enjoying the sensations his body provided, and played with his balls while milking his cock for every drop of cum I could wring from it. I could feel his puckered asshole twitching against the shaft of my dick.
Finally, I broke away. I tucked my cock back into my shorts. His ass crack was a sloppy mess of spit and cum, but instead of cleaning it up for him, I pulled his shorts back up. He’d have something to remember me by when he got back home.
“How’s your leg?” I asked, giving him what I hoped was a sly grin.
He laughed and answered, “I think it’s good to go.”
“And your ass?” I added.
“Never been better,” he said. And with that, he headed back out into the stream of runners now heading in the opposite direction.
I watched those ass cheeks recede in the distance. I felt myself getting hard again. Dammit, how was that possible?
Just then, another limping runner headed my way.
It was going to be a good day.
This is a story of me and a now close friend named Austin...
- Locker Room
- Jack Off
- Teen Boy