Would not you Really Rather Have

(Part 1 from 1. Fiction.)

*** This is a work of fiction. All persons are intended to be age 18 and above.

“Wouldn’t you really rather have a Buick?”

The quote was from a commercial jingle. I was watching a YouTube of old car commercials from the 1950s and ’60s, and that line was sung by a woman hawking Buicks. Those were the days when American cars ruled the roads and foreign cars, like Toyotas and Datsuns, were considered junk. The only foreign car worth a damn was the VW Bug and even that catered to a narrow demographic – the weirdo who gave a shit about gas mileage. At 27 cents a gallon nobody else cared how far a car went on a gallon of gas.

That’s what the old-timers from that era tell me, anyway. I’ve got a couple of them on my morning walk route. Sometimes I stop and listen to their stories. They love talking about the good old days.

I bring up the Buick TV ad because it reminded me of my latest encounter.

Living in a neighborhood of stand-alone houses and row houses (or “townhouses” if you prefer), you get a constant mix of people coming and going. It was from the townhouses that I ran into Bob (“Fucked by the Non-Com”) who has since moved out. We had several close encounters of the carnal kind, if you catch my drift. The fact that he had a girlfriend seemed to make no difference in his sexual appetites. She was the main course, naturally, but I was the dessert.

Seven townhouses down, a new couple moved in. She was an Uber driver and had a great Suburban she used to shuttle people to and from the airport. I guess business was good because her other half, the subject of this story, did not appear to work for a living. Instead, he spent his days at the townhouse, occasionally leaving for hours on end but mostly cleaning and whatnot both inside and outside their unit. He was constantly working on a fountain with an attached fish pond. When he wasn’t doing that he was cleaning and waxing his car.

I can tell it was a 2008 Buick LeCrosse. I never was a fan of GM products and certainly not Buicks, which seemed to appeal to a much older crowd. But he had sported up his LeCrosse with a slightly lifted suspension, special wheels, and aftermarket mirrors. It was painted a menacing black and the windows were heavily (probably illegally) tinted. The back window was covered with stickers for surf shops and skateboards.

He was often outside working on that thing, and that’s what drew my attention, because when he did so he was usually clad in a wife beater and a pair of cargo shorts that nevertheless hugged his . What a fine ass it was, too, a perky little thing that always seemed to fill out whatever he was covering it with. He was a small guy, maybe 5-7, with dirty blond flyaway hair that hung down to his neck, usually held in place by a ball cap. He had some kind of fringe growing along his jaw line, a turn-off for me, but the ass more than compensated. I’m guessing he was in the 25-28 year old range.

I had taken to spending late afternoons reading on the front porch, which I found to be a relaxing pastime. Work is stressful and after I escape the office, I need to decompress. A quiet session with a book does the trick.

Except it doesn’t when Jim – I later learned that was his name – was outside working on his Buick. On those days my head was craned, sucking in every detail of his body as he bent over the hood, wiping it down with a cloth, or doing something in the engine compartment. That sweet ass looked fine, stretching against the fabric of his cargos. I imagined all the stimulating things I could do with it, given the chance.

On the day in question I noticed he was spending a lot more time outside than usual, dividing it equally between his fish pond and his car. The front door to his townhouse had squeaky hinges, so every time I heard that metallic whine I looked up to spy on him. He was tossing objects into the pond – I got the impression they were food pellets of some kind – and just diddling around with his car.

I went inside to do something, I forget what, and when I came out he had vanished. So I flopped down in the lawn chair and resumed reading.

A few minutes later I heard the sound of shoes scraping on leaves and looked up. It was Jim, walking up my driveway. He was carrying a plastic bag from the nearby dollar store.
“Hey, how are you?” he said as he walked onto the porch. “I’m Jim; I live across the street over there.” He pointed in the general direction of the Buick. As if I hadn’t noticed.

I got up and shook the hand he offered, telling him my name.

We chatted a moment and then he said, “They had this crazy sale at the dollar store and I ended up buying twice as many of these sugar cookies as I wanted, so I saw you out here and wondered if you’d like to split them with me. You don’t have to pay me or anything; they only cost a dollar. I just need to get rid of them.”

“Sure,” I said. “Come on inside.”

We headed for the kitchen. I didn’t have any beer so I offered him a Caffeine-Free Diet Coke, which he turned down. I have this cookie jar shaped like those eggs from the “Alien,” which Jim thought was way cool. He opened the cookie packaging and put half of the sugar cookies inside.

“Glad to see that thing didn’t jump out and grab my face,” he laughed.

We chitchatted a few more minutes. He seemed reluctant to leave and kept trying to prolong the conversation, which to my mind meant he was either bored shitless sitting over there alone all day, or maybe he wanted something else. As I replayed events of that afternoon, I became aware of how he had spent a more-than-significant amount of time doing menial chores that kept him out front and in my sight. I decided maybe he was fishing for more than just a brief conversation with a neighbor.

Finally, he said, “I hope you like those cookies. I could eat them all day. They’re my desert island food – well that and pizza, or a burger stacked with good stuff. What do you like to eat?”

“Ass,” I said bluntly, watching carefully for his reaction. I’m not usually so blunt in my overtures, but I had pegged this guy as a boy in need of some stay-at-home TLC, and I was just the man to deliver the goods. He blushed a little but fetched up a big smile, almost too big, and said, “Oh yeah? That’s a coincidence. My girlfriend won’t do that. She’s very plain vanilla in the sex department.”

“That sucks for you,” I said. “But today is your lucky day. You gifted me with cookies. I’m going to gift you with my tongue, if you’re up for it.”

“Wow,” he said. “To be honest, I thought you’d never ask.”

I was right. The boy was hungry for companionship.

I reached for the waistband of those cargos. I didn’t unbutton them or anything, but just yanked them down. They slid over his hips with no resistance, pulling down his boxers at the same time. There, between his legs, was a surprisingly thick cock which was already fattening up as his excitement pumped it full of blood. It hung from a caveman’s crotch of dark, bristly pubes.

I dropped to my knees and took it into my hand, rubbing it all over my face as I sucked in a massive lungful of air through my nose, savoring his meaty smell. His exertions, such as they were, had caused him to sweat in his crotch and I could smell that, along with a funkier, more pungent odor suggestive of forbidden secretions.

His balls were low hangers and sagged from that Bigfoot nest of wooly hair, penduluming as I rubbed his fat dick across my cheeks, up and down my nose and over my lips. I used my other hand to grip those luscious pecan-sized testicles and fondle them without squeezing or twisting.

A drop of clear fluid had collected at the piss slit, and I dabbed at it with my tongue, savoring the sweet nectar of his prostate, rubbing it over my teeth and the interior of my mouth.

I looked up and he was staring at the ceiling with his eyes closed, uttering not a sound as I ministered to his penis, not taking it into my mouth but making sure it was sufficiently handled to give it some bone. My real prize lay on the other side of his body.

I planted my hands on his hips and slowly rotated him, kissing whatever flesh he presented to me as he turned. The moon of his ass came into view, and it was everything I had envisioned it would be.

A moonish white compared to the rest of his tanned skin, and covered with a light dusting of coarse, dark hair. At his crack the density of hair thickened. The crack itself was stuffed with curly pubes. If I were going to get in there I had to have him step out of his shorts, which I did by lifting his right at the ankle and using my left hand to pull the shoe through the leg of his cargos and boxers.

“OK,” I said in a near-husky whisper, my voice constricted by desire. “Spread your legs and let the fun begin.”

He did not need to be asked twice.

He widened his stance, at the same time stepping back from the kitchen counter he was holding onto for support, and poked his butt out. I moved my hands to ass cheeks and pulled them apart.

His beautiful ass crack bloomed into view before me.

To say it was heavenly would have been an understatement. It might have been the finest male butt I had ever seen, muscular cheeks divided by a canyon of dark hair plastered to the skin by sweat. It led downward to a perfect hole, one that apparently had never been penetrated. Nowhere did it show any indication of that – no tags or weak spots where the muscles had been stretched. It lay in its nest of hair, pulsing slightly, like a creature of a coral reef awaiting its next opportunity to feed.

I burrowed into his crack with my face, starting at the bottom where his asshole resided, and traveled upward, lapping at everything with my tongue. Jim moaned loudly and pushed against me. The heat and the smell inside his crack were both ferocious, and my cheeks stuck to his cheeks, pulling free only when I moved to lick the sides of his cleft or to plant my tongue at the entrance to his love socket.

I curled my tongue into a point and stabbed at his anus, trying to push it inside, and my efforts elicited more groans of pleasure from Jim, who had begun to gently rock his ass against my face, never taking it very far from the ministrations of my mouth. His hands had found that fat sausage of a cock and he was jacking frantically as he rubbed his butt against me. I yanked down my own shorts and grabbed my dick, which was like a steel I-beam between my legs, and started fucking the cup of my right hand.

The rhythm of his jerking speeded up and his moaning had climbed the scale of octaves until I knew he was about to blow his load. I whirled him around clumsily and positioned my face directly in front of that rampant dick of his, which had turned almost purple with sexual tension. The pisshole was dilated and ready to open fire.

And fire it did. I gaped my mouth and luck of luck, the first big dollop of cum landed squarely on my tongue. Then my cheeks, forehead and nose were hosed down with semen as Jim ejaculated all over me. My face was his cumrag, and he was using me to empty his balls. I took his cock into my mouth and sucked on it like a straw, drawing out as much ejaculate as I could. It was like sucking up the dregs of a milkshake.

When his spasms had abated I turned him around and buried my snout in his ass crack again, lapping up the sweat and funk that had gathered there in the short time I had tended to his cock. He had a salty taste that was mixed with some other indefinable flavor, some body secretion produced by sexual fission.

Jim was gasping loudly. As the timbre of his passion scaled down, I reluctantly pulled away from him and stood up, yanked a paper towel from the dispenser and wiped off my face. What a shame to toss all that cum into the kitchen garbage can. But somehow I had a feeling there would be more where that came from.

Jim let out a breathy “Wow, that was awesome,” and stepped into his shorts, pulling them up over his hips. I hadn’t cum yet, but would save that for later. I too pulled up my shorts.

As I walked him to the front door I said, “Thank you again for the cookies.” He seemed too spent and emotionally drained to say anything, but he was smiling and nodding yes.

“Next time you’re out polishing that Buick and you need your own knob polished, drop on by.”

“You better damn well believe I will,” he said enthusiastically.

And you know what. He did – and more.

But that’s another story.

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