He nodded. “Please, enlighten me.”
He released my prick and floated back to the other side of the hot tub. I grinned, nervously. It was, after all, one thing to imagine it (repeatedly and often), but it was another thing entirely to say it out loud to the person you've been fantasizing about.
I swallowed hard, then replied, “I'd like to sniff your asshole.”
He laughed, then choked, then splashed me with water. “You're joking.”
I shook my head. “Nope. That about covers it.” I splashed him back. “I'd really like to sniff your ass. If that's, um, okay with you, I mean.”
He shrugged, one last wave of water hitting me before he hopped up, shook off, and climbed out. I gazed in rapt delight as he just as quickly got on all fours, his feet up against the edge of the tub, ass jutting out, hole winking my way. “Sniff away, my good man.”
He grabbed his cheeks and spread them wider, balls swaying, cock hovering. Reverently, I moved over and leaned in. And there it was, his beautiful asshole: hair-rimmed, pink, and puckered. Finally, my means had met his stupendous end. I breathed in deeply, eyelids fluttering as his all-too-familiar scent swirled around inside my nasal cavity. Even mixed with the chlorine, it was uniquely his, so beautiful, so unusual.
“Why do you smell like that?” I couldn't help but ask.
“Like what?” he replied, neck craned around my way.
Again I breathed in, my cock very nearly ready to explode as I did so. “Different somehow. Not so much musky as, well, spicy, woodsy, maybe with a hint of something floral.” I took a hungry lick and suck and slurp of his remarkable hole. “You even taste that way, Paul. How is that possible?”
“The truth?”
I nodded and took another lap around his track, tongue delving dead center as I furiously stroked my cock, my body only knee-deep in the water now. “Please.”
He shoved his ass into my face and began jacking merrily away on his thick tool. “I sweat a lot, Ben.”
I shoved a spit-slick finger deep, deep,
deep
inside of him. His back arched, a loud moan instantly bouncing off the nearby lockers. “And?”
He laughed as he beat his meat, his balls swaying in time to his pounding fist and my pounding index finger. “Old Spice, Ben,” he admitted with a grunt. “It's not just for armpits.”
And then I laughed. All this time I thought it was something exotic, and all it was, was a bit of deodorant. I laughed again, balls raising now, his and mine both. “You're certainly getting your money's worth then, Paul.”
“Really?” he groaned. “My asshole smells clean and fresh?”
I nodded, a second finger joining the fray, a third, all three working their way to his farthest reaches. “Old, no, spicy, yes. Uniquely you, Jack. Perfect, in fact.” I retracted my fingers. They came out in an audible pop. “Now roll over, please; I want to watch you come.”
“Ditto,” he replied before rolling over onto his back, fat prick aimed at the ceiling, heavy balls brushing the tiled floor.
I hawked a loogie at my fingers as he again spread his meaty thighs for me, asshole quickly revealed. In they went, a sigh escaping from between his full lips, his cock again in his hand. I then started pumping away, both on my steely prick and his stellar hole, his back arching off the floor as I fucked his rump silly with my triple digits.
“Close,” he soon groaned, muscle-dense chest rapidly expanding and contracting.
“Closer,” I panted back, eyes glued to his blur of a cock, watching, waiting for the inevitable.
And then he shot, thick bands of aromatic come that whooshed up before raining back down, dousing his belly in white, hot gobs of spunk. At the sight of it, at the smell of it, my own cock erupted, a lava flow of come that joined with his before splashing down to the tile below.
I huffed while he puffed, and both of us locked eyes again. All I saw was blue. Blue on top of blue. “Beautiful,” I absentmindedly whispered.
He wiped his fingers through the gooey mess of come on his belly. “I'll say.”
His back went vertical while I leaned in. This kiss was even more spectacular than all the ones before it. “Can I ask a favor, Paul?”
He chuckled. “Anything you want, Ben.”
I tickled his balls. “Can you, um, sort of leave your underwear here when you go?”
“Eager to get rid of me?”
I shook my head. “Not even close.”
He moved his face an inch in reverse and stared into my eyes again. Suddenly, I knew what a deer felt like when the headlights were coming straight for it. “I have an entire hamper full back at my house, Ben.”
I groaned at the very thought. “I get off in a few hours, Paul.” I glanced down at the mess we'd made. “Plus a few minutes.”
“And I'll be home in a few hours,” he gleefully informed. “Want me to break out the Old Spice?”
“Nah,” I replied, the kiss repeated, deep and soulful and perfect in every way. “Either way, I have a feeling I'm going to love the way you smell.”
And, oh boy, did I ever.
HELPING RUFUS
Bob Vickery
W
hen I told Daddy I was going out for the high school wrestling team, I could tell he wasn't pleased. He just stood there, chopping onions, the knife whacking into the cutting board so hard I thought he'd lose a finger for sure. Finally, he looked up at me, his eyes red and angry from all those onion fumes. “Who's goin' to help me out in the diner, Rufus, if you're spending all your time wrestling with your buddies after school?”
“I'll help you out after practice, Daddy. I'll still have time.” Cora and Tammy were making a big deal about cleaning the counter and setting out the forks and knives. But I could tell they were listening to every word. It was too early for customers and they didn't seem to have nothin' better to do with their time.
Daddy just shook his head and started in on the peppers. “I don't know. It just don't seem like a good idea.” He put the knife down and looked at me again. “How you know you'll be any good at it anyway?”
“Hell, Daddy, I'm the biggest kid in the senior class.” And I am. I'm six foot three and weigh 218 pounds, stripped naked. And it's all solid too; there ain't a butcher's ounce of fat on me. I know that sounds like bragging, but it ain't. I'm just stating a fact.
Daddy snorted. “Yeah, you're the biggest kid all right. Staying back two years sure took care of that.” I felt my face burn on that one, but I didn't say nothing. I just stood there watchin' Daddy have at those peppers with the cleaver like they was his worst enemy in all the world. I could tell he was ashamed for what he said by the way his mouth got all tight and his eyes squinty. That wasn't no help for me, though, 'cause when Daddy gets shamed, he just gets meaner. “You're big, all right, Rufus, but you're slow and clumsy. You need to be quick, to be a good wrestler.”
“Oh, hell, George,” Cora said, “If Bigfoot wants to join the wrestling team, why don't you just let him? It's only natural for a boy to want to participate in high school sports.” People call me Bigfoot because I wear a size fourteen shoe and there was once a story in one of the supermarket papers about some hunters tracking Bigfoot in California. Some of the guys in school started joking about calling those hunters up and tellin' them to high-foot it over here to Enid, Oklahoma, if they really want to bag Bigfoot, and the name just sorta took.
“Yeah,” Tammy laughed. “And he can practice his holds on us anytime.” Cora giggled. Cora and Tammy are always making little jokes like that about me. I wish they wouldn't; it's embarrassing.
Daddy glowered at them. “I got three things to tell you ladies, no make that four. One, I don't recall asking for your opinion in this private conversation between me and my son. Two, the boy's name is Rufus. Three, I don't like you making those sexy remarks about Rufus, and four, if you can't find something better to do with your time than cackle like a couple of hens, then what the hell am I paying you for?” But Cora and Tammy just rolled their eyes and went back to wiping the counter.
Daddy threw the cleaver down on the cutting board and walked away. “Hell, Rufus, join the damn team, if that's what you want,” he grunted. “You're going to anyway, whether I say so or not.” And he stomped out of the kitchen and up the stairs.
Tammy came around the counter and stood next to me. “Bigfoot, would you hand me those dishes on the top shelf?” she asked me. When I reached up for them, she pressed her body tight against mine. “Just don't let those boys mess up that pretty face of yours, Bigfoot,” she growled. “You're the best-looking thing this podunk town's got going for it.” I didn't know what to do but just hand the plates to her. Tammy laughed. “What the hell do I want those for?” she said and walked off.
So that's how I wound up going to Coach Garibaldi and telling him I wanted to join the team. Coach just looked me over slowly, nodded, and said, “Okay, Rufus. I'll give you a try. Practice starts today after school.”
I went to practice every day, and I tried real hard to learn the moves. At first, nobody wanted to wrestle me because of my size, but then some of the bigger boys took me on. And they found they could win, more often than not. I hate to say it, but Daddy was right, I am slow. And clumsy. Sometimes if I could just get a good grip on the guy, I could hold on and pin him to the mat. But if he slipped out of my hands and started his moves on me, I was a goner. I went to a few meets and usually wound up “eating mat.” I was just glad that Daddy never went and saw it. I'd never hear the end of it.
Every afternoon, after practice, we all would shower up before going home. More often than not, Coach Garibaldi just stood at the doorway, sometimes talking to the other boys, giving them pointers, sometimes just watching us. Coach never much talked to me, but lately I'd begun to catch him looking at me more and more. Probably just wonderin' what to do with such a pitiful wrestler. One day, as we were all walking out of the shower back toward the lockers, he grunted and said, “I guess it's true what they say about guys with big feet.” And he walked back to his office. A couple of other guys nearby laughed.
“What did Coach mean by that?” I asked.
One of the guys shook his head. “Nothin', Bigfoot.”
Another guy grinned. “It's just Mother Nature's way of evening the score. You may have been behind the door when she gave out the brains, Bigfoot, but good god almighty; you sure were first in line on other days.” And they laughed again and walked off. Damn fools, I thought. But it always bothers me when people won't explain a joke to me. It's not my fault I'm dumb.
I got dressed and started walking out of the locker room. When I passed Coach's office, I could see that his door was open. I heard him call my name out, and I stuck my head in. “Yeah, Coach?” I asked.
Coach was sitting behind his desk. “Come in here, Rufus,” he said. Except for Daddy, Coach was the only person who called me by my Christian name. I walked in. “Close the door,” he said.
I'm in for it now, I thought. When Coach asks you to close the door, you know he means business. I 'magined I was going to get a chewing out for being such a poor wrestler.
But Coach didn't look mad. In fact, he didn't look much of anything. He just sat there, leaning back on his chair, looking at me with a blank face. He finally sighed. “Rufus,” he said. “I just don't know what to do with you.”
I felt my face turning red. I wish that wouldn't happen all the time, but I ain't got no control over it. Daddy likes to say, laughin', “It don't take much more than a fart or a hiccup to get that boy's face as red as a baboon's ass,” and he's right. Anyway, I just stood there, shiftin' from one foot to the other, feeling my face all heated up. Coach didn't say nothing more for a while, making it worse. He just sat there, his fingertips tapping together, looking straight at me. I felt like one of them bugs my cousin Olaf used to pin to a roof shingle, not enough to kill, just to get it squirming. Finally Coach cleared his throat.
“How old are you, Rufus?” he asked.
“Eighteen, Coach.”
“Eighteen,” Coach repeated this like it was a remarkable thing. “I'm thirty-three.” He laughed. “I know to you that must sound older than dirt, but believe it or not, it just seems like yesterday that I was your age.”
“Yes, Coach,” I mumbled. Hell, I didn't know what else to say.
“I've been giving your case a lot of thought,” Coach said. “You know what I think your problem is?”
I looked at him. “No, sir.”
“It's sexual tension, Rufus. Do you know what that means?” I shook my head. “Rufus,” Coach said. “Didn't your Daddy ever tell you about sex?”
Well, I just liked to die right there. I knew that by the way my face felt, it must've been redder than a damn fire engine. I shook my head, but couldn't say nothin'.
Coach smiled. “There's no reason for you to be embarrassed, son. Sex is a natural, God-given gift. But it can cause problems too, especially for young men. Now I don't mean any disrespect to your father, but he should have explained this all to you. If a young man can't find some kind of release for his sexual tension, it can affect the quality of his athletic performance. Do you understand what I'm saying, Rufus?”
I shook my head again. “Not really, Coach.”
Coach sighed. “Well, it looks like I got no choice but to show you, Rufus. Lock the door.”
I looked at him all surprised-like, but finally did as he said.
Coach smiled. “You're a good boy, Rufus. And believe it or not, I think you've got the makings of a damn fine athlete. But we just got to lick this sexual tension problem of yours. Now drop your pants.”
Well, you could have hit me on the head with a two-by-four! “Wh-what, Coach?” I stammered.