He stopped me before I reached that enticing bulge in his khakis, telling me he had a boyfriend. I said I didn’t care but apparently he did, all but running away from me.
But then, after a week of avoiding me at work, he didn’t seem to care about the boyfriend anymore, or that I was a middle-aged bear, and suggested we get together at my place.
He was late, so late I thought he wouldn’t show, that his inviting himself over to my house that Saturday was just a ruse, payback for daring to proposition him in the first place.
His Mazda pulled into my driveway a little after three, about an hour later than expected.
I stepped outside to greet him. “I thought you were going to stand me up.” I tried to keep my tone light but I could still hear my desperation.
“Got a late start,” he said, shutting his car door. He added: “Boyfriend issues.”
Ken was so good-looking that I couldn’t look directly at his face for very long, and I usually avoided direct eye contact. Even now, with his blue eyes hidden behind sunglasses, I had to avert my gaze. I had an easier time looking at his body. It was an unseasonably warm March day and Ken took full advantage, dressed in a light blue T-shirt and salmon shorts, showing off his muscular legs and arms, both covered with dark hair. From beneath the sleeve on his right arm peeked the sharp edges of a tattoo.
I could feel the sweat forming on my palms as I ushered him into my house. He took off his Ray Bans and I immediately looked away. It was difficult to speak but I managed to ask if he wanted something to drink. Ken accepted a beer, drinking it while I showed him around my house, talking like a coked-up real estate agent. Ken was nonchalant, but then he would be. He had nothing to prove.
All the single women in the office were collectively excited when Ken started at Witt Consolidated, then, upon discovering the rainbow sticker on the rear bumper of his car, crestfallen. “Guess he’s more your type,” sniped April, the receptionist. I couldn’t tell if she was really that stupid or just a bitch. Ken and I were on the same team, but not in the same league. He was a twenty-something god; it was doubtful he’d want a forty-four-year-old with a bulbous nose and the beginnings of a second chin.
And yet here he was, in my house, telling me I had a nice place and suggesting that maybe I could help him spruce up his condo. I told him I’d be happy to, and wondered if I should add, “I’d also be happy to suck your cock.” Just to remind Ken of the reason for his visit.
Instead, I prattled on about having re-done the master bathroom the previous year. That’s when Ken set his empty bottle on the vanity.
“This looks like the perfect place,” he said, taking off his shirt.
For breathless moment, I stared open-mouthed at Ken’s naked torso, taking in the swell of his pecs, the flatness of his belly, all covered by a dark, silky pelt. No six-pack abs, but otherwise Ken’s upper body lived up to what I had imagined—and I’d imagined him nude many, many times.
I wasn’t aware of the silence until Ken broke it. “You going to do this with your clothes on?”
Suddenly, I wished we were in the dark. I turned away, feeling my face redden as I undressed, removing my clothes as if ripping off band-aids.
I was down to my briefs when I turned back around to face him. I was about to make a joke about letting my gym membership lapse but the sight of Ken’s naked body silenced me.
He pulled at his cock, already at half-mast. I looked at his face just long enough to see a smile cut through his beard. “Why so shy?” he asked, pointing at my underwear.
And then I, too, was naked, standing just a few feet away from the man I had drunkenly propositioned a week earlier. It was a dream come true, and I felt sick.
The distance between us closed suddenly. Ken took hold of my limp dick, telling me to relax, assuring me we were going to have fun.
My hand gingerly glided over his chest. I played with one of his stiff, brown nipples. A tingling heat radiated through me, awakening my cock. I let out a relieved chuckle.
“Nice cock,” Ken said, squeezing my swelling dong.
I reached awkwardly for his, now stiff and drooling. “You’ve got a pretty nice one yourself.”
That’s when I kissed him. His body tensed, but then he pushed his tongue into my mouth. My tongue pressed against his, my hands went to his ass, kneading those solid globes roughly—I hoped to God I got to tongue his hole—and pressing my body against his.
Ken pulled away. “Let’s get in the shower.”
I was slow on the uptake and started to suggest we move to the bedroom when Ken said: “I might not be able to wait until I cum to wash your face.”
So that explained his attraction, if you could call it that.
I wasn’t a piss freak, despite what I had said. I couldn’t tell him that not all of what I said that night at the Burkford was meant literally—or, rather, only meant so at the time I said it, when I was drunk. I couldn’t tell him because I couldn’t risk disappointing him. Ken could find younger, better looking guys to suck his cock, to eat his ass, to fuck—hell, he had a boyfriend for that—but I had unwittingly offered to indulge a fantasy his boyfriend refused to, if Ken had even dared share it with him. We stepped into the shower stall and I lowered my knees onto the cold tile floor. Ken was so excited his cock was vibrating, weeping so copiously that a long sticky string of pre-cum hung from his cockhead. I happily drank his juice, loudly slurping it out of his piss-slit before closing my mouth over his cock.
He moaned, throwing his head back for a second then bringing it forward, his mouth twitching at the corners as if torn between a smile and a grimace.
Ken caressed the top of my head. “Hope you’re thirsty,” he said.
His warm piss filled my mouth instantly. I reflexively released his cock from my mouth, letting his urine pour over my chin and soak my goatee. Ken’s stiff cock snapped back against his belly, his ammoniac-smelling torrent splashing onto his torso and cascading down his legs. Droplets of piss caught in his pubic hair like tiny, pale yellow diamonds.
Ken grabbed the base of his cock and aimed his stream at my head. Piss hit the top of my forehead and ran down my face. I bowed my head and let him douse my bald pate.
“Oh, fuck yeah,” Ken gasped, directing his stream at my chest.
I was now so horny my cock hurt. Whether I was excited by the novelty of getting peed on or the fact that pale yellow stream was gushing out of Ken’s cock, I couldn’t say. All I knew is that when piss splashed off my belly and hit my swollen cockhead I almost came.
I raised my head and opened wide, inviting him to use my mouth like a urinal. Ken was quick to oblige, his vaguely salty piss hitting my extended tongue. The flow soon weakened and I cupped my lips over the throbbing crown of his prick, drinking from that dying fountain of piss.
Mere moments passed between Ken relieving his bladder and draining his balls. I was sucking his cock in full, rhythmic gulps when he started groaning loudly. His movements were jerky, as if he were a marionette controlled by a palsied puppeteer: his head pulled to the left, his shoulders wrenched backward, his hips tugged forward. His handsome face was screwed up into an ugly expression as he bared his teeth and roared, firing his hot sperm down my throat.
I swallowed each creamy spurt he pumped out, not wanting to release his cock until I was sure I’d gotten every last drop. Even then, I was reluctant to pull my mouth away, to let him go.
Ken leaned against the wall of the shower, chest heaving as he regained his breath. My dick was pulsing, waiting for attention. That attention, I realized, wouldn’t be from Ken.
I sat back against the shower stall and jacked off. Ken’s eyes were on me but I wasn’t sure if he was really looking at me. It was only when I came that he reacted, smiling and saying my load was “awesome.”
Then why don’t you get down here and lick it off my belly, I wanted to say, but didn’t.
He stepped into the space between my spread legs. He was grinning.
“Hey, guess what,” Ken said. “I think I gotta take another leak.”
During the regular shower that followed I offered to soap up Ken but he said he could do it himself, thanks. As we were toweling off I mentioned that I would never guessed he was into piss play.
“I wouldn’t have, either. Thought it was gross, actually, until I saw this porno that had some golden shower scenes. I’d never been so goddamned horny.”
I nodded, watching him step into his briefs. I had the larger cock, I realized with some satisfaction. But Ken was still perfect, even with an average-sized dick.
Once we were dressed I suggested getting something to eat, but Ken said he had to leave. “My boyfriend will get suspicious if I’m gone too long.”
I suppose I should’ve felt bad for Ken’s boyfriend. I’d been cheated on myself; the pain’s excruciating. Yet I took a perverse joy in being Ken’s little secret—me, of all people. The joy was short-lived the following week at work, when we had to act like nothing had happened. We worked in different departments—he was in sales; I was in IT—so our paths didn’t cross frequently. However, when we did see each other, in the halls or the break room, Ken barely acknowledged knowing me at all. I was convinced he wanted nothing more to do with me. Yet, the next Saturday morning I got a text from him, asking what I was up to that afternoon.
“Oh god damn!” Ken howled before burying his face in the pillow and raising his ass up to meet my probing tongue.
I pushed deeper into his asshole, fighting against his contacting sphincter. The firm-muscled globes of his ass cheeks pressed against my face. It was the fifth Saturday afternoon he spent at my house and the third time we played on the bed—to start with, at least.
I really wanted to fuck him, and was pretty sure he was a bottom, if his waxed butthole were any indication, yet so far I only got to rim him. Ken said he’d never been with anyone who was so talented at eating ass, not even his boyfriend. That was gratifying to hear. I loved to eat ass, and Ken’s was a particular treat. (Even his asshole was attractive!) However, as much as I enjoyed plunging my tongue into his chute, I wanted to sink my cock in there even more. Ken had other ideas, though.
“Let’s move to the shower,” he’d say, his eyes gleaming.
In the shower I knelt before him, ready for my mouthfuls of piss and cum. Ken told me he drank nearly a quart of water before he came over on Saturdays, and I could believe it, the way he kept peeing and peeing and peeing. I still couldn’t claim I was “into” water sports, yet I’d happily let his piss wash over my face as if it were a refreshing summer rain. I’d catch his piss on my tongue and, if he should piss on himself, I’d slurp up the beads of piss that hung in his belly fur and dripped from his balls. And I’d moan ecstatically when I was on all fours and his pee hit my butthole and sluiced between my butt cheeks.
More exciting to me was getting splattered with his load. He particularly loved shooting all over my face, followed by a final dousing of piss—the exact scenario I drunkenly proposed that started this whole weird affair.
Then Ken would tell me to piss on myself and I would lie back in the shower and do as he said, too horny to give it a second thought. When my bladder was empty I’d bring myself off. Sometimes—well, once—Ken did the honors, stroking my cock while calling me a piss slut.
“You want some more, pig?” he asked, squeezing my shaft. “Want another shower?”
I nodded dumbly, not daring to tell him that what I really wanted was for him to kiss me. But I was too happy to let Ken give me what he wanted, and I came as he pissed on my throbbing cock.
This particular Saturday afternoon, though, as I bore my tongue into Ken’s pliant ass-lips, I resolved that I’d only get sticky, not wet. I dragged my tongue up his hairy ass crack to the small of his back, kissing the center of his other tattoo, the proverbial “tramp stamp,” its design as unimaginative as its placement. From there my kisses moved up his spine as I eased my body on top of his.
“What’re you up to?” he asked.
I was too intent on nibbling the nape of his neck to answer right away.
“You feel so good,” I finally whispered. My cock was nestled between his ass cheeks, sliding along his spit-moistened trench. Every time I thrust between those taut globes a hot current of pleasure crackled through me.
Ken raised his butt, grinding it against my throbbing prick. The crown of my cock dipped into his asshole, knocking on, but not quite entering, his back door. Ken whispered something, his words indecipherable through hot, heavy breaths. I wanted to believe he said, “Fuck me,” that he regarded me as something other than—more than—a fetish.
He spoke again, his words clearer. “Let’s move to the shower.”
I traced his left ear with my tongue. “I like this,” I sighed, pressing my cock against his asshole for emphasis. “I wanna fuck your hot ass.”
“But I want—”
Ken’s protest cut off at the precise moment his sphincter started to give, opening its tight lips to my cockhead.
I kissed the back of his head. “Let me fuck you.”
For a long moment I only heard his heavy breathing. Then: “Okay, but I want to be on top. I want to ride you.”
As long as I got to fuck him I didn’t care what position we did it in. I grabbed the lube out of the nightstand cabinet, asked Ken if I should wear a rubber (his response: “I don’t know, should you?”), and then lay down in the spot vacated by Ken, feeling his warmth on the sheets.
Ken straddled me and made a move to pour some lube in his hand when I stopped him, telling him to turn around so his ass was aimed at my face. “Let me get you ready.”
He flashed a smile that looked more like smirk before complying, turning around and presenting his spectacular ass for my inspection. Just the sight of it made my cock pulse, so it was just as well that Ken didn’t play with my cock or else I would’ve cum before I ever got to fuck him.
I pressed a lubricated index finger to his sweet pucker and watched it get swallowed up inside him. His hole was tight but pliant, and accepted the addition of my middle finger with minimal resistance. As I sank my fingers inside him Ken rocked his hips and moaned softly. I could feel his ass-lips tighten around my fingers. I could only imagine feeling the grip of his ass on my cock.
When I spoke my voice was thick, like I’d been drinking. “You ready for me now.”
Ken responded with a groan.
I pushed my fingers deeper into his ass. “What was that?”
“Yes,” he said, shuddering.
The mattress dipped and rose like a boat on choppy water as Ken turned around. His eyes were half-lidded, and I would’ve said he had a dreamy expression if it weren’t for the way he smiled like he had secret I’d never know. But if I had any suspicions they were erased when I looked at his cock: so stiff and swollen it had taken on a purplish cast, with pre-cum oozing so steadily and copiously you could drink it on tap—and I would have, too, if I weren’t about to sink my cock into his hot hole.
Ken gripped my cock and eased himself down, guiding me inside. I closed my eyes, savoring the sensation of the moist walls of his ass closing in around my shaft. I let out a deep moan as he settled atop me, impaled on my stiff prick.
He said he wanted to ride me and he did, gyrating his hips with the practiced skill of a lap dancer. With every thrust I had to fight against the contracting muscles of his ass, as well as the rising pleasure welling up in me. I bit the inside of my cheek, struggling to keep control a while longer, even as my body begged for release.
Ken drew his lips back, baring his perfect teeth. “I’m so close,” he gasped.
“C’mon, baby, shoot it all over me.”
His mouth snapped into that unsettling smirk. “You want it?” he asked, grabbing the base of his cock.
I nodded. “Give it to me.”
“Better open wide, ’cause I’m about to blast you.”
And he did, with a warm stream of piss.
“Motherfucker!” I sputtered, shaking my head against the golden rain.
He chuckled harshly, aiming his stream at my mouth. “Drink up. You know you love it.”
With a swiftness that surprised even myself I sat up, pushing Ken backwards so violently I nearly broke the bed frame. It was his turn to sputter and spit as he pissed into his own mouth. He tried to sit up but I held him down, pinning his arms down on my ruined mattress as I pounded his ass in hard, angry thrusts—really putting my weight into it. He’d be bruised when I was done, a thought that turned me on more than I’d ever care to admit. Just as thrilling was Ken struggling to regain control, his harsh grunts getting pinched off into strained whimpers as he failed to pull his arms free.
I came first, roaring like an actual bear as I filled Ken’s insides with my spunk. He let out his own animal-like cry, his load firing across his torso in creamy white streamers. I scooped up some of his jizz off his piss-soaked belly and forced my fingers into that pretty mouth of his.
“I think we know who the real pig is,” I hissed as he sucked my fingers clean.
Later, when the afterglow had dimmed, we acted like people who had just come out of a psychotic episode: embarrassed, confused and in denial. We didn’t say much as we bathed and dressed. Ken mumbled something about giving me some money to buy a new mattress and I said not to worry about it, I had a steam cleaner. When he left that Saturday I was knew he wouldn’t be coming over the next, or the one after that. We’d return to pretending our only bond was our place of employment.
But I did see him a few Saturdays later, in the early evening outside a Midtown restaurant. He was exiting with three guys, everyone looking like they just finished a photo shoot for a fashion magazine. They were in high spirits (or maybe just high), talking animatedly, laughing loudly, when I walked up.
Ken got sober real fast. “Weh-ell, isn’t this a surprise!”
It would seem so, except I’d been following him since five o’clock that afternoon, well before he left his condo for his night out.
He introduced me to his friends, whose names I forgot the moment I heard them. One, a smug-looking blond, noticed the bottle of Gatorade I was holding and quipped: “Hydrating after working out, are we?”
“No, just thirsty.” I looked at Ken when I said it. He looked away.
“Of course,” blondie said, smirking.
I looked at the dark-haired hunk standing on Ken’s left. They looked so similar they could be brothers. I asked him if he were Ken’s boyfriend. That got a huge laugh.
“Is there something you two aren’t telling us?” tittered the snub-nosed cutie standing next to the snooty blond fuck.
Plenty, I thought.
“’Fraid not,” said the dark-haired hunk.
I returned his condescending smile. “I know,” I said, my voice cracking. My free hand went to the cap of the Gatorade bottle, but it shook so much my fingers could barely twist the cap loose. Goddamn it, I’d thought about doing this all week!
Ken opened his mouth. “It was good to see you but—”
I gave up trying to open the bottle and instead pulled Ken to me, seizing his open mouth in mine. For a moment I was aware of nothing but Ken’s harsh breathing and my pounding heart. Replaying in my head was my conversation earlier in the week with Jared, the swishy sales assistant. We were in the break room, discussing the latest episode of American Horror Story, when Ken popped in to get a soda out of the machine. As he left Jared commented on how fine Ken’s ass looked.
“Yeah. I envy his boyfriend.”
“Boyfriend?” Jared snorted. “Girl hasn’t had a man stay with him past eight o’clock the next morning since I’ve known him. Just hoping he’ll be drunk enough at the company picnic to let me have my turn.”
My turn ended when Ken pulled away from me, gasping as if I’d been holding his head under water. He was wearing a “What the fuck?!” expression on his face. His friends wore similar expressions.
I looked over at the dark haired guy, the one who so closely resembled Ken. “I know you’re not Ken’s boyfriend,” I said, backing away. “I am.”
Only Ken’s vehement denials followed me as I walked away. I smiled to myself when I heard Ken wail about how humiliated he was. Not half as much as you would be if I’d carried out my original plan, I thought, dropping the Gatorade bottle full of my piss in a nearby trashcan.