It started off as a laugh, but now things seemed to be getting out of hand. Two married guys fooling around together after a night on the piss and I'd ended up tied to a dining room chair and was about to be blindfolded. We'd agreed that blindfolding me and tying me up would make it more exciting for both of us. The restraint was to make it feel kind of non-consensual and edgy, and the blindfold was to heighten my sense of touch, concentrate my thoughts and add a bit of mystery and intrigue. That was the science, anyway.
"I bet I can suck you off, Rob... good as any woman anyway." Marty tied a lambswool scarf over my eyes.
"Never as good as a woman, Marty - come on."
"I'll bring you off in a minute flat... I bet you!"
"Shhh! Not so loud. Don't want to wake Joanne," Marty tended to get louder when he was enthusiastic about something, and especially if he'd been drinking.
"Don't worry; she'd sleep through an earthquake. At least she would now she wears those little things in her ears." Marty hiccupped and burped... then followed with a squeaking fart. "Oops, sorry!"
We were slurring our words after shifting ten pints of lager between us, although I was beginning to sober up as the implication of being tied down and helpless if and when Marty's wife happened to walk in on us began to dawn on me. Even if we heard her coming, there would not be enough time to get me looking anything near normal. Was I getting cold feet, again, after so many abortive attempts in the past?
"There... how's that? See anything?"
I shook my head. "Black as a black woman's pussy."
Marty giggled insanely, like a mad professor about to dismember his once loyal and trusted assistant. "That's pretty black, I guess. Okay, I'll let you off." I heard him stumble, but he saved himself on the dining table. "I am so fucking pissed."
It had seemed funny at first, a bit of a lark. On about our third pint in the Red Lion our conversation had inevitably turned round to the subject of sex as it always did sooner or later on the Thursday evenings we met for a drink together. Marty and I had been mates since school around ten years ago. Marty was 27 and I was a year younger. We'd married girls that were very good friends also, so we all had plenty in common and were very close as couples. Marty and I had at various times discussed gay sex (not as a serious alternative, just out of curiosity) and what it might be like to suck a man's cock. It was just one of those things we wondered about. I'd sometimes fantasised and masturbated about sucking off a man, a faceless cipher, and once or twice even Marty. And sometimes I'd reverse the roles and I'd be the receiver. I told him once about my fantasy of us two doing it together and he laughed, but I could see it kind of hit home with him too.
Marty's idea that it would either have to be a complete stranger or somebody he knew really well chimed with me too. I could understand the need for the act to be either anonymous or with someone you knew very well and trusted implicitly.
For some reason talking about cocksucking this particular evening was making me feel hornier than usual and I began to indulge in a little daydreaming while Marty was busy trying to describe the taste of his own sperm in terms of comparison to known substances. "...and a bit like peppery soap suds too. I wonder if we're all much about the same?" he said, giving me a look that left me in no doubt of the implication, the veiled challenge. "Or whether it varies according to diet, mood, nationality, colour, race, that sort of thing?"
We were both very happily married and heterosexual, but there was always this underlying curiosity and fascination of having a bloke's lovely big cock in our mouths -- the smell of it as you prepared to take it between your lips, the weight of his balls in your hand, the velvety sensation, the taste, the jerking and pulsing as his excitement mounted, that moment when your mouth fills with the warm slimy goo and you wonder if you will be able to swallow it like you'd always dreamed, like a superhero porn star. It didn't seem fair that our wives should have all the fun. Perhaps it was one of those must-do things before you're thirty one had to try. We'd just never quite managed to get to the sharp (maybe that should read bulbous, or domed) end of it... yet.
By our fifth pint we were fairly pissed and were openly discussing -- in hushed tones - the possibility of trying something together tonight when we got back to Marty's place for coffee.
As we peed together alone in the gents at the end of the evening we both took the opportunity of eyeing each other's pricks, kind of blatantly sizing each other up, and flaunting it a bit. We were quite brazen about it, inviting each other's mutual appraisal and offering more than was probably decent. We were in that sort of mood. We were both respectably represented in that department, and although Marty was cut and I wasn't, there wasn't a great deal of difference in our genital dimensions. I've always preferred the look of a circumcised penis; they look more potent, ruder and sexually imposing somehow. We were both in a state of semi-arousal... that was obvious. Our cocks were already plumping up nicely. A semi-erection always looks so damned horny to me, something about the gathering lust, the intent and the inflated natural bigness, yet still not erect. I hoped we could maintain the mood and magic until we got back to Marty's flat.
