Guilty Pleasures

Part of the 'Butt Monkey' series of stories by Robert Furlong

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Jake and Simon were focussed on the afternoon's football game when they emerged from their hotel bedroom and there was no mention of what had taken place between their dads the previous night. Guy was his usual bright and breezy self, but I was feeling more subdued: troubled by the knowledge of what we had done together and plagued by regrets about how far I had allowed myself to go.

I wondered whether, had the tables been turned and it had been Guy's face underneath me licking at my most intimate area while I squatted over him, I would have felt less troubled now it was morning. I'm sure I would have been rather shocked that he had done something so base but I would still have felt guilty that I had gone along with it. I certainly wouldn't have been laughing and joking with the boys like Guy was able to.

As we ate what passes for breakfast at such budget hotels, Simon made a joke which I didn't catch about something Guy had said when he'd put them to bed.

Guy replied, "Yeah... we certainly did." And then added, glancing over at me with salacious smirk, "Didn't we, big boy?"

Jake and Simon found that very funny and in the time it took me to recover from my discomfort at the reference to my manhood, the conversation had moved on to more mundane matters before I could ask what the joke was.

I saw Jake throw me a discrete smile and I figured he was being supportive, knowing full well how self-conscious I was about my genitals and how upset jokes about my large build could make me feel. We'd had the conversation a few years ago, when it was becoming obvious that he was starting to take after me from the way he was constantly adjusting the noticeable bulge which was developing in his trousers. I'd told him how his gran had made me ashamed of how large I was growing when I'd been his age; an attempt to help him avoid feeling the same negativity about himself.

Jake had been relieved, I think, to discover that his sudden growth spurt was something he'd inherited and had told me that he was finding it increasingly difficult to pack himself into the underwear I was buying for him. Erections, in particular, were becoming awkward and almost impossible to hide from the inquisitive stares of his teachers and friends. After trying out a few different brands and styles, he'd settled on some Calvin Klein boxer-briefs which were roomy enough to contain his enlarging organ even in its most troublesome state, while supporting his developing testicles which he said had been feeling painfully constricted.

Unlike I had been at his age, though, Jake had seemed, if anything, quite proud of his size. These days, at eighteen and on the threshold of adulthood, he seems revel in showing off his endowments to anyone who happens to be in his vicinity. I'd had to have strong words with him, during the brief and ill-judged time we were Facebook friends, about a video that one of his friends had tagged him in which showed him and few other lads in the changing rooms after football practice naked and bucking their hips to make their floppy dicks swing around like windmill sails. Jake had easily been the most impressively built and had brandished his organ enthusiastically to the guy who was filming him, grinning and cavorting as he put the other lads to shame.

But even back then, in his early teens, he wasn't averse to strolling out of his bedroom with his shorts at full-mast first thing in the morning – something which I would never have dreamt of doing – and was starting to deliberately pick out trousers which were tight enough around the crotch to flaunt his bulge more prominently. He had also found it surprisingly easy to talk about how large his penis and testicles had developed, and had told me that he quite liked the fact that he was easily the biggest in his class when it came to showers after sport.

"Don't they call you names?" I'd asked. "I used to really hate that."

He'd smiled and said, "Well, I've never been called 'Footlong'!" I'd already told Jake about my most hated nickname at school.

I'd nodded. "Yeah... I guess these days, most kids your age would think of that as a Subway sandwich. But what about other names?"

He'd shrugged. "They're only jealous. And anyway, what's wrong with 'Jake the Snake'? I take it as a compliment!"

I'd smiled. "I wish I'd felt like that. By the time I'd got to about fourteen, I used to try and put off showering at school until everyone else had gone. I was so embarrassed about what I had between my legs."

"Why did gran make you so uptight about it? What's the big deal?"

I'd shaken my head. "I dunno, Jake. I guess it was a religious thing. I think she thought it was the devil's work or something."

Jake had laughed. It all seemed so absurd to him, and yet to me at his age the fact I was so much bigger than the other boys had made me feel dirty and impure. My older brother had exacerbated my insecurities by claiming, for many years, that his genitals were of 'normal' proportions and that I was some kind of genetic quirk.

"How big's an average willy, dad?" Jake had asked.

I'd shrugged. "I dunno exactly. About six inches, I'd guess..."

He'd looked puzzled at my use of such outmoded units. "How long's that in centimetres?"

I'd showed him with my hands and he'd asked, "Is that when it's... you know... hard?"

I'd nodded and he'd smiled, almost sympathetically.

"And how big can I expect to grow to? You know... from your own experience..."

I'd blushed a little at the implied reference to my own penis and had told him, without being specific, that in time he should expect to grow significantly bigger than average. And that however big his balls were now, they were going to get a whole lot bigger by the time he was a man.

He'd grinned enthusiastically, no doubt looking forward to the prospect.

Now, sitting at the breakfast table in the hotel, I worried that Guy was going to keep calling me 'big boy' but fortunately he didn't. Nothing else was said about the previous night – no awkward questions or suspicious glances – and it seemed that our shenanigans after lights-out had thankfully gone unnoticed by our sons.

This didn't help to ease the anxiety which I was feeling, and which haunted me throughout the day. Nor did the fact that Guy had said he'd enjoyed what we had done and, from his happy exterior at breakfast and on the drive to the game, continued to be untroubled by any feelings of guilt or regret himself.

What on earth had possessed me to put my mouth on another man's backside? I hadn't just done it in a kiss-my-arse kind of way that could be turned into a joke afterwards, but had had my face buried into his hairy crack, had been licking around his hole and – I could unfortunately remember it with surprising clarity – penetrating his anus with my tongue. And to think that I had not only found all that breathtakingly exciting but had actually climaxed – powerfully climaxed – as I did so. Jesus Christ!

And yet, try as I might, I couldn't help but steal glances towards Guy's backside while we were at the match, his tight jeans showing off the firm roundness of his cheeks and giving a hint of the alluring cleft between them. Every time I did so a conflict arose inside me between the feelings of guilt at what I'd done and an insistent sexual craving to do it again; feelings which seemed to originate from two opposing places inside me.

I was all too aware that my feelings of lust were homosexual in nature: how could I not be when the focus of them was firmly directed towards another man's behind? And yet, while I accepted that all men probably had a gay aspect to their sexualities, I didn't feel ready to embrace mine.

I'd only once before done anything sexual with another male and I'd never regarded that as being 'homosexual' as such. There had been very little intimacy between me and the other man and I had always mentally disregarded the experience as a case of two married men with high sex drives who should have known better.

My then-wife Linda and I had been staying over for a long weekend with a couple we were friendly with who'd bought a cottage in the Cotswolds. It must have been very early in our marriage because Linda was still serving up regular intercourse at home and Jake hadn't yet appeared on the scene to keep us tied down.

Their house was quite old and rickety, and every movement we made in the guest room made the door shudder in its frame and the floorboards creak beneath us. The bed we were sleeping in was also very squeaky and Linda said it would be too embarrassing for us to have sex while we were at the cottage (looking back, she was probably pleased to have an excuse). Although it was pretty obvious that the rhythm of our lovemaking, however we tried to position ourselves, would be heard in explicit clarity by our friends in the bedroom next door, I tried on several occasions to persuade Linda that Carl and Anna would expect to hear the natural sounds of intimacy from a husband and wife staying over with them. I even suggested that Carl was probably just as keen as I was for release and that if Linda and I were to set the ball rolling, he and Anna would probably seize the opportunity to start up a rhythm of their own. Linda, however, was adamant that such things should remain private and so I had to put up with the discomfort and annoyance of having an almost permanent hard-on during the first half of our visit.

By the Saturday evening, though, my erection was becoming painful and my balls were so plump that they were chaffing against my thighs. It was becoming uncomfortable to sit down without having my legs splayed embarrassingly wide and I felt my face flush when Carl glanced a few times towards the swollen bulge in the front of my trousers as we washed the dishes together after the meal.

At bedtime, Linda refused once again to acquiesce, even though she could see how badly I needed a release. She wouldn't even jerk me off in a standing position in case the floorboards betrayed the rhythm of her hand, although she offered me a blowjob but only because she knew I didn't enjoy them. We went to bed as silently as we could, the rattling and creaking accompanying our every move, with my cock arching at full mast from my pyjama fly because the material they were made of was too confining.

I was unable to sleep because of the throbbing pain of my engorged organ and the grating friction of the duvet on the exposed head which had grown too bloated for my foreskin to cover. It was like having an itch that I couldn't scratch, only far more excruciating. Eventually, desperate for some relief, I got up in the early hours to skulk to the cold bathroom at the end of the draughty corridor, tenting the front of my pyjama bottoms in a way that would have been funny if it hadn't have been so uncomfortable. The bathroom lock was rusted and noisy and so, to avoid waking everyone up, I wedged a towel under the door to close it as well as I could. I searched around to see if Carl had stashed any helpful magazines in the usual places but, finding none, hitched my pyjama bottoms down and stood over the toilet bowl to make do with just my imagination and my right hand.

Just as in the bedroom, the floorboards in the bathroom betrayed my every movement. Having tried putting my feet in various positions, I found the best I could manage was a dull creaking in time with the movement of my hand which I hoped would not be loud enough to wake the others in the cottage.

In spite of the chill of the bathroom, I was able to work up a nice steady rhythm on my erection, holding onto my scrotum with my free hand to stop my bollocks making loud slapping noises against my thighs. I'd always struggled to masturbate quietly, ever since my teens. My cock had swollen so thick that my foreskin was too taut to slide across its fattened and angry-looking head, even with a copious dose of spit, but after some trial and error I managed to jerk it up and down the shaft in a way that wasn't too uncomfortable.

I was just starting to enjoy the sensation of pumping myself, just starting to speed my wrist up and to quicken my breathing, when I became aware of the towel under the bathroom door sliding across the tiled floor as someone pushed their way into the room. I looked round, horrified to be caught masturbating in a friends' house bare-arsed with my pyjamas around my ankles, and saw that it was Carl in his underwear. He was a large guy – he played rugby on his local team and had the characteristic combination of muscle and bulk.

Panicking, I tried to conceal as much of my erection as I could while at the same time lunging down to yank my pyjama bottoms up, but Carl pushed the door closed behind him and whispered, "Sshh... Rob, it's okay."

I glanced over at him, still self-consciously trying to cover myself, and muttered, "Sorry... I just needed some relief."

He came over to me, smiling. "Me too."

For a second I didn't know what he meant and he peered down at himself, at the white t-shirt and shorts he was wearing, before I noticed a prominent rod pressing against the material at the front of his shorts. It was obvious that his erection was quite short but extremely thick – it seemed thicker even than my own. The white cotton of his shorts had a small damp patch of a sticky-looking liquid at the tip of the fat rod his organ was making in them.

It seemed I had been right about Carl being as desperate as I was: perhaps Anna, like Linda, was too self-conscious to allow sex when they had visitors staying over.

Carl grabbed a tube of liquid from the cabinet and squirted some of it into his hand. Then, pushing my hand away from my own erection, still aching in its hardness in spite of my surprise, he grabbed the shaft of it. Starting to wank it gently with the cool jelly-like liquid helping to lubricate my swollen foreskin, he smiled again and whispered, "You've got an amazing cock."

I just stared at him incredulously. I hardly knew this guy – he and Anna were really friends of Linda's from university – and here he was whacking me off in his bathroom.

I tried to push his hand away, muttering something about going back to bed, but he kept stroking me and kept smiling. He said, "It'll be better this way. Believe me."

It was true that his hand felt really good on my cock – he was clumsy and obviously wasn't used to rubbing an organ with a shaft as long of mine, but the liquid he'd wet his hand with made his fingers glide exquisitely up and down my length. Besides that, the sheer sensation of having someone else's hand on my erection and being stroked in a way that was different from my own rather prosaic technique was incredibly pleasant.

I looked over at him again and he was still smiling reassuringly as he gently beat me off. "Just enjoy it, Rob. Don't even question it."

Then he chuckled and said, "This angle's really awkward." He moved to stand behind me, still holding the shaft of my cock, and, with his chest against my back and his arm reaching around me, started wanking me again with far more dexterity. Women, when they had beaten me off, had always found it easier to be in front of me or to the side. But as a man, Carl was far more comfortable manipulating my cock from the same angle as that he was used to when masturbating his own.

He stroked my organ with long, smooth strokes, aided by the slickness of the liquid he'd squirted onto his hand. Gradually, he increased his rhythm as he sensed as I was starting to relax and enjoy his handy work, tightening his grip as he did so. My large balls, hanging low in my floppy nut-sack, started slapping against my thighs so Carl reached around me with his left hand and held them, gently kneading them through the hairy bag of my scrotum.

He whispered in my ear, his breath hot against my neck, "You've got a nice big pair of knackers, Rob. And a beautiful long cock."

It felt surprisingly good to hear him talk to me like that; to hear another man enjoying the size and feel of my genitals after Linda, even at her most sexually receptive, had shown so little interest in what I had between my legs.

I whispered, "Yeah, that's good," and he nuzzled in closer behind me, pressing himself against me so that I could feel his hard-on rubbing against my left buttock. He didn't push himself into my crack – if he had I think I'd have pulled away and ended it there – and I don't think he actively thrust himself against me. He just let his erection press into my cheek so that our combined rhythm – the beating of his arm and the gentle movement of my hips as I worked with him – would make my bum rub against him.

He started wanking me more quickly and I cursed the floorboards for the tell-tale creaks which accompanied every sweep of Carl's hand back and forth along my length. I was slightly repulsed by having another man's hot breath on my neck and his cock grinding into my backside – I could feel its wet stickiness against the bare skin of my cheek – but all this was vastly outweighed by the amazing sensation of his hand working my erection in a strong, confident and well-lubricated rhythm.

"Your cock is so fucking long... so fucking hard!" he whispered as he beat me off with one hand and played with my balls with his other. "I bet you're gonna cum buckets! Come on, Rob... it's gonna be so hot watchin' it spew!"

I looked upwards and closed my eyes, falling back a little into his muscular chest. He took his hand off my ball-sack and wrapped it around my belly to hold me; his large physique was more than able to support my weight. My bollocks started whacking against my thighs with every stroke of his hand but neither of us cared any longer about the dull clapping sounds they made.

I muttered, "That's so good," and his hand sped up even further.

He whispered again, his mouth so close to my ear that his hot wet lips would occasionally touch it, "Linda's so lucky to have such a big cock filling her pussy... such a massive bell-end pumping inside her... so lucky to have all your hot cum filling her up."

I grunted, "Oh, God, yeah!"

His hand went even faster; his wrist a frenzy of movement making my balls bob up and down so fast and so hard that they were getting painful. His own stubby erection was grinding through his shorts into my buttock, enjoying the thrusting of my hips in time with his hand.

"Spray it into her, Rob, with your hot fucking cock! Empty your massive bollocks into her!"

And in my mind I did; although in reality it was the pan, lid and cistern of the toilet which were treated to a copious splattering of my seed.

Carl's left hand returned to my balls as his right kept wanking spurt after spurt of semen from my cock.

He was whispering, "That's it, mate. Empty your nuts... let it all out!"

My cock willingly obliged, the spurts of liquid growing weaker but no less voluminous as my orgasm subsided. He gently squeezed my balls to release the last few dribbles of my pent-up load while he gradually slowed jerking my foreskin back and forth.

He said, "God, your spunk stinks! It must be really strong."

He reached up to the cabinet and squirted another gob of the liquid from the tube into his hand. Then he moved around to the side of me, pulled his own shorts down to expose his own short, fat cock – the head of it looking as swollen and sore as mine – and started beating himself off towards the toilet. As he did so, the liquid on his hand made wet slurping noises which I hadn't noticed when he'd been wanking me.

I think I just stared at him – I hadn't seen another guy masturbate in front of me up close like that – and suddenly felt a little awkward, standing alongside him with a string of semen hanging from my spent manhood which was mercifully starting to soften and droop towards the toilet bowl.