Stain Devils

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

===

The restaurant seemed a lot more expensive than those I was used to: it certainly wouldn't have been the sort of place I'd have picked if given the choice. The starters alone cost more than I would usually be prepared to pay for a whole meal, and I didn't regard myself as a tight-arse – well, not in that way.

Nevertheless, Debbie was determined to try all three courses.

I hoped this wasn't typical for her and that she didn't have expensive tastes. I could tolerate most things in a relationship but expensive tastes might prove difficult, especially with Jake going to university the following autumn and no doubt going to start needing handouts to help him manage his debts.

"I think I'll have the smoked salmon pastrami to start with," Debbie decided. "A friend of mine ate here and spoke very highly of the fish."

"I'm not sure I'm hungry enough for a starter," I said.

She immediately recognised my intention. "Don't even look at the prices, Rob, it's my treat! You paid for the last meal and it was me who suggested this place."

"It's not the prices," I lied. "I had quite a big baguette for lunch. I don't want to spoil my appetite for the main course."

"Well, I won't be able to have a starter if you don't. Do you really want to deprive me?"

She threw me a look of pleading, spaniel eyes.

I smiled at her, rather liking her silliness. "Of course not."

I glanced back down the menu trying to spot something I might want to eat. It was proving rather difficult. Even though she was offering to pay, I still wouldn't be comfortable if I thought something was over-priced and – on a more practical level – I couldn't work out what a lot of the food actually was.

I could make a good guess at what might be in Thai dragon roll, but what the hell were Chaophraya balls? They sounded like some ailment from a Les Dawson sketch.

("Did your Burt have the Chaophraya balls?" "No, love, he always walks like that.")

Scouring the menu, I asked her, "Do they have anything like a prawn cocktail?"

Debbie glanced down the list of starters. "They have Caribbean prawn skewers with spicy fruit salsa..."

That was the sort of dish I wouldn't know how to eat: I wouldn't be confident enough to pick the skewers up with my hands and yet it would look ridiculous to try and use a knife and fork on them.

Before I could find something else, the young waiter came over with the wine we'd ordered, a decent quality French Shiraz.

He'd introduced himself when he'd seated us at the table as 'Greg' and had short, auburn hair which he'd spiked up at the front. He was immaculately turned-out in a black waistcoat and bow tie and looked as if he was in his early twenties.

He poured Debbie her wine, holding the bottle in a white napkin so that the heat of his hand didn't warm the liquid, and then attended to me. His technique was perfect: he positioned the bottle so that the label could be seen by the two of us and even offered me the cork for my inspection (I simply smiled and nodded, having no idea what I was supposed to do with it).

He invited me to taste my wine – I assumed this to be one of the duties I had to perform as the male of the couple – and he and Debbie stared at me as I lifted the glass to my lips. The waiter seemed to treat this moment as a very sombre one: he stared at me gravely as though eager to analyse my reaction intently. Debbie, on the other hand, had her lips pursed tight together to suppress a smirk. If we'd been rather further into our relationship than just on a second date, I might have supposed she had set me up.

I took a drink of the crimson liquid as solemnly as I could, trying to stop myself from bursting out laughing and soaking them both in it, and then looked up at Greg and did my best to nod at him portentously, as though delivering a favourable, though not exceptional, verdict on the vintage. He stared back at me for a second or so and I thought I must have made a faux pas: perhaps I had been supposed to swill the wine around in my mouth before I swallowed it, or to offer some whimsical remark about how 'wry and sardonic' it was.

But then he muttered, "Very good, sir," and moved behind me to top my glass back up.

After he'd refilled me, he took a lighter from his waistcoat pocket and leaned forward to relight the candle on our table which must have blown out. At which point he managed to ruin the image he'd been trying to create of being the very model of a wine waiter and accidentally tipped a couple of noisy glugs from the bottle down the back of my chair and onto the seat of my trousers.

I jumped up, startled by the cold liquid on my skin, and he began what turned into a cascade of apologies.

"It's alright, really," I said, aware that other diners were looking over at us. "It's just a little splash."

I was wishing I'd kept my jacket on instead of dutifully handing it over to the concierge when we'd been greeted at the entrance. At least it would have taken the brunt of the spillage.

He mopped up the worst of it with a napkin, still apologising, while Debbie looked on wide-eyed with her hand over her mouth. I wasn't sure if she was shocked or trying to cover her amusement.

Then he asked me to follow him through to the cloakroom where he would dry me off properly.

"I have something which will lift the stain," he offered. "We'd better deal with it quickly before it has time to fix."

"That would be quite a help," I agreed.

I felt the seat of my trousers. I was soaking. Given the price of the bottle, he must have poured about twenty quid's worth of wine onto my arse. I'd expect a hefty discount off the bill for this, even if I wasn't the one who would be paying.

"If you'd follow me, please," he requested. "I really am very sorry about this."

I told Debbie – who was openly giggling by now – to order "something fairly straightforward" for me and that I'd be back in a few minutes. Then I followed Greg out through a door behind the bar, down a short, messy corridor which was obviously meant to only be seen by staff, and into a cloakroom.

It was a small room with no windows and it had an extractor fan on the ceiling which wheezed asthmatically. The wall to our side had a row of clothes pegs on it, onto which were messily draped coats, jeans other outerwear which must have been worn by the kitchen and serving staff on their way to and from the restaurant. There was a sink unit and some cupboards on the back wall, and all around us the room was littered with equipment and supplies: boxes of paper towels for the toilets, rolls of greaseproof paper, bundles of refuse sacks and packs of napkins. I spotted a stack of transparent tubes jammed full with the little umbrellas they put in cocktails, and for some reason I felt a compulsion to try and pocket a couple.

The waiter asked me to lock the door behind us while he opened a cupboard and ripped open one of the packs of napkins. I could see he was upset about what he'd done, probably fearing I'd make a fuss and he'd lose his job over it.

I smiled at him when he turned back to face me. "It's Greg, isn't it?"

"That's right, sir." He seemed surprised that I'd remembered his name; to most of his clientele he must just blend in to the decor.

"Call me Rob," I said and he smiled back. He was rather cute with his spiky red hair and pale green eyes and looked nice in his white shirt and bow tie. His waistcoat showed off his slim figure beautifully and his trousers, I'd noticed as I'd followed him into the cloakroom, hugged his backside most agreeably.

"If you'd like to turn around," he suggested, "I'll try and soak up what I can."

I willingly obliged and he knelt down behind me. I felt a tingle of excitement that a man's face was level with my backside. I wondered whether, in spite of his young age, he secretly liked to get up close to another guy's bum; whether he was, like me, a covert connoisseur of the allure of the male arse-crack.

He started out, though, by informing me that he was about to touch my bottom.

"That's okay... I was sort of expecting you would," I smiled.

"It's just that some men might object."

"Not me," I said, brightly. "I'm not one to stand proud."

As soon as I'd said it, I realised I might soon be standing very proud once his fingers were kneading my cheeks and his thumbs were nuzzling between them.

He briskly dabbed at the seat of my trousers with a couple of napkins, trying to absorb as much of the spilled wine as he could. He had a rough technique and seemed oblivious to how much delicacy and sensuality a nicely-shaped behind like mine warranted. Nevertheless, it was good to feel him fussing at me back there and, as I'd anticipated, I began to feel the front of my trousers stirring in response.

"Would you like me to try and mop up the worst of it from your underwear?" he asked.

Assuming the question to be rhetorical, I undid my belt and fly and hitched down my trousers, presenting him with the red-stained seat of my white Calvin Klein briefs. He threw me a look of surprise and I realised he'd expected me to be too self-conscious to pull my trousers down and that I would politely decline and offer to attend to myself in the restaurant toilets.

I smiled at him encouragingly. "That'll be very helpful of you. Thank you, Greg."

He threw me a half-smile back and I could tell he wasn't at all comfortable about this. I suspected that, even within the safety of intimacy with his girlfriend, he was used to steering well clear of bottoms.

He busied himself in dabbing at my underwear, pressing the napkins to them firmly to try and draw out the wine.

A few months ago I would indeed have been far too embarrassed to have had my trousers half-pulled down in the presence of a stranger like this, especially a young guy. Now I was rather enjoying having him kneeling behind me with the cheeks of my bum just inches from his face, and was finding it pleasantly arousing to have him touching me back there, his fingers so close to the hole we both knew I was concealing. My cock continued to enlarge, pulling my briefs more tightly against the paired buns of my backside.

I hoped he was enjoying the view.

The briefs had been fresh on that evening, just before I'd left the house to meet Debbie, so I knew there'd be no unpleasant stains to trouble him. He'd no doubt see the hair from my crack bristling down a line through the white material, but if you had another guy's arse in your face, you had to kind of expect that. I myself preferred other men to have a masculine hairiness between their muscular buttocks: perhaps Greg would too.

He said, "I'll be able to draw out more of the wine if I put some napkins inside the back of your underpants. Will that be okay?"

"Whatever you need to do," I shrugged, pretending to be nonchalant. Like this kind of thing happened every day and I ended up with twenty-year-old guys with their hands down the back of my underwear.

He sandwiched the material of my briefs between two napkins, pressing them together to try and dry my underwear. As he did so, he kept rubbing the backs of his fingers against the skin of my bum-cheeks. I knew it to be completely unintentional – that he'd have blushed and ran a mile if he'd realised – but the sensation of his fingers caressing against the flesh of my buttocks was extremely sensual. My cock started to swell more rapidly and I knew that, if he were to continue, I would soon have a full-blown erection to contend with.

Again, just months ago I'd have been mortified to have found myself in this situation; developing a hard-on in the presence of an innocent young waiter. Now, though, I was curious to see how far I could push things between us and whether I could steer this opportune encounter towards the direction of more salacious avenues.

After all, if things turned nasty, I could rightly claim to be the injured party in this. I was the one who'd had his backside covered in spilled wine and who would be left, regardless of the waiter's attentions, with a fiendish stain on what had been an expensive pair of trousers. If Greg were to accuse me of coming onto him, I was the one who would have the more justifiable complaint.

In any case, I had my girlfriend waiting for me out there in the restaurant: why on earth would a divorced man like me who was now dating an attractive woman, be flirting in the backroom of some restaurant with a fresh-out-of-college waiter who'd just poured half a bottle of wine onto his backside? The mere possibility was laughably ridiculous!

Greg continued working his fingers across both buttocks, trying to soak up as much of the spilled wine as he could, but was pointedly avoiding going anywhere between them. The arse-crack of another guy was obviously seen as an 'out of bounds' area; the sort of place men didn't touch on each other, even when one of them was desperately trying to show his willingness to make amends.

I wasn't prepared to put up with such reticence. You don't spill wine down the arse of a 'butt monkey', as Cameron had referred to me, and get away with it so easily.

"I'm very wet and sticky between my buttocks, Greg," I informed him. "It's quite uncomfortable."

"Would you like to pull down your underwear, Mr... er...?"

"It's Rob," I reminded him, hitching down my briefs. I appreciated the way he was trying to reintroduce some formality into proceedings, but I was having none of it. I presented my bare backside to his face and I'm sure that if arses can look expectant, mine did right then.

My cock rose up from my heavy scrotum, grateful for release from my underwear as it steadily lengthened and thickened in anticipation. I did my best to conceal it among the folds of my shirt: I didn't want Greg to be freaked out by seeing not only how turned on I was becoming, but also how large my slowly swelling manhood was.

"I've never had a French Shiraz poured anywhere so indelicate," I quipped.

He was staring at my bum, clearly unsure of how to proceed.

I went on, "It tasted very nice in the glass, but I'm sure it has a rather more interesting flavour now."

As I expected, he showed no inclination to lean forwards for a taste.

"It's probably more like an Australian Shiraz," I added. "It would certainly have that... you know... down-under kick."

He ignored my frivolity and reached up with a napkin to run it down my cleft. I hadn't been lying – I genuinely was quite wet between my buttocks – and the napkin emerged from my arse-crack with a dark red stain on it.

"I think that's soaked it up," he asserted.

"Are you sure? I'd hate to end up with a rash."

Perhaps fearing I could have grounds for further complaints against him, he reached up grabbed my buttocks. Then, with his thumbs he teased them apart.

I leaned forwards for him, hoping he would like what he saw: my abundantly hairy crack parting to reveal my dark pink, slightly swollen ring. I hoped that once he saw how inviting a man's rear entrance can look, he might be tempted, just as I had with Guy, to lean forwards for a sniff and then a lick. The thought of what it would be like to ease his cute ginger-pubed cock into the hole I was presenting him could surely not have escaped him: in the mood I was in, and as long he had protection with him, I'd be more than willing to bend lower to receive it, poking stiffly outwards from his gaping fly.

But if such temptations had troubled him, he showed no sign of acting on them.

"You look pretty dry as far as I can tell," he muttered, still staring at my splayed cleft. I was hoping his gaze was focussed on my hole and that he could recognise, from the slackness of its opening and the puckering of the skin around it, that its owner was, at the very least, sexually inquisitive. He might suspect that I was no stranger to the pleasure a sufficiently curious man can receive from his own finger; perhaps even realise that for some men masturbation can involve both hands working independently.

I glanced back at him and realised that he was actually staring between my legs, appearing somewhat stunned by the grotesquely swollen size of my big, bloated balls dangling between them. He seemed, on some primitive level, intimidated by the sheer scale of my testicles; as though their appearance before him, heavy and pendulously distended with my semen, daunted him as belonging to a competitor male. I assumed his own, tucked away in his black trousers, were considerably smaller and perhaps rather less hairy.

I said, with a forced chuckle, "Not exactly my most flattering view, Greg."

He smiled awkwardly.

I was grateful that my cock was so stiff that it was pointing upwards towards my stomach and out of his view. It would no doubt have compounded his discomfort if it had been dangling down, reaching almost level with my knees, its shaft as thick as his forearm and its head as plump as his fist.

Wanting to direct his attention back upwards towards the appeal of my bum, I insisted to him that I still didn't feel completely dry.

He looked back up at my hairy crack and, for a second, I thought he was going to reach up with an outstretched finger and run it down between my cheeks to feel for any remaining liquid. I was eager for him to touch my puffy ring, gently circling my stretched hole as if puzzled as to whether the moisture there was the remnants of the wine or was my own, alluring dampness. I'd push myself back towards him so that his finger would slurp into me and then, from my sounds of breathless pleasure and the way I'd work myself up and down on his finger, he'd realise – hopefully with some fascination – that the ways of pleasuring a male aren't confined to manipulating his penis.

But Greg seemed reluctant to venture forth and just replied flatly that my bum looked pretty dry to him.

So I tried, again, to throw him another inroad.

"I don't smell too boozy back there, do I?" I asked, hoping now to lure him forwards for a sniff. "I don't want to reek of the stuff."

Once his nose was between my buttocks, I'd bend further forwards and ease my arse into his face. I'd feel him sniffing at my hole – first hesitatingly, then with building interest – and he'd push his nose deeper and lower to smell me at my strongest. His breath would be quickening and his excitement increasing and I'd call out, "It might be better to taste me, Greg – make sure there's no wine left at all!" Then I'd feel his tongue lapping at my most sensitive spot – knowing he would be struggling to understand why licking another man like this was so arousing him – and I'd see him rubbing himself through his trousers as I'd grab my own cock and roughly pleasure myself.

But it wasn't to turn out like that. Greg stayed frustratingly well back from my buttocks and muttered simply that he couldn't smell anything, before releasing my cheeks and standing up.

"There's some Stain Remover in one of these cupboards," he said, turning to retrieve it. "It should get most of the colour out."

He found a plastic bottle of colourless liquid and removed the lid. Taking a sniff from the bottle he recoiled from its strong, chemical smell: the solvent, I assumed, for the tannins in red wine.

He knelt back down behind me and soaked a few fresh paper napkins with the liquid and dabbed at the seat of my trousers and my briefs, still hitched down and between my shins. The solvent drew the colour out with surprising success: it seemed my trousers might yet get to be worn again.

As he was tending to my clothing, looking down at it as he knelt behind me, his hair kept tickling my backside. His fringe, which he'd spiked up with gel, would occasionally stray into my crack as if it was eager to venture where his fingers had been so reticent.

I couldn't stop myself from tittering and he looked up at me.