It was a mild and lazy autumn morning. I strolled out of the master bathroom wearing only a pair of worn, pale blue, cotton, string bikini briefs. It is a valid aesthetic question whether a man of my description has the body to be wearing bikini briefs. Suffice it to say, I don't look like the underwear models on the Calvin Klein website.
I wear them anyway. The legs are cut all the way up to the waistline. The cut shows off a broad expanse of thigh. I have thick, strong thighs which more than one woman has remarked on. My legs appeal to some and I don't mind showing them off in bikinis. The little triangle at the front is pretty skimpy. My package is distinctly average, but the tiny-ness of the triangle exaggerates the size of my equipment. I don't mind that, either. I want to look well-endowed. And, the back covers and cups my bubble-butt pretty nicely. So, model material or not, I wear them anyway.
I strolled into the bedroom in bikini briefs. She was seated at her dressing table, finishing up her eye make-up wearing a short satin print kimono. She looked at me and my wardrobe in the mirror and then turned to face me.
"Those have holes in them," she said.
"I hadn't noticed."
And, I hadn't. But looking closely it appeared she was right. The knit fabric had a couple of small flaws in it.
"They're not big holes," I reassured her.
"Come here," she ordered, motioning to me.
I stepped to her table. She looked still more closely at my crotch.
"You need to throw those out. The pink, wrinkly skin of your scrotum is pooching out of that lower hole already."
She extended a finger toward the blue triangle, and had I been asked, I would have had to concede that I sensed skin to skin contact. I was not asked. Rather suddenly, she poked her slender finger at the pink spot. The hole, which had been maybe a centimeter in diameter, grew a little larger. She hooked her finger and pulled and the lower hole expanded still more swallowing up the upper hole.
In what now constituted a major wardrobe malfunction, my cock and balls spilled out of my torn bikinis. I felt my face reddening. I don't know why. Nobody was seeing anything they hadn't seen thousands of times before. Still, it's one thing to disrobe and another to be forcibly disrobed. The gentle violence of tearing up my bikinis occasioned a minor embarrassment. Almost immediately thereafter, it also caused a rapidly swelling erection.
This fact was not lost on her. She still had a finger in my shorts and in a heartbeat that finger became a palm, first cupping and then tugging on my dangling balls. She pulled me toward her by the nuts, wrapped her lips around the head of my swelling cock and gave it a passionate tongue kiss.
I gasped, moaned and heard myself say, "Oh, fuck," in my throatiest voice. I was sure I could readily guess what I was in for and there was nothing to do, except stand there and take it like a man.
"Mmmm, does somebody like that?" a soprano voice asked from somewhere below my waist.
I moaned again.
She pinched the head of my stiff dick between her thumb and forefinger, and with the tip of her tongue slowly traced a line from the bottom of my well-shaved scrotum, up my shaft, all the way to the head. She repeated this maneuver a half dozen times.
Then, grabbing my cock with one hand, she turned her attention to my balls. She sucked first one, then the other into her mouth. She licked my hairless scrotum eagerly. The hand that was not wrapped around my cock found its way behind my balls and two fingers deeply and slowly massaged my perineum putting pressure on my prostate.
"How does that feel, baby?" she whispered.
Feeling like a man of few words, I moaned again, "Mmmm."
