Nora Nix Erotic Story Competition Story 8

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Vince Cooper had been waiting all year for this.

Everything was in place. He’d ordered six extra-large pizzas, bought four twelve-packs of dark beer – the kind he knew the guys preferred – set out three bags of corn chips, made two bowls of microwaveable cheese dip, and had reminded everyone on Friday about watching the game at his place for the first time.

Usually, the boys went over to Mark Bellamy’s place, a downtown penthouse and now bachelor pad since he and Marianne separated last May. The guy had state-of-the-art everything, toys and gadgets galore, not to mention an 80-inch LED HDTV with 3D capabilities and stereo surround sound that Vince was sure would blow out the ceiling-to-floor windows someday. He even had a little maid, Sandra, who paraded around his house in a French maid’s uniform two sizes too tight and about eight inches too short.

That, he guessed, more than anything, was what had led to Mark’s divorce.

Vince turned his TV on and glanced at the cable box, noting that it was almost time. His TV was only a 40-inch, but he still got hi-def and all the channels to go with it. He may not have had surround sound, either, but the built-in speakers did okay for themselves. Besides, it wasn’t like he had a huge house full of distractions, and the living room was pretty small – they should all be able to hear all right. Compulsively, he checked the time again. Just fifteen minutes until the game started. Where was everybody?

A knock at his door tore his attention away from the blue glow of the digital clock and he sprang toward it, then stopped. He didn’t want to look too eager. The guys wouldn’t go for that sort of thing. He should play it cool. This was their first time over, and he didn’t want to look like a nervous little pussy in front of them. He let out a deep breath to calm his nerves and opened the door slowly, preparing a confident grin.

“Hey, guys. Good to see…”

Vince stopped short.

Instead of the gaggle of men he’d invited over to watch the big game, there was only one standing before him: Paul North, holding a six-pack in his hand, smiling broadly. Paul was the youngest of the group in his mid-twenties, and also the quietest. He hardly ever spoke up during the group’s many political debates, and he’d never once regaled them with stories of his romantic – or not – conquests. Truth be told, Vince didn’t know a whole hell of a lot about Paul in general, only that he’d been one of the six guys he’d invited – and the only one to show up.

“Hey, Vince,” he greeted with his trademark slow drawl. Paul was from Alabama – Vince remembered that much. His accent, creeping along like molasses, never really seemed to fit in with the more crass, staccato barking of Vince and the rest of the Jersey construction crew. He held up the six-pack with a little smile. “Brought ya some beer. Can I come in?”

“Oh, sure, Paul. Yeah, yeah. C’mon in.” Vince opened the door wider for Paul, feeling a little off-balance. “Sorry about that. Jus’ thought the other guys’d be witcha, is all.”

“Ah, yeah,” Paul said as he stepped inside, removing his coat. “About that…”

Vince shut the door behind them and ran a hand through his thick brown hair nervously. “What? What’s a matter?”

“Well, y’see… Mark’s divorce jus’ came through today, and th’ boys didn’t wanna make ‘im feel bad about bein’ all alone…” Paul trailed off momentarily. He set the beer on Vince’s kitchen counter and averted his eyes. “So, uh, they all went on over to his place t’ watch th’ game. They wanted me t’ tell ya. They’re real sorry about it…”

Vince stared in disbelief. They had all agreed to this months ago! And he’d invited Mark, too – Mark, who hadn’t been particularly broken up about Marianne’s leaving until just now. How convenient.

His heart sank as he looked around his apartment. Well, hell, this wasn’t about Mark’s divorce. This was about the big screen and the surround sound and little Sandra’s huge tits spilling out of her frilly blouse every time she leaned over to pour them another drink. Compared to his place, Mark lived at the goddamn Taj Mahal. How much could he really blame the guys for bailing on him, especially when fate had given them the perfect excuse to do so?

“Well, uh – ain’t that nice of ‘em?” Vince said slowly, forcing another smile. “That’s good. Mark won’t be alone and… and you and I will have to place to ourselves.” He looked over the boxes of pizza and cringed. What the hell was he going to do with all the leftovers?

Paul took note of his line of sight and opened one of the boxes, pulling out a slice. Steam was still rising from it, and when he took a bite, he hummed with appreciation, closing his bright blue eyes and nodding slowly.

“Mmhm. Now this is the stuff,” he said approvingly, stuffing his face with another huge bite. “This ain’t th’ usual takeout. Where’d ya get it?”

“Little place around here, Mama Cannoli’s,” Vince answered absently, still fazed by the huge letdown. “They got the best pizza this side’a the Hudson. Ain’t cheap, neither. But hey – special occasion, right?”

Paul picked a pepperoni off his slide and popped it into his mouth, licking the grease from his fingertips after, and said: “Fuck ‘em, Vince. I mean, really. Mark ain’t got nothin’ but some warehouse-club wings and a fancy TV. Today was about havin’ some nice company, wasn’t it?” He finished his slice and reached for another. From the look of Paul’s lean, muscular physique – not bulky like Vince or the others – he could probably pack away two of those boxes all by himself. “We’ll have a good time. Promise. And we’ll be better off without ‘em.”

Vince blinked. He hadn’t ever heard Paul curse before. The image of the mild-mannered former farmhand washed away, replaced by someone Vince could no longer quite peg. Although he still hadn’t recovered from the rest of his friends’ abandonment, he grabbed himself a slice of pizza from the same box as Paul and took a monstrous bite, letting the hot cheese sizzle in his mouth.

“Go ahead’n put yer beer in the fridge and grab yerself a cold one,” he instructed, turning up the volume on the TV just as the pregame show began. “I got nachos on the coffee table. Better get ‘em before they get cold.”

An hour later, Vince’s mood had most definitely not improved. Not only was he stuck with the quiet, laid back Paul while all his other so-called friends were surely jumping on Mark’s leather sofas by now, but his team was losing.

He cracked open yet another beer, having lost count of how many he had drank already, and partially engulfed the frosty rim with his cracked lips. The more he drank, the less he thought about the betrayal of the guys he had felt so close to only hours beforehand. Yet the more he drank, the more angry he became when he did think about it, too.

Beside him on the couch, Paul noticed him discard another bottle cap and said: “Damn, Vince. Y’gonna drink that whole twelve-pack by yourself?”

Vince shrugged sourly. “Don’t want it to go to waste,” he muttered. Paul smiled.

“That’s all right. We can bring some to the site on Monday and surprise ‘em. Tell ‘em what a great time we had and show ‘em there’s no hard feelin’s. Ain’t that right?”

“And why would I wanna do that?” Vince snarled, glowering at Paul over the lip of his beer. “If those guys would’a been here, they could’a had all the beer they wanted. You said it yerself: fuck ‘em.”

“Just thought we might try killin’ ‘em with kindness,” Paul said, holding up his hands disarmingly. “That’s all.”

Vince snorted. “Who taught you that shit? Your ma?”

“My Grammy,” Paul corrected, his smile softer now. “Momma didn’t have a whole lot t’ say on the matter. She died when I was young.”

Vince felt his stomach drop to the floor and he winced, spilling his beer all over himself. He launched himself up off the couch, setting his foaming beer down on the coffee table and pulling at his shirt, inspecting the damage. It was soaked.

“Goddammit!” He sighed, looking at Paul again. “I’m sorry, Paul. I didn’t know about your ma.” He peeled his shirt off of his thick frame, the spilled beer making his muscles glisten in his apartment’s dim light. He caught Paul staring and said: “I’m gonna go change.”

“Hey, ‘s your house,” Paul said dismissively. “Do what ya want. And don’t worry about Momma. I never got t’know her. No harm, no foul, right?”

Vince looked at his beer-stained shirt, then back to the game. Well, it wasn’t like Paul hadn’t seen him without a shirt before. And besides, it was just the two of them – who was he trying to look respectable for?

Heaving another sigh, Vince flopped back down on the couch and returned to nursing his beer, changing the subject as deftly as he knew how.

“I can’t wait for the cheerleaders to come on. Never had me a girl who could move like that – how about you?”

Paul blushed. It made him look more like he was sixteen rather than twenty-eight. “Nah. Me either.”

“Aw, c’mon,” Vince prodded, trying to get something – anything – out of the kid. “Those farm girls look like they know a thing or two about how t’get a man. Had some guy workin’  with me a couple’a years ago, told me about this girl he knew, daddy used t’run an orchard. Said her pussy tasted like apple cider. You know any girls like that?”

“Nah,” Paul repeated, looking down at his beer. “There was only one girl I knew whose family had an orchard. If her pussy tasted like apple cider, it would’a had t’have been made with crab apples.”

Vince laughed, nearly spewing beer from his nostrils. “Christ!” he roared. “That bad, huh?”

“Oh yeah,” Paul chuckled. He ran one of his rough, calloused hands through his dirty blonde hair. “That girl was closer t’sow than she was t’human, I’d say. Any man tryin’ t’stick his dick in her was gonna hafta roll her up in flour and look for the wet spot.”

“You have any hot girls in Alabama?” Vince asked, cringing as his team fumbled. Paul smirked – his team was winning.

“Couple, I guess. Weren’t nothin’ worth writin’ home about.”

“Well,” Vince said, “let’s see how ya like some’a these northern cheerleaders in a few minutes, huh?”

“Sure,” he said, but as Vince leaned back, he noticed that Paul had looked a lot more interested in his shirtless body than he did at the prospect of the cheerleaders taking the field.

As the halftime show began, Vince found himself in a rather serious dilemma, the severity of which was growing by the second. Those cheerleaders, as predicted, were hot, and Vince’s prick was swelling none-too-discreetly as he watched them.

Drinking beer always did this to him, he reflected, shifting to ease the tension forming between his hardening dick and the unforgiving fabric of his jeans. He could keep a hard-on practically forever when he was drunk, much longer than he could sober. That was why his ex-girlfriend had liked to keep a six-pack in the house at all times – she knew it was in her best interest. He couldn’t deny that it had been in his best interest, too.

But this was bad timing. Alone with Paul in his living room, Vince wondered what he must be thinking. His size wasn’t exactly subtle – even at half mast, his bulging cock was clearly outlined through his pants. Worse than that, his nipples were prickling to match the stiffness between his legs, and folding his arms to hide them meant leaving his crotch wide open for Paul to see. Would he say something? Would he think it was because of him?

Vince made a face. C’mon, he thought. It’s not like the kid’s never had a hard-on of his own before. He won’t say nothin’, you won’t say nothin’, and it won’t be weird. Have another beer and stop lookin’ at the cheerleaders.

But the more he tried to look away, the more he found his eyes wandering back to the screen. Those girls had some of the most magnificent tits he had ever seen, and the way they bounced when they jumped made his balls tighten. It had been so long since he had seen a pair of tits up close and personal. He vividly recalled the way Yvette, his ex, had let him pump his dick between hers, cooing and begging for his hot cum until she got it all over her pretty face. Those thoughts didn’t help, and Vince felt a sudden throb pulse through him, pushing the tip of his cock against the inside of his zipper. Goddamn if that beast didn’t want to be let out.

He cast a furtive glance at Paul beside him. If he had noticed, he wasn’t saying anything. His eyes were fixated on the screen, watching those scrumptious sluts writhing around beneath their shimmying pom-poms. Vince lowered his gaze, curious to see if Paul was getting hard, too. He wasn’t.

“What’s a matter?” Vince slurred, his inebriation getting the best of him. “You don’t like girls?”

Paul looked at him, his eyes wide. “W-what?”

“I knew it!” Vince declared, slamming his beer down on the coffee table like a gavel. “That’s why you don’t like talkin’ about girls back home – you never had any!”

“That’s – that’s not true,” Paul stammered, his face reddening again. “I just… they’re not my type, is all.”

“Not your type?!” Vince gestured to the screen. “Look at ‘em! They don’t make ‘em much hotter than that!” He grabbed his dick through his pants, making it twitch visibly. “Or is this your type?” he asked, a little chill running down his spine. What the hell was he doing?

Paul opened his mouth to answer, but no words came out. His gaze caught on Vince’s pulsating cock, lingering. Then he met his eyes again. “It’s jus’… I usually have to touch it, is all. Y’know, t’get it goin’.”

Vince looked back to the screen, to the girls dancing across it. He had the sneaking suspicion that Paul was lying to him, and after every other humiliation he had endured today, being lied to wasn’t one he was willing to add to the list. He picked up his beer from the coffee table and took a long swig, wiped the excess from his stubble, and then looked into Paul’s eyes.

“Then touch it,” he said, his voice almost a growl. “Show me.”

“You can’t be serious!”

“Oh, I’m serious.” Vince wet his dry lips with his tongue, watching Paul squirm uncomfortably under his scrutiny. “Take it out and show me how much you like these ladies, or I’m gonna tell all the boys at the site that Paul North is a fuckin’ faggot.”

Paul let out a little sound, something between a squeak and a hiss, like tires screeching on hot asphalt during a hard brake. He looked away, staring at the ground for a moment and tapping his index finger against the neck of his beer bottle. He took a drink, swallowed hard, and then slowly nodded.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll do it.”

“Yeah?” Vince asked, having second thoughts, but they seemed so far removed, lost in the fog of… what was it now – five, six beers? “Well – good.” He took another draught of his liquid courage and let it filter into his throat through his teeth, gulping it down hard. “Go on, then. Show me you’re a real man.”

Paul set is beer down on the coffee table and stood up. He was nearly Vince’s height, but not quite, and not as heavily built. At first, he thought Paul might be sizing him up. Instead, Paul unbuttoned his jeans and began to unzip them. He wasn’t wearing any underwear.

Vince studied him briefly. Paul was golden-haired and sapphire-eyed, tan, and had a swimmer’s body; lean, sleek muscle that any woman would find attractive. Why was he single? Had he been right? Was Paul really gay?

As if in defiance of this, Paul pulled his dick carefully past the teeth of his zipper. It was only half-hard, but as he turned his head to watch the cheerleaders on screen, it began to swell in his hand. He lowered his grip to the base, giving it a series of short, slow strokes. A little bead of precum glistened at his tip. Goddamn, Vince thought. He must really be a gusher.

A few moments later, Paul’s creamy white cock was fully erect, and his strokes were becoming longer and faster. Its head was turning red, precum now freely bubbling from it, little drops that dripped onto his fingers as he jerked himself in front of Vince. His face began to flush and his breath began to quicken, and Vince saw him open his stance a little, balls beginning to swing with the force of his stroking. He bit his lip. Vince grew worried that he might cum all over his carpet.

“All right, all right,” he said. “That’s enough. I guess you were right. Ya really do like those girls.” He watched as Paul reluctantly let go of his cock. Immediately it throbbed for more, the tip hitting his pelvis and creating a glistening thread of precum that stretched across the space between his dick and his hips. Vince felt his own prick start to pulse, biting his lip as his underwear suddenly got wet. His cockhead was sticking to it.

Paul looked down at Vince’s crotch. “Well,” he said, “looks like you enjoyed the show.”

“Bullshit!” Vince spat, glancing down to follow Paul’s gaze. But he was right – the front of Vince’s jeans was sporting a little wet spot. He felt his own cheeks redden this time. “That – that was from the girls!”

“Yeah?” Paul looked like he wasn’t buying it. “I didn’t see you lookin’ at ‘em. As soon as I took my dick out, your eyes stayed on me.”

“I was hard before you were,” Vince reminded him, trying to keep the desperate edge out of his tone. What the hell did he have to prove to this little shit, anyway? “But fine. You wanna see a man’s cock?” His hands lowered to his belt almost before he even told them to. “Take a good, hard look, then.”

Vince unhooked his belt and fumbled with the button on his pants a moment. Ever since he stood up, those five or six beers felt more like ten or twelve. He could hardly get his jeans undone. Finally, through some miraculous boost of dexterity, he was able to pull both his pants and his underwear down enough to let his fat dick spring out, spilling a trail of precum down his shaft. He let out his heavy balls for good measure, watching Paul’s expression. He swore he saw the boy’s cock twitch.

“I got an idea,” Vince said, manhandling his wide chode under the guise of adjusting it. “Halftime’s almost over, and your team’s been wipin’ the field with mine. I wanna make a friendly wager.”

“What’s that?” Paul asked. He was cupping and lightly caressing his balls. Vince chose not to call him on it; he was horny as fuck too.

“I say we both keep jerkin’ our dicks. Not touchin’ each other or anything gay like that – just ourselves.” Vince watched as Paul started to stroke his base again, clearly relieved that he would be able to keep touching himself. “We sit on this couch and jack off until one of our teams scores. If your team scores first, you get t’cum. If my team scores first, then I get t’cum.”

“Uh-uh,” Paul breathed, shaking his head. “That ain’t good enough.”

Vince frowned. “Whaddya mean?”

“You called out my manhood,” Paul said, rubbing his tip in circles with his thumb and smearing his juice everywhere. “Now I’m gonna call out yours. My team scores first, you suck my dick, Vince Cooper. And I get to fill up that loud mouth’a yours.”

Vince snarled and made a face. “What if my team scores first? You gonna blow me, Paul? Huh? Is that what you want?”

Paul snorted. “Please. Your team hasn’t scored all day. You’re gonna be slurpin’ my cock within ten minutes’a halftime endin’.”

Vince narrowed his eyes. Paul was arrogant, and Vince knew that his team always made a comeback by the third quarter – almost always, anyway. He was willing to bet it would happen again this time.

But what if it didn’t? What if Paul’s team scored again and he had to swallow his pride – and Paul’s cock?

No way, he thought determinedly. You’re no fair-weather fan, Vince Cooper. You either believe in your boys, or you don’t.

“All right then, ya mouthy fuck,” Vince said. “Yer on.”

Sitting bare-assed on the couch in preparation for victory, Vince jerked his dick with a nice, tight fist, staring anxiously at the TV screen. Beside him, with one cushion between them, Paul sat doing the very same thing, his free hand teasing and pulling at his wire-haired nuts.

Both of them were practically naked. Paul had forsaken his shirt, having stained it with precum while teasing himself to the point of squirming. Vince had caught him thrusting into his own hand a few times, eyes closed, and had reminded him not to cum just yet. Paul had nodded, opened his eyes, and focused back on the screen. Young, dumb, and full of cum, Vince thought with a small smirk, looking down at his own eager dick reveling in his attentive strokes.

Neither team had scored yet, and Vince could tell that Paul was getting just as close as he was. The next time Paul closed his eyes, Vince reached up and starting playing with his nipples, sending little lightning bolts of pleasure down into his balls. He rarely admitted to enjoying nipple play – he always thought it was too girly – but when he was alone with his laptop, he teased his pink little nubs until he shot all over himself. No need for that now, of course – Paul would be gulping his cock any time now.

As his toes curled, Vince began wondering why he wanted that so badly. Was it only to win the bet? To retain his pride and dignity by stuffing Paul’s throat? Or had it been so long that he’d take any pair of lips around his swollen, purplish head?

Looking over again at Paul, he could see the boy’s eyes were fixated on his dick, watching as Vince jerked and teased it. Paul was playing with his taint now, caressing the short hairs that ran from his balls to his asshole. Vince smirked.

“Eyes on the screen,” he reminded him. “I don’t want you to miss it when my team scores.”

“Uh huh,” Paul acquiesced, barely capable of speech anymore. He wondered how long it had been for him, too.

Just as he was beginning to edge toward his peak, Vince watched his team go for the interception. He sat upright, eyes widening as the play progressed. Paul was watching too, still slouched with his long cock wrapped up in his palm, half-lidded eyes glazed with lust. Vince wasn’t sure he even knew what was happening.

“That’s it!” Vince urged, watching his team’s player sprint across the field like a powerful locomotive. “Go, go, go, go, go!”

And then it happened: Vince’s team finally scored.

He almost leapt up from his seat, shouting with vindication as Paul bit his lip and stopped stroking himself. Vince clapped his hands together and pushed him.

“Did ya see that?” he demanded, pointing at the screen. “I told ya! I told ya my team’d pull it off!”

Paul half-smiled. He looked up at Vince. “I, uh… I guess that means ya won the bet, huh?”

“Damn right I did,” Vince said, taking a swig of his warming beer. “And you know what that means.”

“Yeah,” Paul said, his smile fading. “I do.”

Vince leaned back against the couch cushions and looked at Paul, his dick still clenched in his hand. Paul was staring back at him, breathing hard, supporting his cock at its base so that whenever his chest heaved, so did his prick. Neither of them moved.

Vince wasn’t sure he had ever considered them actually going through with it. It had been a bluff, mostly – a dare. But now there they were with their bare dicks out, watching each other jack off with the intent of getting a blow job after the next touchdown. Vince’s team had taken that honor, just as he knew they would. Should he make Paul adhere to the rules he himself had set? Or should he laugh it off as some stupid game and let him off the hook?

“Hey, no big deal,” he started to say, letting go of himself. His dick pulsated in protest. “I was just kiddin’ when I agreed to it. Just wanted to putcha in yer place, is all…”

“I wasn’t,” Paul said, getting down on his knees on the floor. Vince watched as the handsome boy crawled over, shuffling off his pants from his ankles and then pulling off Vince’s the rest of the way. His heart began to hammer and his breath caught in his throat. Was this really happening?

“A deal is a deal,” Paul said adamantly, fitting himself nicely between Vince’s spread legs. His balls clenched reactively as Paul grazed them with his chest hair. He looked up into Vince’s dark eyes and said: “I always settle my bets.”

“Paul – wait,” Vince protested just as his friend began to tease his frenulum with his fingertip. He groaned despite himself, part of him elated that someone else was touching his dick for a change. Before he could argue again, Paul began licking him like a lollipop, and it was all over.

Trying not to drool, Vince moaned loudly, his wet dick getting the royal treatment from Paul’s suspiciously talented tongue. Although the boy was only teasing him, he could already feel that pressure mounting at his base, the urge to unload all over his pretty face nearly overwhelming him. Stop it, his brain commanded. You ain’t no faggot. Don’t you dare let him make you cum like one. Vince gritted his teeth and held on to the couch.

Now that Paul had coated Vince’s chode in a thick layer of spit, he began working the shaft with his hand while the very tip of his pink tongue danced all around his swollen tip. Vince stiffened and felt his toes curl. Paul was twisting his wrist on the way up – no girl had ever done that before. It felt incredible, and his hazy thoughts drifted momentarily to being inside a warm, wet cunt. He found himself thrusting without really meaning to.

“P-Paul,” he stammered, gasping in a breath. “That’s good enough, man. You can stop now…” Vince almost whimpered at the prospect. He didn’t really want him to.

Thankfully, Paul instead closed his lips over Vince’s oozing tip and began his first hard sucks.

Vince was in heaven. Paul knew just where and how to roll his tongue, and just when to slurp. He wasn’t shy about it, and the sounds of his sucking began to fill the apartment even louder than Vince’s TV. He looked down, watching as Paul took him in deeper and deeper, spreading his lips wide to accommodate his sizeable girth. Paul never missed a beat, and soon Vince felt his spongy tip pressed against the back of Paul’s throat.

“Oh, God,” he grunted, licking his lips. “That’s good…!”

“Mmhm,” Paul responded, making eye contact with Vince as he started fondling his balls. Vince felt them tighten in his hand.

“Fuck, man. You’re gonna have me shootin’ pretty soon.”

“Mmhm,” Paul said again, sucking even harder, twisting his head each time he reared back to the tip. Vince groaned. Paul really knew how to milk his cock.

“That what you want?” he panted, his hips beginning to buck a little into Paul’s mouth. The wet smacking sound that followed almost pushed him over the edge. It sounded just like ramming into some slut’s juicy pussy. “Yeah? You want a nice big mouthful?” He started playing with his nipples again, urging his dick to swell between Paul’s shiny, hot lips. “Suck that dick, Paul. Get those fuckin’ balls. I’m gonna give you all the cum you can handle, you fuckin’ faggot.”

Paul’s eyelashes fluttered. He looked like he was enjoying the abuse. As he tugged and molested Vince’s heavy sac, the older man bit his lip and started to thrust, fucking Paul’s face properly. Paul extended an index finger toward Vince’s asshole and brushed it over the short hairs surrounding it, making him jump and gasp.

“Fuck no!” Vince growled, scooting back on the couch. “Get away from my ass!”

But Paul was persistent. He prodded at the soft, puckered flesh with the tip of his finger, never entering it in, but keeping Vince right on edge. Vince relaxed. He remembered that he had all the control.

“You wanna play around with my asshole, huh?” he asked, watching Paul slobber all over his cock. “You wanna make me queer like you, fag?” A sudden pulse from his dick reminded him how close he was and he gasped, clenching his toes into the carpet. “Ooh, fuck! You’re gonna make me do it! I’m gonna cum! Turn around!”

Paul dropped to the ground on his hands and knees, turning around with his tight, toned ass up in the air for Vince. He spread Paul’s cheeks and slid his dick between them, not in Paul’s ass – that would be queer – but just between the cheeks like a hot dog in a bun, and began to thrust. Paul had gotten his dick good and wet, allowing him to thrust and buck wildly between his ass cheeks, grunting like an animal as his balls slapped against Paul’s.

“Here it is!” he announced. “Here it comes!”

Placing his tip right at Paul’s asshole, Vince pressed against it and watched his dick erupt. It spewed jet after jet of hot, sticky jizz all over Paul’s hole, some of it even dribbling inside. Paul wrapped his hand around his dick and started stroking desperately, his balls rhythmically tapping against Vince’s. It only made him cum harder.

“Yeah! Oh, yeah!” he shouted, not caring who might hear. “I’m cumming in your fucking ass, faggot! Fuck, it’s so good!”

Paul gasped as Vince began to grind his balls against his, his tip slipping and sliding over his asshole as he did so. It didn’t take long before he was cumming too, soaking Vince’s carpet with a massive load of thick, white spunk.

His knees shaking, Vince slowly sat back down on the couch, looking down at Paul on all fours on the floor. A cold little knot coiled up inside of him. What the hell had they just done?

Paul turned to look at Vince over his shoulder. He smiled.

“If ya liked that, just wait until us’n the guys all get t’gether next time,” he whispered, breaking into a mischievous grin. “You’re in for a real goddamn treat.”

Vince squeezed his sopping wet cock and stared at Paul. Just what had he gotten himself into?



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