I could hear the ocean before he turned on the window fan. Couldn't see it from this high up, a rented third-floor efficiency under the eaves, a few blocks from the Atlantic. Waves pounded the sand of Sugar Beach, a ghost that haunted the place clanking chains made out of water. The cadence telegraphed what I planned to do to my host. He said his name was Mickey, and I didn't have reason to think he was lying. Mickey stuck an unlit cigarette between his lips en route to switching on the window fan. The unit filled with a different kind of background noise and got only the slightest degree cooler before we would send the summer heat skyrocketing.
He reached for a lighter, blue plastic and cheap, which matched the rest of Mickey's world.
"No smoking," I grumbled.
He flashed a dopey grin. "For real? You don't smoke?"
"Only cock," I said and then pushed him onto his bed by his belt loops.
The bed was a mattress and box spring on the floor. Still sucking on the filter, Mickey chuckled, clearly hard in his denim shorts according to the tent in the front.
"How old are you, again?"
"Nineteen. Almost twenty," he said.
I squeezed down on the lump. Nineteen, almost twenty-clearly, a young man with serious daddy issues. I'm thirty-six.
Cute with his short, dark hair and facial scruff-which I figured owed more to a slacker's laziness than a serious attempt to grow a true Van Dyke goatee and mustache-and feet that looked too big for the rest of him, Mickey moaned a breathless, "Fuck," and humped my hand. I figured his dick, now leaking enough pre-come to create a telltale wet spot, was lean and lanky, like its owner. He'd have loose, sweaty balls spilling halfway down to his hairy ankles. He'd pop fast, a big sloppy load, then be up for another go within minutes. By the time I moseyed out, spent, the place would have transformed into a sauna stinking of sex between males. Bored and itchy, Mickey would likely nut once or twice more following my departure, probably into one of the discolored crew socks lying in a pile beside the bed.
Skinny, a dude whose clothes only stayed on him because he tied his belt as tight as possible, Mickey was one of those guys with an A. o. A-an "Absence of Ass." Even belted, the top of his denim shorts hung closer to the bottom of his butt than the top, showing plenty of waistband and gray boxer-briefs. His lower back dipped straight to upper thigh. Not the biggest turn on when you're an ass-man. Luckily, I'm also a dick, balls, pit, and foot man.
I gave his shorts a savage tug. With nothing to anchor them, no bubble butt to stop the slide, not even the vague appearance of ass cheeks, they and the boxer-briefs beneath flew down Mickey's hairy chicken legs, stopping only at his gigantic sneakers. I've got size twelves; his feet were easily that big, maybe bigger. The optical illusion created by his skinny legs made it difficult to know for sure. I yanked off his sneakers. The dirty sweat socks beneath exuded a buttery odor, narcotic in its power. I took several deep sniffs off Mickey's toes.
"Dude," he sighed.
Caressing his legs, I went higher, up to his naked maleness. Slender dick, thickest at the shaft, right below the neck. Arrow-shaped head leaking batter, ball sac as loose and low-hanging as I guessed. All of it wreathed in a lush forest of chestnut curls.
Mickey writhed on his spine. The unlit cancer stick slipped out of his mouth, landing on the pillow. He gripped his cock, squeezed. I grabbed his hand and removed it.
"No," I said.
"No touching it, not yet."
His grin widened. Fresh sweat broke at his hairline. I licked my lips, realized I was salivating. My cock threw itself against the zipper of my jeans. Glancing down, I saw it was leaking, like Mickey's.
In a few deft moves, I had him on his stomach, both wrists clamped in one of my hands, his pale, hairy ass-what there was of it-bared to my face. I tested the hole at the center with my nose, quickly growing high on its pungent scent. My tongue followed. Mickey bucked beneath me, moaned a streak of expletives, and humped the mattress. I feasted on his opening, alternating with short, hungry flicks and slow laps, up and down, tasting the back of his balls on my plunges.
Again and again, ever deeper. At one point in the banquet, Mickey tensed, struggled to free his arms from the cuff of my wrists, and howled. I reached my free hand beneath him and grabbed hold of his cock, twisting it backwards. I got its head into my mouth right as it began to spit.