California Creamin' And other stories
By William Maltese

Fucking Drunk

Frankly, I was relieved, when he dropped his pants, over his cock and ass, neither encumbered by underwear, to reveal a small blond bush of pubic hair veed at his crotch. Crotch hair definitely meant puberty, right?! Not that it necessarily meant legal, barely or otherwise, but I successfully told myself that anyone conscientious enough to have stuck around baby-sitting an unconscious drunk wouldn't lie about his age. If he still came off looking too young to me, I accounted it to my never having, before then, been all that turned on by youth, per se. Quite aside from Jack, my sexual preferences still pretty much centered more on men my old age, or only slightly younger.

Not that most men my age, or slightly younger, could boast cocks any bigger than the one Jack had sprouted from his lower belly. It looked big enough, in its streamline, prepuce-removed dimensions, to do permanent damage to any asshole, mine included. If it had already safely probed my anal depths, once, I'd been pretty much out of touch at the time. Presently sober, I saw what I saw, and I wondered if drunkenness was a prerequisite for safely taking his cock up my butt. He knelt for his dropped pants, and from a front pocket he produced ... "Look, I even brought rubbers."

"And, my belated thanks for having brought them the last time," I said. I'd begun blood tests, so far reassuring; to assure myself I hadn't, during some other unremembered fucks of my asshole, allowed an unrubbered dick to pollute my vulnerable rectum.

"Want to put this rubber on my dick for me?" he said and sat on the edge of the bed.

I went over, unpackaged the lubricated rubber and rolled it down his dick. After which, he laid back on the bed, belly up, and watched me undress.

"I'll bet you've always been one helluva good looker, haven't you?" he said. No need for me to figure he'd provided false compliments, because he'd picked me up the first time, to hear him tell it, for some reason, hadn't he?

"Actually, I was an ugly child," I said and wondered if the same could be said for him. I doubted it, seeing as he looked so child-like, at whatever legal age he was. His were the delicate looks that played well into old age. Mine were the kind that wouldn't stand the test of time nearly as well, not that I couldn't hold my own at the time and place. So, I provided him a slow strip, complete with muscled, black-haired chest; muscled, black-haired belly; muscled, black-haired cockroots. Firm, furry ass. Good bear-fuzzed legs. I provided him a nice smile that dimpled my right cheek, provided him a glimpse of teeth with nary a cavity or filling, and put a twinkle in my hazel eyes.

"How about you sitting down on this?" he said and levered his hand to hook its thumb beneath the back of his dick to push his erection to vertical.

I straddled him on the bed, feeling very much like an eagle hovering over a field mouse, at least as far as our comparative body types were concerned. His boyish delicacy came off decidedly vulnerable. My muscled, hairy bulk seemed almost predatory.

"I'm not a China doll," he said, as if he'd known what I was thinking. On my knees, I reached back for my asscheeks, took hold of them and tugged them outward from their mutually shared asscrack. Jack directed his cockhead on target, his pulpy cockhead playfully running the hair of my anal valley before finally homing in on my sphincter.

"Yours the best asshole ever," he said, reminding me that he, of the two of us, well remembered having had his cock inside me before.

Made confident that he'd told me the truth when he'd said he'd fucked me, and pretty sure my ass could accept the return trip of his cock up my ass, helped along by the lubricated rubber, I began to sit.

"I'm fucking such a sexy ... sexy ... stud's ass," he said as I managed a butt-swallowing of at least half of his dick before I paused to give my rectum a chance to adjust to what it had swallowed.

I put my hands to his shoulders, and he seemed to become all the smaller and more vulnerable.

His skin was so soft; I could see faint tracings of blue veins. His stomach, despite continuing evidence of baby fat, concaved to provide prominent hipbones to form the saddle into which my ass had all intentions of sinking.

"Play carousel horse on my dick," Jack said. Not exactly the vocabulary of a choirboy, but it didn't keep him from looking like one.

The ease with which I finally engulfed the total hunk of his stiff penis assured me that we both retraced familiar terrain. I've had smaller dicks that felt more uncomfortable than his did jabbed to his balls up my behind.

When I completed my sit, his cock thrust directly upward and into my gut, my thick cock laid like a redwood log on his belly, my cockhead rested almost over his navel.

He stroked my prick, as if it were a friendly snake and gently fondled its veneering foreskin in such a way that he cowled and uncowled my pulpy cockhead.

Momentarily, his attention was distracted by the puddling of my balls. He cupped each of my testicles, fondled the whole lot, as if he were a curious schoolboy fascinated by something hairy and alive found in his toy box.

"Big, big, hairy nuts," he said appreciatively. "Big, big cock. Big, big, hairy man."

He lifted my penis and began to beat it. Not in any frantic, schoolboy sort of way, either, but in slow and easy, long and sensuous, up-and-down, stroking. My nuts shifted on their own, my scrotum pulling in more tightly, my black ball-hair riding like buoys on a shifting ocean of contracting skin.

I feathered my fingers from the base of his neck to his nipples. Such small rosebuds: his titties. Rosebuds with entrancingly swollen centers, hard as tacks. When I pinched them, he provided a deep, very childish mewl and rocked his head slightly from side to side.

Still mauling his kiddy paps, I commenced, full-scale, my carousel ride on his dick. Slow and easy, at first, as if the merry-go-round's motor was still working up steam. My bounces were pretty much timed to the continuing languid strokes of his fist along the length of my pecker. I progressed into a faster tempo, from there, and required his masturbatory strokes to catch up.

I slid my hands beneath his arms, my thumbs coming upward over his sides, my thumbs sliding until their pads claimed his nipples and rolled his hard titty centers, even as I increased the bounce of my ass over his sticking cock.

After the first few lucky bumps of his dick against my prostate, my dick leaked preseminal wet in sympathy, and I adjusted my various bounces so that I put my prostate under constant attack and caused a continuous gushing of pre-cum from the pouted mouth of my pecker.

That Jack seemed in no hurry to orgasm told me, more than anything, that he wasn't the innocent his packaging portrayed. When I was his age — rather, when I was the age he looked — I could cream with no more stimulus than the way my pants rubbed my dick whenever I walked a few steps across a room.

Jack had the control of a professional hustler, not that I'd been to bed with one — not that I could remember, anyway. He knew just exactly what he wanted out of our fuck, and pretty well seemed to know how to get it, even to giving me instructions as to when he wanted me to bounce faster or slow down.

"Easy ... easy," he said. "That's right. Oh, yes. Now, you can go a little faster. No, not quite that fast, but ... oh, yes ... oh, yes ... yes ... just like that."

I took to following his lead, exactly because it was important I make him enjoy. Even the prospect of doing less a good job of it, while stone sober, than I'd managed while dead drunk, was a notion I found more than a little disconcerting. As if it would insinuate my need for liquor to break down my inhibitions sufficiently to get really into this gay male-male sex thing. As if, without the crutch of drunkenness, I was really a lousy fuck.

"Oh, you do fuck my dick well," said Jack. He did wonders for a guy's ego, especially for this guy who hadn't fucked or been fucked sober in as long as I could remember. So long ago had it been, in fact, that the memory loss was probably natural and not because of any brain cells killed off or pickled by the booze.

All the while I bounced my ass, Jack kept up a matching lift and drop of the loose cockskin around the harder inner core of my penis. Which he eventually supplemented by massaging my hairy balls with his free hand. Before long, I actually had it figured I was going to pop my rocks before he did.

"Won't be long now," the cocky little mind-reader said. I thought he referred to my orgasm which had pretty much reaching a boil somewhere within those gonads he manhandled so expertly within the fully compact scrotum I had sprouted at the base of my cock, between my legs. I would have slowed down, better attempted to staunch the flood of ecstasy already threatening to drown me, but he chose that exact moment to goad me into even greater speed.

"Ride me faster, stud-fucker!" he bellowed. "Jesus fuck ... faster ... faster ... faster."

He left off beating my meat and fondling my balls to slap my thighs, not once but twice, like he played kiddy on a rocking horse and demanded giddy-up.

The sudden freedom of my cock and testicles may well have provided me the much sought ability to keep my own explosion under wraps for those few extra seconds. Because, by the time Jack finished whopping my flanks and reclaimed my cock and my balls, his cock and his balls were hard-and-fast pumping his hot spunk up my asshole.

A mere micro-second after his cum let loose, my cum followed suit. It came flooding out in pearly streamers expelled with such force that the first of it splattered Jack's mouth and disappeared with a quick lick of the kid's tongue. The next blasts webbed his neck. At which time, a torque of Jack's fist around my cum-spewing pecker, sent several of my spewing comets sideways onto the sheets of the bed. In finale, my sperm oozed like slow-running magma from a caldera and covered Jack's gripping fist as if his fingers were fallen lumber swallowed by a volcanic eruption. In total, that first simultaneous coming for that evening, followed by all the fucking and sucking that came after, wherein I got a sampling of the wonders up Jack's tight teenage ass, was good sex. Not can't-be-beat sex. Not tremendous sex. Not fantastic sex. But good sex. Which was more than enough.

Because I remembered it all when we were over and done, didn't I? Obviously, I still remember it to this day. And, in the end, when you reach the age I've now reached, memories are pretty much all there are.