It was immediately apparent that Graeme had never given head before - either that or he'd had very little practice. There was obvious enthusiasm there - too much perhaps - and I winced as teeth scraped over the head of my dick. I could hear him gagging as he strived to do too much, too soon.
I reached down and stopped his head moving. I explained that what works best for me is to have just my knob and the next two or three inches rest inside someone's mouth while they simply swirl their tongue around it - minimal movement of their head, just warm, caressing swallowing and swirling moves.
So we lay there, my cock enveloped by his warm mouth and tongue. I could tell that Graeme was jerking himself off as he blew me. I filled my mind with images of his cock and balls, with thoughts of the load I'd just swallowed, and it was as if every sensation in the world was in the head of my dick. After a time, I could sense that he was about to cum and, at that moment, I too reached the point of no return and shot load after load into his mouth.
As his rod ejected its second load of the night, I think Graeme intended to swallow my load at the same time, but instead he choked, coughed and spat out most of my cum. I couldn't help chuckling and asking if he was OK. He said he was fine and apologised for not swallowing. I assured him I was fine with that and added that it probably tasted foul anyway. By way of response he gave me a long, thrusting kiss, enabling me to check the taste out for myself.
"How did it taste to you?" he asked. I had to say it tasted much the same as his had. He said he'd liked the taste well enough but hadn't expected that cum would so suddenly spurt and splatter on the back of his throat. "Practise makes perfect" I said. "Anyway, mate, I'm shattered. Let's sleep for a while and see how we feel later."
"Later" turned out to be the late morning of the following day - Sunday, the day of rest. I awoke to find my body curved spoon-fashioned around my friend's torso. My cock was rock hard and nestling in the valley between his buttocks. I would have been keen to put that erection to work were it not for the fact that I was desperate for a piss. Also, as I got up to use the bathroom, I realised that I had an equally desperate hangover! I think you're supposed to consume alcolhol with food and the only food I'd consumed the previous night was a few teaspoons of protein-laden cum!
I was immediately faced with three little problems - the rooms in Graeme's single quarters did not come with toilets or showers, just a handbasin; my clothes seemed to be all over the place and my head didn't feel like it could cope with bending down to retrieve anything; and, although I often visited these quarters to catch up with friends, I did NOT habitually turn up there in the mornings looking like an unmade bed and reeking of alcohol and sex! The toilets were outside, at the end of a long central passageway and I needed to pee NOW!
A voice from the bed: "Gotta use the sink". I thought he meant me but, before I could get to the sink, Graeme was already there heaving his guts up. At least I wasn't the only one with a headache! When he'd finally finished retching and spluttering, I took his place at the sink and pissed all the vomit down the plughole. A bit unhygienic, perhaps, but, hey, that's the sort of stuff young guys do!
Graeme had returned to his bed and lay there with one arm across his eyes. I thought: "Well, this is it. The morning after the night before. Is it going to be ugly and full of recriminations or do we just act as if nothing happened?" It never occurred to me that anything more could occur right then - not with the hangover I was sporting.
I asked if he was feeling better and he muttered that he was. I could understand the need to mutter - it was hurting me to speak too! I decided to head back to my own quarters for a shower and a rest. No more words were spoken until I was fully dressed and about to leave.
"Well, I'll see you later" I said. The reply was: "If you're going to the Mess for lunch, I'll see you there, mate." Two things to note - here was someone who could actually contemplate eating (!), and there was that word "mate". That single word told me nothing (other than a few brain cells, perhaps!) had been destroyed by last night's antics. So I said: "Yep. Catch you then" and left.
I encountered no-one on my way out - after all, it was a lazy Sunday - and there were few people out and about as I made my way to my own quarters some half a mile away. It was an incredibly hot and humid morning, typical of the tropics during the "Wet Season", and my head felt near to exploding. As soon as I got in my door, relief came and I clung to the toilet bowl and vomited till my throat was raw. A cool shower, some paracetemol, and I felt much better, but my mind was swirling with thoughts of last night.
Had our friendship been damaged? How do we relate from now onwards? Would it happen again or would we agree that it was just a silly, booze-fuelled mistake, never to be repeated? Or would the outcome be that both of us would simply pretend that it had never happened at all?
The answers all came at lunch. My hangover was a distant memory and I felt I could eat a horse. Graeme was already there, sitting in his usual place at one of the long trestle tables. The food heaped on his plate was proof that he was feeling better too. Having filled my own plate at the servery, I slipped into my usual spot in the chair opposite Graeme's.
The guys at the table were engaged in a lively discussion about their Saturday night and plans for the afternoon. One of them asked Graeme why he hadn't attended a party at one of the other single men's blocks. "I decided to have a quiet night" he said, giving me a quick smile and a wink. "Boring!" was the chorus, but he said: "No, I really needed to hit the sack and it gave me a chance to think of some fresh activities." Another sly wink.
Having been late arriving for lunch, the time came when I was the last one left eating and the only other guy at the table was Graeme. I was unsure what to say so I just kept eating and attempted to look nonchalant.
"You up for a game of tennis?" Graeme asked.
"Yep" I said, not missing a beat, "but I'll be sweating pure alcohol!"
"Me too" he said. "Maybe I could come to your place afterwards and have a shower."
"Sound good" I said, "and we can just hang out for a while before dinner."
He laughed and said: "Yep - definitely a whole lot of hangin' goin' on."
The tennis game was only slightly different to the many we'd played over the previous few weeks. We had the courts to ourselves. We were both shirtless, as usual. His vicious serve won him lots of free points, as usual. And, again as usual, I won narrowly because of better foot speed and a knack for dogged retrieving.
To passers-by, it would have looked like one of our usual encounters, but there was one key difference - whenever our eyes met, there was a huge feeling of closeness, and our eyes seemed to appreciate that they were now free to check each other out openly. I could see the outline of Graeme's package as it bobbed up and down in his shorts, and I was aware of his occasional appraisals of my own scantily-clad endowments.
Afterwards, we walked up the hill to my place, just as we had so many times before. This time, however, we fell on each other as soon as my door was closed. Clothes were virtually ripped off and it was all thrusting tongues, straining cocks and legs entwined.
"Shower" I gasped, pulling away. "Let's get in the shower first."
I reached down and stopped his head moving. I explained that what works best for me is to have just my knob and the next two or three inches rest inside someone's mouth while they simply swirl their tongue around it - minimal movement of their head, just warm, caressing swallowing and swirling moves.
So we lay there, my cock enveloped by his warm mouth and tongue. I could tell that Graeme was jerking himself off as he blew me. I filled my mind with images of his cock and balls, with thoughts of the load I'd just swallowed, and it was as if every sensation in the world was in the head of my dick. After a time, I could sense that he was about to cum and, at that moment, I too reached the point of no return and shot load after load into his mouth.
As his rod ejected its second load of the night, I think Graeme intended to swallow my load at the same time, but instead he choked, coughed and spat out most of my cum. I couldn't help chuckling and asking if he was OK. He said he was fine and apologised for not swallowing. I assured him I was fine with that and added that it probably tasted foul anyway. By way of response he gave me a long, thrusting kiss, enabling me to check the taste out for myself.
"How did it taste to you?" he asked. I had to say it tasted much the same as his had. He said he'd liked the taste well enough but hadn't expected that cum would so suddenly spurt and splatter on the back of his throat. "Practise makes perfect" I said. "Anyway, mate, I'm shattered. Let's sleep for a while and see how we feel later."
"Later" turned out to be the late morning of the following day - Sunday, the day of rest. I awoke to find my body curved spoon-fashioned around my friend's torso. My cock was rock hard and nestling in the valley between his buttocks. I would have been keen to put that erection to work were it not for the fact that I was desperate for a piss. Also, as I got up to use the bathroom, I realised that I had an equally desperate hangover! I think you're supposed to consume alcolhol with food and the only food I'd consumed the previous night was a few teaspoons of protein-laden cum!
I was immediately faced with three little problems - the rooms in Graeme's single quarters did not come with toilets or showers, just a handbasin; my clothes seemed to be all over the place and my head didn't feel like it could cope with bending down to retrieve anything; and, although I often visited these quarters to catch up with friends, I did NOT habitually turn up there in the mornings looking like an unmade bed and reeking of alcohol and sex! The toilets were outside, at the end of a long central passageway and I needed to pee NOW!
A voice from the bed: "Gotta use the sink". I thought he meant me but, before I could get to the sink, Graeme was already there heaving his guts up. At least I wasn't the only one with a headache! When he'd finally finished retching and spluttering, I took his place at the sink and pissed all the vomit down the plughole. A bit unhygienic, perhaps, but, hey, that's the sort of stuff young guys do!
Graeme had returned to his bed and lay there with one arm across his eyes. I thought: "Well, this is it. The morning after the night before. Is it going to be ugly and full of recriminations or do we just act as if nothing happened?" It never occurred to me that anything more could occur right then - not with the hangover I was sporting.
I asked if he was feeling better and he muttered that he was. I could understand the need to mutter - it was hurting me to speak too! I decided to head back to my own quarters for a shower and a rest. No more words were spoken until I was fully dressed and about to leave.
"Well, I'll see you later" I said. The reply was: "If you're going to the Mess for lunch, I'll see you there, mate." Two things to note - here was someone who could actually contemplate eating (!), and there was that word "mate". That single word told me nothing (other than a few brain cells, perhaps!) had been destroyed by last night's antics. So I said: "Yep. Catch you then" and left.
I encountered no-one on my way out - after all, it was a lazy Sunday - and there were few people out and about as I made my way to my own quarters some half a mile away. It was an incredibly hot and humid morning, typical of the tropics during the "Wet Season", and my head felt near to exploding. As soon as I got in my door, relief came and I clung to the toilet bowl and vomited till my throat was raw. A cool shower, some paracetemol, and I felt much better, but my mind was swirling with thoughts of last night.
Had our friendship been damaged? How do we relate from now onwards? Would it happen again or would we agree that it was just a silly, booze-fuelled mistake, never to be repeated? Or would the outcome be that both of us would simply pretend that it had never happened at all?
The answers all came at lunch. My hangover was a distant memory and I felt I could eat a horse. Graeme was already there, sitting in his usual place at one of the long trestle tables. The food heaped on his plate was proof that he was feeling better too. Having filled my own plate at the servery, I slipped into my usual spot in the chair opposite Graeme's.
The guys at the table were engaged in a lively discussion about their Saturday night and plans for the afternoon. One of them asked Graeme why he hadn't attended a party at one of the other single men's blocks. "I decided to have a quiet night" he said, giving me a quick smile and a wink. "Boring!" was the chorus, but he said: "No, I really needed to hit the sack and it gave me a chance to think of some fresh activities." Another sly wink.
Having been late arriving for lunch, the time came when I was the last one left eating and the only other guy at the table was Graeme. I was unsure what to say so I just kept eating and attempted to look nonchalant.
"You up for a game of tennis?" Graeme asked.
"Yep" I said, not missing a beat, "but I'll be sweating pure alcohol!"
"Me too" he said. "Maybe I could come to your place afterwards and have a shower."
"Sound good" I said, "and we can just hang out for a while before dinner."
He laughed and said: "Yep - definitely a whole lot of hangin' goin' on."
The tennis game was only slightly different to the many we'd played over the previous few weeks. We had the courts to ourselves. We were both shirtless, as usual. His vicious serve won him lots of free points, as usual. And, again as usual, I won narrowly because of better foot speed and a knack for dogged retrieving.
To passers-by, it would have looked like one of our usual encounters, but there was one key difference - whenever our eyes met, there was a huge feeling of closeness, and our eyes seemed to appreciate that they were now free to check each other out openly. I could see the outline of Graeme's package as it bobbed up and down in his shorts, and I was aware of his occasional appraisals of my own scantily-clad endowments.
Afterwards, we walked up the hill to my place, just as we had so many times before. This time, however, we fell on each other as soon as my door was closed. Clothes were virtually ripped off and it was all thrusting tongues, straining cocks and legs entwined.
"Shower" I gasped, pulling away. "Let's get in the shower first."
